Bab Bab 10 · DICKON

's got a whole lot of

'em planted in our bit o' garden."

"Does Dickon know all about them?" asked Mary, a new idea taking

possession of her.

"Our Dickon can make a flower grow out of a brick walk. Mother says he

just whispers things out o' th' ground."

"Do bulbs live a long time? Would they live years and years if no one

helped them?" inquired Mary anxiously.

"They're things as helps themselves," said Martha. "That's why poor folk

can afford to have 'em. If you don't trouble 'em, most of 'em'll work

away underground for a lifetime an' spread out an' have little 'uns.

There's a place in th' park woods here where there's snowdrops by

thousands. They're the prettiest sight in Yorkshire when th' spring

comes. No one knows when they was first planted."

"I wish the spring was here now," said Mary. "I want to see all the

things that grow in England."

She had finished her dinner and gone to her favorite seat on the

hearth-rug.

"I wish--I wish I had a little spade," she said.

"Whatever does tha' want a spade for?" asked Martha, laughing. "Art tha'

goin' to take to diggin'? I must tell mother that, too."

Mary looked at the fire and pondered a little. She must be careful if

she meant to keep her secret kingdom. She wasn't doing any harm, but if

Mr. Craven found out about the open door he would be fearfully angry and

get a new key and lock it up forevermore. She really could not bear

that.

"This is such a big lonely place," she said slowly, as if she were

turning matters over in her mind. "The house is lonely, and the park is

lonely, and the gardens are lonely. So many places seem shut up. I never

did many things in India, but there were more people to look at--natives

and soldiers marching by--and sometimes bands playing, and my Ayah told

me stories. There is no one to talk to here except you and Ben

Weatherstaff. And you have to do your work and Ben Weatherstaff won't

speak to me often. I thought if I had a little spade I could dig

somewhere as he does, and I might make a little garden if he would give

me some seeds."

Martha's face quite lighted up.

"There now!" she exclaimed, "if that wasn't one of th' things mother

said. She says, 'There's such a lot o' room in that big place, why don't

they give her a bit for herself, even if she doesn't plant nothin' but

parsley an' radishes? She'd dig an' rake away an' be right down happy

over it.' Them was the very words she said."

"Were they?" said Mary. "How many things she knows, doesn't she?"

"Eh!" said Martha. "It's like she says: 'A woman as brings up twelve

children learns something besides her A B C. Children's as good as

'rithmetic to set you findin' out things.'"

"How much would a spade cost--a little one?" Mary asked.

"Well," was Martha's reflective answer, "at Thwaite village there's a

shop or so an' I saw little garden sets with a spade an' a rake an' a

fork all tied together for two shillings. An' they was stout enough to

work with, too."

"I've got more than that in my purse," said Mary. "Mrs. Morrison gave

me five shillings and Mrs. Medlock gave me some money from Mr. Craven."

"Did he remember thee that much?" exclaimed Martha.

"Mrs. Medlock said I was to have a shilling a week to spend. She gives

me one every Saturday. I didn't know what to spend it on."

"My word! that's riches," said Martha. "Tha' can buy anything in th'

world tha' wants. Th' rent of our cottage is only one an' threepence an'

it's like pullin' eye-teeth to get it. Now I've just thought of

somethin'," putting her hands on her hips.

"What?" said Mary eagerly.

"In the shop at Thwaite they sell packages o' flower-seeds for a penny

each, and our Dickon he knows which is th' prettiest ones an' how to

make 'em grow. He walks over to Thwaite many a day just for th' fun of

it. Does tha' know how to print letters?" suddenly.

"I know how to write," Mary answered.

Martha shook her head.

"Our Dickon can only read printin'. If tha' could print we could write a

letter to him an' ask him to go an' buy th' garden tools an' th' seeds

at th' same time."

"Oh! you're a good girl!" Mary cried. "You are, really! I didn't know

you were so nice. I know I can print letters if I try. Let's ask Mrs.

Medlock for a pen and ink and some paper."

"I've got some of my own," said Martha. "I bought 'em so I could print a

bit of a letter to mother of a Sunday. I'll go and get it."

She ran out of the room, and Mary stood by the fire and twisted her thin

little hands together with sheer pleasure.

"If I have a spade," she whispered, "I can make the earth nice and soft

and dig up weeds. If I have seeds and can make flowers grow the garden

won't be dead at all--it will come alive."

