Mary ran so fast that she was out of breath when she reached her rooms.
Martha was waiting. "You're late," she told Mary. "Where have you been?"
"I've seen Dickon!" Mary exclaimed.
Martha wanted to know all about the garden tools and seeds that he had brought.
"Did you ask someone where you might plant the seeds?"
Mary was afraid to reveal anything about the secret garden.
"I haven't asked anybody yet," she said hesitantly.
"Well, I wouldn't ask the head gardener, Mr. Roach. He's a bit haughty.
I'd ask Ben Weatherstaff, who's kinder than he looks.
Mr. Craven lets him do what he likes because he was here when Mrs. Craven was alive.
He used to make her laugh, and she liked him.
Perhaps he'd find you a corner somewhere."
Mary ate lunch quickly.
She was eager to go back to working in the secret garden with Dickon.
She hopped up from the table and was about to run outside, when Martha stopped her.
"I've got something to tell you.
Mr. Craven came back this morning, and he wants to see you."
Mary turned pale. "Oh, why? He didn't want to see me when I first came."
"Mrs. Medlock says it's because Mother met him when she was walking to Thwaite village," said Martha.
"She'd never spoken to him before, but Mrs. Craven had been to our cottage two or three times.
I don't know what Mother said to him, but he wants to see you before he goes away again tomorrow."
"Oh!" cried Mary. "I'm so glad he's going away again."
"He may not come back until autumn or winter.
He's going to be traveling to several different places."
If Mr. Craven didn't come back until autumn or winter, there would be time to watch the secret garden come alive.
"Even if he finds out then and takes it away from me," Mary thought, "I will at least have had that much."
Suddenly the door opened, and Mrs. Medlock stepped into the room.
"Go brush your hair, and get into your best dress," she said to Mary.
"Mr. Craven sent me to bring you to his study."
Mary's heart began to thump, and she felt herself changing into a stiff, plain child again.
She said nothing while Martha helped her get dressed.
She followed Mrs. Medlock silently down the corridors.
What was there for her to say? She had to go see Mr. Craven.
Mrs. Medlock took her to a new part of the house.
A man sat in an armchair near the fire.
He was not so much a hunchback as a man with high, crooked shoulders.
He dismissed Mrs. Medlock before he spoke to Mary.
"Are you well?" he asked. "Do they take good care of you?"
"Yes," she answered.
His black eyes seemed as if they scarcely saw her.
His black hair was streaked with white.
He would have been handsome if he had not looked so miserable.
"I forgot about you," said Mr. Craven.
"I meant to send you a nurse or a governess."
"Please . . ." Mary could hardly speak because of the lump in her throat.
"Please . . . I'm too old for a nurse . . . and I don't need a governess."
"That's what that Sowerby woman said," he muttered to himself.
"Is that Martha's mother? She knows all about children. She has 12."
"What do you want to do?"
"I want to play outdoors. It makes me hungry, and I'm getting stronger."
Mary tried to sound brave. "I run and skip everywhere."
"Don't look so frightened. You may do what you like.
Do you want toys, books, dolls?"
"Might I have a bit of dirt?"
Mr. Craven looked startled at this strange request. "Dirt?"
"To plant seeds in, to watch the plants grow.
I didn't really know about gardens in India.
I sometimes played at sticking flowers in the ground, but here it's different."
Mr. Craven got up and began to walk slowly around the room.
When he stopped and looked at her, his eyes seemed almost kind.
"You may have as much dirt as you want.
You remind me of someone else who loved the earth and things that grow.
When you see a bit of dirt you want"—and here he almost smiled—"take it, child, and make it come alive.
Now you must go."
He summoned Mrs. Medlock, who led Mary down the corridors and left her at her rooms.
"I can have my garden!" Mary said to herself as she ran outside.
When she opened the door to the secret garden, Dickon was gone.
But she found a note: a picture of a bird on a nest with the words "I will come back."