“I have heard you crying three times,” Mary said, “but I did not know who it was. Were you crying about that?” She did so want him to forget the garden.
“I dare say,” he answered. “Let us talk about something else. Talk about that garden. Don’t you want to see it?”
“Yes,” answered Mary, in quite a low voice.
“I do,” he went on persistently. “I don’t think I ever really wanted to see anything before, but I want to see that garden. I want the key dug up. I want the door unlocked. I would let them take me there in my chair. That would be getting fresh air. I am going to make them open the door.”
He had become quite excited and his strange eyes began to shine like stars and looked more immense than ever.
“They have to please me,” he said. “I will make them take me there and I will let you go, too.”
Mary’s hands clutched each other. Everything would be spoiled—everything! Dickon would never come back. She would never again feel like a missel thrush with a safe-hidden nest.
“Oh, don’t—don’t—don’t—don’t do that!” she cried out.
He stared as if he thought she had gone crazy!
“Why?” he exclaimed. “You said you wanted to see it.”