She did not go out again that afternoon because when Martha returned

with her pen and ink and paper she was obliged to clear the table and

carry the plates and dishes down-stairs and when she got into the

kitchen Mrs. Medlock was there and told her to do something, so Mary

waited for what seemed to her a long time before she came back. Then it

was a serious piece of work to write to Dickon. Mary had been taught

very little because her governesses had disliked her too much to stay

with her. She could not spell particularly well but she found that she

could print letters when she tried. This was the letter Martha dictated

to her:

"_My Dear Dickon:_

This comes hoping to find you well as it leaves me

at present. Miss Mary has plenty of money and will

you go to Thwaite and buy her some flower seeds

and a set of garden tools to make a flower-bed.

Pick the prettiest ones and easy to grow because

she has never done it before and lived in India

which is different. Give my love to mother and

every one of you. Miss Mary is going to tell me a

lot more so that on my next day out you can hear

about elephants and camels and gentlemen going

hunting lions and tigers.

"Your loving sister,

"MARTHA PHOEBE SOWERBY."

"We'll put the money in th' envelope an' I'll get th' butcher's boy to

take it in his cart. He's a great friend o' Dickon's," said Martha.

"How shall I get the things when Dickon buys them?" asked Mary.

"He'll bring 'em to you himself. He'll like to walk over this way."

"Oh!" exclaimed Mary, "then I shall see him! I never thought I should

see Dickon."

"Does tha' want to see him?" asked Martha suddenly, she had looked so

pleased.

"Yes, I do. I never saw a boy foxes and crows loved. I want to see him

very much."

Martha gave a little start, as if she suddenly remembered something.

"Now to think," she broke out, "to think o' me forgettin' that there;

an' I thought I was goin' to tell you first thing this mornin'. I asked

mother--and she said she'd ask Mrs. Medlock her own self."

"Do you mean--" Mary began.

"What I said Tuesday. Ask her if you might be driven over to our cottage

some day and have a bit o' mother's hot oat cake, an' butter, an' a

glass o' milk."

It seemed as if all the interesting things were happening in one day. To

think of going over the moor in the daylight and when the sky was blue!

To think of going into the cottage which held twelve children!

"Does she think Mrs. Medlock would let me go?" she asked, quite

anxiously.

"Aye, she thinks she would. She knows what a tidy woman mother is and

how clean she keeps the cottage."

"If I went I should see your mother as well as Dickon," said Mary,

thinking it over and liking the idea very much. "She doesn't seem to be

like the mothers in India."

Her work in the garden and the excitement of the afternoon ended by

making her feel quiet and thoughtful. Martha stayed with her until

tea-time, but they sat in comfortable quiet and talked very little. But

just before Martha went down-stairs for the tea-tray, Mary asked a

question.

"Martha," she said, "has the scullery-maid had the toothache again

to-day?"

Martha certainly started slightly.

"What makes thee ask that?" she said.

"Because when I waited so long for you to come back I opened the door

and walked down the corridor to see if you were coming. And I heard that

far-off crying again, just as we heard it the other night. There isn't a

wind to-day, so you see it couldn't have been the wind."

"Eh!" said Martha restlessly. "Tha' mustn't go walkin' about in

corridors an' listenin'. Mr. Craven would be that there angry there's no

knowin' what he'd do."

"I wasn't listening," said Mary. "I was just waiting for you--and I

heard it. That's three times."

"My word! There's Mrs. Medlock's bell," said Martha, and she almost ran

out of the room.

"It's the strangest house any one ever lived in," said Mary drowsily, as

she dropped her head on the cushioned seat of the armchair near her.

Fresh air, and digging, and skipping-rope had made her feel so

comfortably tired that she fell asleep.

Chapter 10. DICKON

The sun shone down for nearly a week on the secret garden. The Secret

Garden was what Mary called it when she was thinking of it. She liked

the name, and she liked still more the feeling that when its beautiful

old walls shut her in no one knew where she was. It seemed almost like

being shut out of the world in some fairy place. The few books she had

read and liked had been fairy-story books, and she had read of secret

gardens in some of the stories. Sometimes people went to sleep in them

for a hundred years, which she had thought must be rather stupid. She

had no intention of going to sleep, and, in fact, she was becoming wider

awake every day which passed at Misselthwaite. She was beginning to like

to be out of doors; she no longer hated the wind, but enjoyed it. She

could run faster, and longer, and she could skip up to a hundred. The

bulbs in the secret garden must have been much astonished. Such nice

clear places were made round them that they had all the breathing space

they wanted, and really, if Mistress Mary had known it, they began to

cheer up under the dark earth and work tremendously. The sun could get

at them and warm them, and when the rain came down it could reach them

at once, so they began to feel very much alive.

