Phil
an' Jane an' th' rest of 'em had what's here under their pinafores."

"Why don't you take it to them?" suggested Mary.

"It's not mine," answered Martha stoutly. "An' this isn't my day out.
I get my day out once a month same as th' rest. Then I go home an'
clean up for mother an' give her a day's rest."

Mary drank some tea and ate a little toast and some marmalade.

"You wrap up warm an' run out an' play you," said Martha. "It'll do
you good and give you some stomach for your meat."

Mary went to the window. There were gardens and paths and big trees,
but everything looked dull and wintry.

"Out? Why should I go out on a day like this?" "Well, if tha' doesn't
go out tha'lt have to stay in, an' what has tha' got to do?"

Mary glanced about her. There was nothing to do. When Mrs. Medlock
had prepared the nursery she had not thought of amusement. Perhaps it
would be better to go and see what the gardens were like.

"Who will go with me?" she inquired.

Martha stared.

"You'll go by yourself," she answered. "You'll have to learn to play
like other children does when they haven't got sisters and brothers.
Our Dickon goes off on th' moor by himself an' plays for hours. That's
how he made friends with th' pony. He's got sheep on th' moor that
knows him, an' birds as comes an' eats out of his hand. However little
there is to eat, he always saves a bit o' his bread to coax his pets."

It was really this mention of Dickon which made Mary decide to go out,
though she was not aware of it. There would be, birds outside though
there would not be ponies or sheep. They would be different from the
birds in India and it might amuse her to look at them.

Martha found her coat and hat for her and a pair of stout little boots
and she showed her her way downstairs.

"If tha' goes round that way tha'll come to th' gardens," she said,
pointing to a gate in a wall of shrubbery. "There's lots o' flowers in
summer-time, but there's nothin' bloomin' now." She seemed to hesitate
a second before she added, "One of th' gardens is locked up. No one
has been in it for ten years."

"Why?" asked Mary in spite of herself. Here was another locked door
added to the hundred in the strange house.

"Mr. Craven had it shut when his wife died so sudden. He won't let no
one go inside. It was her garden. He locked th' door an' dug a hole
and buried th' key. There's Mrs. Medlock's bell ringing--I must run."

After she wa