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“
Does
Dickon
know
all
about
them
?
”
asked
Mary
,
a
new
idea
taking
possession
of
her
.
“
Our
Dickon
can
make
a
flower
grow
out
of
a
brick
walk
.
Mother
says
he
just
whispers
things
out
o
’
th
’
ground
.
”
“
Do
bulbs
live
a
long
time
?
Would
they
live
years
and
years
if
no
one
helped
them
?
”
inquired
Mary
anxiously
.
“
They
’
re
things
as
helps
themselves
,
”
said
Martha
.
“
That
’
s
why
poor
folk
can
afford
to
have
’
em
.
If
you
don
’
t
trouble
’
em
,
most
of
’
em
’
ll
work
away
underground
for
a
lifetime
an
’
spread
out
an
’
have
little
’
uns
.
There
’
s
a
place
in
th
’
park
woods
here
where
there
’
s
snowdrops
by
thousands
.
They
’
re
the
prettiest
sight
in
Yorkshire
when
th
’
spring
comes
.
No
one
knows
when
they
was
first
planted
.
”
“
I
wish
the
spring
was
here
now
,
”
said
Mary
.
“
I
want
to
see
all
the
things
that
grow
in
England
.
”
She
had
finished
her
dinner
and
gone
to
her
favorite
seat
on
the
hearth
-
rug
.
“
I
wish
—
I
wish
I
had
a
little
spade
,
”
she
said
.
“
Whatever
does
tha
’
want
a
spade
for
?
”
asked
Martha
,
laughing
.
“
Art
tha
’
goin
’
to
take
to
diggin
’
?
I
must
tell
mother
that
,
too
.
”
Mary
looked
at
the
fire
and
pondered
a
little
.
She
must
be
careful
if
she
meant
to
keep
her
secret
kingdom
.
She
wasn
’
t
doing
any
harm
,
but
if
Mr
.
Craven
found
out
about
the
open
door
he
would
be
fearfully
angry
and
get
a
new
key
and
lock
it
up
forevermore
.
She
really
could
not
bear
that
.
“
This
is
such
a
big
lonely
place
,
”
she
said
slowly
,
as
if
she
were
turning
matters
over
in
her
mind
.
“
The
house
is
lonely
,
and
the
park
is
lonely
,
and
the
gardens
are
lonely
.
So
many
places
seem
shut
up
.