Mary was an odd, determined little person, and now she had something

interesting to be determined about, she was very much absorbed, indeed.

She worked and dug and pulled up weeds steadily, only becoming more

pleased with her work every hour instead of tiring of it. It seemed to

her like a fascinating sort of play. She found many more of the

sprouting pale green points than she had ever hoped to find. They seemed

to be starting up everywhere and each day she was sure she found tiny

new ones, some so tiny that they barely peeped above the earth. There

were so many that she remembered what Martha had said about the

"snowdrops by the thousands," and about bulbs spreading and making new

ones. These had been left to themselves for ten years and perhaps they

had spread, like the snowdrops, into thousands. She wondered how long it

would be before they showed that they were flowers. Sometimes she

stopped digging to look at the garden and try to imagine what it would

be like when it was covered with thousands of lovely things in bloom.

During that week of sunshine, she became more intimate with Ben

Weatherstaff. She surprised him several times by seeming to start up

beside him as if she sprang out of the earth. The truth was that she was

afraid that he would pick up his tools and go away if he saw her coming,

so she always walked toward him as silently as possible. But, in fact,

he did not object to her as strongly as he had at first. Perhaps he was

secretly rather flattered by her evident desire for his elderly company.

Then, also, she was more civil than she had been. He did not know that

when she first saw him she spoke to him as she would have spoken to a

native, and had not known that a cross, sturdy old Yorkshire man was not

accustomed to salaam to his masters, and be merely commanded by them to

do things.

"Tha'rt like th' robin," he said to her one morning when he lifted his

head and saw her standing by him. "I never knows when I shall see thee

or which side tha'll come from."

"He's friends with me now," said Mary.

"That's like him," snapped Ben Weatherstaff. "Makin' up to th' women

folk just for vanity an' flightiness. There's nothin' he wouldn't do for

th' sake o' showin' off an' flirtin' his tail-feathers. He's as full o'

pride as an egg's full o' meat."

He very seldom talked much and sometimes did not even answer Mary's

questions except by a grunt, but this morning he said more than usual.

He stood up and rested one hobnailed boot on the top of his spade while

he looked her over.

"How long has tha' been here?" he jerked out.

"I think it's about a month," she answered.

"Tha's beginnin' to do Misselthwaite credit," he said. "Tha's a bit

fatter than tha' was an' tha's not quite so yeller. Tha' looked like a

young plucked crow when tha' first came into this garden. Thinks I to

myself I never set eyes on an uglier, sourer faced young 'un."

Mary was not vain and as she had never thought much of her looks she was

not greatly disturbed.

"I know I'm fatter," she said. "My stockings are getting tighter. They

used to make wrinkles. There's the robin, Ben Weatherstaff."

There, indeed, was the robin, and she thought he looked nicer than ever.

His red waistcoat was as glossy as satin and he flirted his wings and

tail and tilted his head and hopped about with all sorts of lively

graces. He seemed determined to make Ben Weatherstaff admire him. But

Ben was sarcastic.

"Aye, there tha' art!" he said. "Tha' can put up with me for a bit

sometimes when tha's got no one better. Tha's been reddinin' up thy

waistcoat an' polishin' thy feathers this two weeks. I know what tha's

up to. Tha's courtin' some bold young madam somewhere, tellin' thy lies

to her about bein' th' finest cock robin on Missel Moor an' ready to

fight all th' rest of 'em."

"Oh! look at him!" exclaimed Mary.

The robin was evidently in a fascinating, bold mood. He hopped closer

and closer and looked at Ben Weatherstaff more and more engagingly. He

flew on to the nearest currant bush and tilted his head and sang a

little song right at him.

"Tha' thinks tha'll get over me by doin' that," said Ben, wrinkling his

face up in such a way that Mary felt sure he was trying not to look

pleased. "Tha' thinks no one can stand out against thee--that's what

tha' thinks."

