Mary touched it herself in an eager, reverent
way.

"That one?" she said. "Is that one quite
alive -- quite?"

Dickon curved his wide smiling mouth.

"It's as wick as you or me," he said; and Mary
remembered that Martha had told her that
"wick" meant "alive" or "lively."

"I'm glad it's wick!" she cried out in her
whisper. "I want them all to be wick. Let us
go round the garden and count how many wick
ones there are."

She quite panted with eagerness, and Dickon
was as eager as she was. They went from tree
to tree and from bush to bush. Dickon carried
his knife in his hand and showed her things which
she thought wonderful.

"They've run wild," he said, "but th' strongest
ones has fair thrived on it. The delicatest
ones has died out, but th' others has growed an'
growed, an' spread an' spread, till they's a wonder.
See here!" and he pulled down a thick gray, dry-looking
branch. "A body might think this was
dead wood, but I don't believe it is -- down to
th' root. I'll cut it low down an' see."

He knelt and with his knife cut the lifeless-looking
branch through, not far above the earth.

"There!" he said exultantly. "I told thee

[[130]]

p129 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p130w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p131

v?