“I never seed no sense in th’ Doxology afore,” he said hoarsely, “but I may change my mind i’ time. I should say tha’d gone up five pound this week Mester Colin—five on ’em!”
Colin was looking across the garden at something attracting his attention and his expression had become a startled one.
“Who is coming in here?” he said quickly. “Who is it?”
The door in the ivied wall had been pushed gently open and a woman had entered. She had come in with the last line of their song and she had stood still listening and looking at them. With the ivy behind her, the sunlight drifting through the trees and dappling her long blue cloak, and her nice fresh face smiling across the greenery she was rather like a softly colored illustration in one of Colin’s books. She had wonderful affectionate eyes which seemed to take everything in—all of them, even Ben Weatherstaff and the “creatures” and every flower that was in bloom. Unexpectedly as she had appeared, not one of them felt that she was an intruder at all. Dickon’s eyes lighted like lamps.
“It’s mother—that’s who it is!” he cried and went across the grass at a run.
Colin began to move toward her, too, and Mary went with him. They both felt their pulses beat faster.
“It’s mother!” Dickon said again when they met halfway. “I knowed tha’ wanted to see her an’ I told her where th’ door was hid.”
Colin held out his hand with a sort of flushed royal shyness but his eyes quite devoured her face.
“Even when I was ill I wanted to see you,” he said, “you and Dickon and the secret garden. I’d never wanted to see anyone or anything before.”
The sight of his uplifted face brought about a sudden change in her own. She flushed and the corners of her mouth shook and a mist seemed to sweep over her eyes.