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 was gone Mary turned down the walk
which led to the door in the shrubbery. She
could not help thinking about the garden which
no one had been into for ten years. She wondered
what it would look like and whether there were
any flowers still alive in it. When she had passed
through the shrubbery gate she found herself in
great gardens, with wide lawns and winding walks
with clipped borders. There were trees, and
flower-beds, and evergreens clipped into strange
shapes, and a large pool with an old gray fountain
in its midst. But the flower-beds were bare and
wintry and the fountain was not playing. This
was not the garden which was shut up. How

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v?