together and shut it behind us, and no one knew
any one was inside and we called it our garden and
pretended that -- that we were missel thrushes and
it was our nest, and if we played there almost every
day and dug and planted seeds and made it all
come alive --"

"Is it dead?" he interrupted her.

"It soon will be if no one cares for it," she
went on. "The bulbs will live but the roses --"

He stopped her again as excited as she was herself.

"What are bulbs?" he put in quickly.

"They are daffodils and lilies and snowdrops.
They are working in the earth now -- pushing up
pale green points because the spring is coming."

"Is the spring coming?" he said. "What is it
like? You don't see it in rooms if you are ill."

"It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain
falling on the sunshine, and things pushing up
and working under the earth," said Mary. "If
the garden was a secret and we could get into it
we could watch the things grow bigger every day,
and see how many roses are alive. Don't you
see? Oh, don't you see how much nicer it would
be if it was a secret?"

He dropped back on his pillow and lay there
with an odd expression on his face.

"I never had a secret," he said, "except that

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