"I wonder if they are all quite dead," she said.
"Is it all a quite dead garden? I wish it wasn't."

If she had been Ben Weatherstaff she could
have told whether the wood was alive by looking
at it, but she could only see that there were only
gray or brown sprays and branches and none
showed any signs of even a tiny leaf-bud anywhere.

But she was _inside_ the wonderful garden and she
could come through the door under the ivy any
time and she felt as if she had found a world all
her own.

The sun was shining inside the four walls and
the high arch of blue sky over this particular piece
of Misselthwaite seemed even more brilliant and
soft than it was over the moor. The robin flew
down from his tree-top and hopped about or flew
after her from one bush to another. He chirped
a good deal and had a very busy air, as if he were
showing her things. Everything was strange and
silent and she seemed to be hundreds of miles away
from any one, but somehow she did not feel lonely
at all. All that troubled her was her wish that
she knew whether all the roses were dead, or if
perhaps some of them had lived and might put
out leaves and buds as the weather got warmer.
She did not want it to be a quite dead garden. If
it were a quite alive garden, how wonderful it

[[99]]

p098 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p099w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p100

v?