The robin spread his wings--Mary could scarcely believe her eyes. He

flew right up to the handle of Ben Weatherstaff's spade and alighted on

the top of it. Then the old man's face wrinkled itself slowly into a new

expression. He stood still as if he were afraid to breathe--as if he

would not have stirred for the world, lest his robin should start away.

He spoke quite in a whisper.

"Well, I'm danged!" he said as softly as if he were saying something

quite different. "Tha' does know how to get at a chap--tha' does! Tha's

fair unearthly, tha's so knowin'."

And he stood without stirring--almost without drawing his breath--until

the robin gave another flirt to his wings and flew away. Then he stood

looking at the handle of the spade as if there might be Magic in it, and

then he began to dig again and said nothing for several minutes.

But because he kept breaking into a slow grin now and then, Mary was not

afraid to talk to him.

"Have you a garden of your own?" she asked.

"No. I'm bachelder an' lodge with Martin at th' gate."

"If you had one," said Mary, "what would you plant?"

"Cabbages an' 'taters an' onions."

"But if you wanted to make a flower garden," persisted Mary, "what would

you plant?"

"Bulbs an' sweet-smellin' things--but mostly roses."

Mary's face lighted up.

"Do you like roses?" she said.

Ben Weatherstaff rooted up a weed and threw it aside before he answered.

"Well, yes, I do. I was learned that by a young lady I was gardener to.

She had a lot in a place she was fond of, an' she loved 'em like they

was children--or robins. I've seen her bend over an' kiss 'em." He

dragged out another weed and scowled at it. "That were as much as ten

year' ago."

"Where is she now?" asked Mary, much interested.

"Heaven," he answered, and drove his spade deep into the soil, "'cording

to what parson says."

"What happened to the roses?" Mary asked again, more interested than

ever.

"They was left to themselves."

Mary was becoming quite excited.

"Did they quite die? Do roses quite die when they are left to

themselves?" she ventured.

"Well, I'd got to like 'em--an' I liked her--an' she liked 'em," Ben

Weatherstaff admitted reluctantly. "Once or twice a year I'd go an' work

at 'em a bit--prune 'em an' dig about th' roots. They run wild, but they

was in rich soil, so some of 'em lived."

"When they have no leaves and look gray and brown and dry, how can you

tell whether they are dead or alive?" inquired Mary.

"Wait till th' spring gets at 'em--wait till th' sun shines on th' rain

an' th' rain falls on th' sunshine an' then tha'll find out."

"How--how?" cried Mary, forgetting to be careful.

"Look along th' twigs an' branches an' if tha' sees a bit of a brown

lump swelling here an' there, watch it after th' warm rain an' see what

happens." He stopped suddenly and looked curiously at her eager face.

"Why does tha' care so much about roses an' such, all of a sudden?" he

demanded.

Mistress Mary felt her face grow red. She was almost afraid to answer.

"I--I want to play that--that I have a garden of my own," she stammered.

"I--there is nothing for me to do. I have nothing--and no one."

"Well," said Ben Weatherstaff slowly, as he watched her, "that's true.

Tha' hasn't."

He said it in such an odd way that Mary wondered if he was actually a

little sorry for her. She had never felt sorry for herself; she had only

felt tired and cross, because she disliked people and things so much.

But now the world seemed to be changing and getting nicer. If no one

found out about the secret garden, she should enjoy herself always.

She stayed with him for ten or fifteen minutes longer and asked him as

many questions as she dared. He answered every one of them in his queer

grunting way and he did not seem really cross and did not pick up his

spade and leave her. He said something about roses just as she was

going away and it reminded her of the ones he had said he had been fond

of.

"Do you go and see those other roses now?" she asked.

"Not been this year. My rheumatics has made me too stiff in th' joints."

He said it in his grumbling voice, and then quite suddenly he seemed to

get angry with her, though she did not see why he should.

"Now look here!" he said sharply. "Don't tha' ask so many questions.

Tha'rt th' worst wench for askin' questions I've ever come across. Get

thee gone an' play thee. I've done talkin' for to-day."

And he said it so crossly that she knew there was not the least use in

staying another minute. She went skipping slowly down the outside walk,

thinking him over and saying to herself that, queer as it was, here was

another person whom she liked in spite of his crossness. She liked old

Ben Weatherstaff. Yes, she did like him. She always wanted to try to

make him talk to her. Also she began to believe that he knew everything

in the world about flowers.

