to see."

Mary made no response. She went down the path and through the second
green door. There, she found more walls and winter vegetables and
glass frames, but in the second wall there was another green door and
it was not open. Perhaps it led into the garden which no one had seen
for ten years. As she was not at all a timid child and always did what
she wanted to do, Mary went to the green door and turned the handle.
She hoped the door would not open because she wanted to be sure she had
found the mysterious garden--but it did open quite easily and she
walked through it and found herself in an orchard. There were walls
all round it also and trees trained against them, and there were bare
fruit-trees growing in the winter-browned grass--but there was no green
door to be seen anywhere. Mary looked for it, and yet when she had
entered the upper end of the garden she had noticed that the wall did
not seem to end with the orchard but to extend beyond it as if it
enclosed a place at the other side. She could see the tops of trees
above the wall, and when she stood still she saw a bird with a bright
red breast sitting on the topmost branch of one of them, and suddenly
he burst into his winter song--almost as if he had caught sight of her
and was calling to her.

She stopped and listened to him and somehow his cheerful, friendly
little whistle gave her a pleased feeling--even a disagreeable little
girl may be lonely, and the big closed house and big bare moor and big
bare gardens had made this one feel as if there was no one left in the
world but herself. If she had been an affectionate child, who had been
used to being loved, she would have broken her heart, but even though
she was "Mistress Mary Quite Contrary" she was desolate, and the
bright-breasted little bird brought a look into her sour little face
which was almost a smile. She listened to him until he flew away. He
was not like an Indian bird and she liked him and wondered if she
should ever see him again. Perhaps he lived in the mysterious garden
and knew all about it.

Perhaps it was because she had nothing whatever to do that she thought
so much of the deserted garden. She was curious about it and wanted to
see what it was like. Why had Mr. Archibald Craven buried the key? If
he had liked his wife so much why did he hate her garden? She wondered
if she should ever see him, but she knew that if she did she should not
like him, and he would not l