“Why?” Mary could not help asking again.
A sort of angry shadow passed over the boy’s face.
“My mother died when I was born and it makes him wretched to look at me. He thinks I don’t know, but I’ve heard people talking. He almost hates me.”
“He hates the garden, because she died,” said Mary half speaking to herself.
“What garden?” the boy asked.
“Oh! just—just a garden she used to like,” Mary stammered. “Have you been here always?”
“Nearly always. Sometimes I have been taken to places at the seaside, but I won’t stay because people stare at me. I used to wear an iron thing to keep my back straight, but a grand doctor came from London to see me and said it was stupid. He told them to take it off and keep me out in the fresh air. I hate fresh air and I don’t want to go out.”
“I didn’t when first I came here,” said Mary. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”
“Because of the dreams that are so real,” he answered rather fretfully. “Sometimes when I open my eyes I don’t believe I’m awake.”
“We’re both awake,” said Mary. She glanced round the room with its high ceiling and shadowy corners and dim fire-light. “It looks quite like a dream, and it’s the middle of the night, and everybody in the house is asleep—everybody but us. We are wide awake.”