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“
You
do
remember
me
!
”
she
cried
out
.
“
You
do
!
You
are
prettier
than
anything
else
in
the
world
!
”
She
chirped
,
and
talked
,
and
coaxed
and
he
hopped
,
and
flirted
his
tail
and
twittered
.
It
was
as
if
he
were
talking
.
His
red
waistcoat
was
like
satin
and
he
puffed
his
tiny
breast
out
and
was
so
fine
and
so
grand
and
so
pretty
that
it
was
really
as
if
he
were
showing
her
how
important
and
like
a
human
person
a
robin
could
be
Mistress
Mary
forgot
that
she
had
ever
been
contrary
in
her
life
when
he
allowed
her
to
draw
closer
and
closer
to
him
,
and
bend
down
and
talk
and
try
to
make
something
like
robin
sounds
.
Oh
!
to
think
that
he
should
actually
let
her
come
as
near
to
him
as
that
!
He
knew
nothing
in
the
world
would
make
her
put
out
her
hand
toward
him
or
startle
him
in
the
least
tiniest
way
.
He
knew
it
because
he
was
a
real
person
—
only
nicer
than
any
other
person
in
the
world
.
She
was
so
happy
that
she
scarcely
dared
to
breathe
.
The
flower
-
bed
was
not
quite
bare
.
It
was
bare
of
flowers
because
the
perennial
plants
had
been
cut
down
for
their
winter
rest
,
but
there
were
tall
shrubs
and
low
ones
which
grew
together
at
the
back
of
the
bed
,
and
as
the
robin
hopped
about
under
them
she
saw
him
hop
over
a
small
pile
of
freshly
turned
up
earth
.
He
stopped
on
it
to
look
for
a
worm
.
The
earth
had
been
turned
up
because
a
dog
had
been
trying
to
dig
up
a
mole
and
he
had
scratched
quite
a
deep
hole
.
Mary
looked
at
it
,
not
really
knowing
why
the
hole
was
there
,
and
as
she
looked
she
saw
something
almost
buried
in
the
newly
-
turned
soil
.
It
was
something
like
a
ring
of
rusty
iron
or
brass
and
when
the
robin
flew
up
into
a
tree
nearby
she
put
out
her
hand
and
picked
the
ring
up
.
It
was
more
than
a
ring
,
however
;
it
was
an
old
key
which
looked
as
if
it
had
been
buried
a
long
time
.
Mistress
Mary
stood
up
and
looked
at
it
with
an
almost
frightened
face
as
it
hung
from
her
finger
.
“
Perhaps
it
has
been
buried
for
ten
years
,
”
she
said
in
a
whisper
.
“
Perhaps
it
is
the
key
to
the
garden
!
”
She
looked
at
the
key
quite
a
long
time
.
She
turned
it
over
and
over
,
and
thought
about
it
.
As
I
have
said
before
,
she
was
not
a
child
who
had
been
trained
to
ask
permission
or
consult
her
elders
about
things
.
All
she
thought
about
the
key
was
that
if
it
was
the
key
to
the
closed
garden
,
and
she
could
find
out
where
the
door
was
,
she
could
perhaps
open
it
and
see
what
was
inside
the
walls
,
and
what
had
happened
to
the
old
rose
-
trees
.
It
was
because
it
had
been
shut
up
so
long
that
she
wanted
to
see
it
.
It
seemed
as
if
it
must
be
different
from
other
places
and
that
something
strange
must
have
happened
to
it
during
ten
years
.
Besides
that
,
if
she
liked
it
she
could
go
into
it
every
day
and
shut
the
door
behind
her
,
and
she
could
make
up
some
play
of
her
own
and
play
it
quite
alone
,
because
nobody
would
ever
know
where
she
was
,
but
would
think
the
door
was
still
locked
and
the
key
buried
in
the
earth
.
The
thought
of
that
pleased
her
very
much
.
Living
as
it
were
,
all
by
herself
in
a
house
with
a
hundred
mysteriously
closed
rooms
and
having
nothing
whatever
to
do
to
amuse
herself
,
had
set
her
inactive
brain
to
working
and
was
actually
awakening
her
imagination
.
There
is
no
doubt
that
the
fresh
,
strong
,
pure
air
from
the
moor
had
a
great
deal
to
do
with
it
.
Just
as
it
had
given
her
an
appetite
,
and
fighting
with
the
wind
had
stirred
her
blood
,
so
the
same
things
had
stirred
her
mind
.
In
India
she
had
always
been
too
hot
and
languid
and
weak
to
care
much
about
anything
,
but
in
this
place
she
was
beginning
to
care
and
to
want
to
do
new
things
.
Already
she
felt
less
“
contrary
,
”
though
she
did
not
know
why
.