There was a laurel-hedged walk which curved round the secret garden and

ended at a gate which opened into a wood, in the park. She thought she

would skip round this walk and look into the wood and see if there were

any rabbits hopping about. She enjoyed the skipping very much and when

she reached the little gate she opened it and went through because she

heard a low, peculiar whistling sound and wanted to find out what it

was.

It was a very strange thing indeed. She quite caught her breath as she

stopped to look at it. A boy was sitting under a tree, with his back

against it, playing on a rough wooden pipe. He was a funny looking boy

about twelve. He looked very clean and his nose turned up and his cheeks

were as red as poppies and never had Mistress Mary seen such round and

such blue eyes in any boy's face. And on the trunk of the tree he leaned

against, a brown squirrel was clinging and watching him, and from behind

a bush nearby a cock pheasant was delicately stretching his neck to peep

out, and quite near him were two rabbits sitting up and sniffing with

tremulous noses--and actually it appeared as if they were all drawing

near to watch him and listen to the strange low little call his pipe

seemed to make.

When he saw Mary he held up his hand and spoke to her in a voice almost

as low as and rather like his piping.

"Don't tha' move," he said. "It'd flight 'em."

Mary remained motionless. He stopped playing his pipe and began to rise

from the ground. He moved so slowly that it scarcely seemed as though he

were moving at all, but at last he stood on his feet and then the

squirrel scampered back up into the branches of his tree, the pheasant

withdrew his head and the rabbits dropped on all fours and began to hop

away, though not at all as if they were frightened.

"I'm Dickon," the boy said. "I know tha'rt Miss Mary."

Then Mary realized that somehow she had known at first that he was

Dickon. Who else could have been charming rabbits and pheasants as the

natives charm snakes in India? He had a wide, red, curving mouth and his

smile spread all over his face.

"I got up slow," he explained, "because if tha' makes a quick move it

startles 'em. A body 'as to move gentle an' speak low when wild things

is about."

He did not speak to her as if they had never seen each other before but

as if he knew her quite well. Mary knew nothing about boys and she spoke

to him a little stiffly because she felt rather shy.

"Did you get Martha's letter?" she asked.

He nodded his curly, rust-colored head.

"That's why I come."

He stooped to pick up something which had been lying on the ground

beside him when he piped.

"I've got th' garden tools. There's a little spade an' rake an' a fork

an' hoe. Eh! they are good 'uns. There's a trowel, too. An' th' woman in

th' shop threw in a packet o' white poppy an' one o' blue larkspur when

I bought th' other seeds."

"Will you show the seeds to me?" Mary said.

She wished she could talk as he did. His speech was so quick and easy.

It sounded as if he liked her and was not the least afraid she would not

like him, though he was only a common moor boy, in patched clothes and

with a funny face and a rough, rusty-red head. As she came closer to him

she noticed that there was a clean fresh scent of heather and grass and

leaves about him, almost as if he were made of them. She liked it very

much and when she looked into his funny face with the red cheeks and

round blue eyes she forgot that she had felt shy.

"Let us sit down on this log and look at them," she said.

They sat down and he took a clumsy little brown paper package out of his

coat pocket. He untied the string and inside there were ever so many

neater and smaller packages with a picture of a flower on each one.

"There's a lot o' mignonette an' poppies," he said. "Mignonette's th'

sweetest smellin' thing as grows, an' it'll grow wherever you cast it,

same as poppies will. Them as'll come up an' bloom if you just whistle

to 'em, them's th' nicest of all."

He stopped and turned his head quickly, his poppy-cheeked face lighting

up.

"Where's that robin as is callin' us?" he said.

The chirp came from a thick holly bush, bright with scarlet berries, and

Mary thought she knew whose it was.

"Is it really calling us?" she asked.

"Aye," said Dickon, as if it was the most natural thing in the world,

"he's callin' some one he's friends with. That's same as sayin' 'Here I

am. Look at me. I wants a bit of a chat.' There he is in the bush. Whose

is he?"

"He's Ben Weatherstaff's, but I think he knows me a little," answered

Mary.

"Aye, he knows thee," said Dickon in his low voice again. "An' he likes

thee. He's took thee on. He'll tell me all about thee in a minute."

