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“
How
still
it
is
!
”
she
whispered
.
“
How
still
!
”
Then
she
waited
a
moment
and
listened
at
the
stillness
.
The
robin
,
who
had
flown
to
his
treetop
,
was
still
as
all
the
rest
.
He
did
not
even
flutter
his
wings
;
he
sat
without
stirring
,
and
looked
at
Mary
.
“
No
wonder
it
is
still
,
”
she
whispered
again
.
“
I
am
the
first
person
who
has
spoken
in
here
for
ten
years
.
”
She
moved
away
from
the
door
,
stepping
as
softly
as
if
she
were
afraid
of
awakening
someone
.
She
was
glad
that
there
was
grass
under
her
feet
and
that
her
steps
made
no
sounds
.
She
walked
under
one
of
the
fairy
-
like
gray
arches
between
the
trees
and
looked
up
at
the
sprays
and
tendrils
which
formed
them
.
“
I
wonder
if
they
are
all
quite
dead
,
”
she
said
.
“
Is
it
all
a
quite
dead
garden
?
I
wish
it
wasn
’
t
.
”
If
she
had
been
Ben
Weatherstaff
she
could
have
told
whether
the
wood
was
alive
by
looking
at
it
,
but
she
could
only
see
that
there
were
only
gray
or
brown
sprays
and
branches
and
none
showed
any
signs
of
even
a
tiny
leaf
-
bud
anywhere
.
But
she
was
inside
the
wonderful
garden
and
she
could
come
through
the
door
under
the
ivy
any
time
and
she
felt
as
if
she
had
found
a
world
all
her
own
.
The
sun
was
shining
inside
the
four
walls
and
the
high
arch
of
blue
sky
over
this
particular
piece
of
Misselthwaite
seemed
even
more
brilliant
and
soft
than
it
was
over
the
moor
.
The
robin
flew
down
from
his
tree
-
top
and
hopped
about
or
flew
after
her
from
one
bush
to
another
.
He
chirped
a
good
deal
and
had
a
very
busy
air
,
as
if
he
were
showing
her
things
.
Everything
was
strange
and
silent
and
she
seemed
to
be
hundreds
of
miles
away
from
anyone
,
but
somehow
she
did
not
feel
lonely
at
all
.
All
that
troubled
her
was
her
wish
that
she
knew
whether
all
the
roses
were
dead
,
or
if
perhaps
some
of
them
had
lived
and
might
put
out
leaves
and
buds
as
the
weather
got
warmer
.
She
did
not
want
it
to
be
a
quite
dead
garden
.
If
it
were
a
quite
alive
garden
,
how
wonderful
it
would
be
,
and
what
thousands
of
roses
would
grow
on
every
side
!