He moved quite close to the bush with the slow movement Mary had noticed

before, and then he made a sound almost like the robin's own twitter.

The robin listened a few seconds, intently, and then answered quite as

if he were replying to a question.

"Aye, he's a friend o' yours," chuckled Dickon.

"Do you think he is?" cried Mary eagerly. She did so want to know. "Do

you think he really likes me?"

"He wouldn't come near thee if he didn't," answered Dickon. "Birds is

rare choosers an' a robin can flout a body worse than a man. See, he's

making up to thee now. 'Cannot tha' see a chap?' he's sayin'."

And it really seemed as if it must be true. He so sidled and twittered

and tilted as he hopped on his bush.

"Do you understand everything birds say?" said Mary.

Dickon's grin spread until he seemed all wide, red, curving mouth, and

he rubbed his rough head.

"I think I do, and they think I do," he said. "I've lived on th' moor

with 'em so long. I've watched 'em break shell an' come out an' fledge

an' learn to fly an' begin to sing, till I think I'm one of 'em.

Sometimes I think p'raps I'm a bird, or a fox, or a rabbit, or a

squirrel, or even a beetle, an' I don't know it."

He laughed and came back to the log and began to talk about the flower

seeds again. He told her what they looked like when they were flowers;

he told her how to plant them, and watch them, and feed and water them.

"See here," he said suddenly, turning round to look at her. "I'll plant

them for thee myself. Where is tha' garden?"

Mary's thin hands clutched each other as they lay on her lap. She did

not know what to say, so for a whole minute she said nothing. She had

never thought of this. She felt miserable. And she felt as if she went

red and then pale.

"Tha's got a bit o' garden, hasn't tha'?" Dickon said.

It was true that she had turned red and then pale. Dickon saw her do it,

and as she still said nothing, he began to be puzzled.

"Wouldn't they give thee a bit?" he asked. "Hasn't tha' got any yet?"

She held her hands even tighter and turned her eyes toward him.

"I don't know anything about boys," she said slowly. "Could you keep a

secret, if I told you one? It's a great secret. I don't know what I

should do if any one found it out. I believe I should die!" She said the

last sentence quite fiercely.

Dickon looked more puzzled than ever and even rubbed his hand over his

rough head again, but he answered quite good-humoredly.

"I'm keepin' secrets all th' time," he said. "If I couldn't keep secrets

from th' other lads, secrets about foxes' cubs, an' birds' nests, an'

wild things' holes, there'd be naught safe on th' moor. Aye, I can keep

secrets."

Mistress Mary did not mean to put out her hand and clutch his sleeve but

she did it.

"I've stolen a garden," she said very fast. "It isn't mine. It isn't

anybody's. Nobody wants it, nobody cares for it, nobody ever goes into

it. Perhaps everything is dead in it already; I don't know."

She began to feel hot and as contrary as she had ever felt in her life.

"I don't care, I don't care! Nobody has any right to take it from me

when I care about it and they don't. They're letting it die, all shut in

by itself," she ended passionately, and she threw her arms over her face

and burst out crying--poor little Mistress Mary.

Dickon's curious blue eyes grew rounder and rounder.

"Eh-h-h!" he said, drawing his exclamation out slowly, and the way he

did it meant both wonder and sympathy.

"I've nothing to do," said Mary. "Nothing belongs to me. I found it

myself and I got into it myself. I was only just like the robin, and

they wouldn't take it from the robin."

"Where is it?" asked Dickon in a dropped voice.

Mistress Mary got up from the log at once. She knew she felt contrary

again, and obstinate, and she did not care at all. She was imperious and

Indian, and at the same time hot and sorrowful.

"Come with me and I'll show you," she said.

She led him round the laurel path and to the walk where the ivy grew so

thickly. Dickon followed her with a queer, almost pitying, look on his

face. He felt as if he were being led to look at some strange bird's

nest and must move softly. When she stepped to the wall and lifted the

hanging ivy he started. There was a door and Mary pushed it slowly open

and they passed in together, and then Mary stood and waved her hand

round defiantly.

"It's this," she said. "It's a secret garden, and I'm the only one in

the world who wants it to be alive."

Dickon looked round and round about it, and round and round again.

"Eh!" he almost whispered, "it is a queer, pretty place! It's like as if

a body was in a dream."