Two days later the rainstorm ended.
The wind stopped howling, and a brilliant blue sky stretched over the moor.
The moor itself looked soft blue instead of gloomy purple-black or awful, dreary gray.
When Mary awoke she sat up in bed and called to Martha.
"Look at the moor!"
"Yes," said Martha with a cheerful grin. "The storm's over for a bit.
That happens this time of year. Spring is on its way."
"I thought it always rained and looked dark in England," said Mary.
"Oh, no. Just you wait until you see all the flowers blooming on the moor and butterflies fluttering and bees humming.
You'll want to go out on the moor all day as Dickon does."
Mary smiled. "I like Dickon, and I've never even met him."
"All the animals like Dickon. I wonder," said Martha, "what he would think of you."
"He wouldn't like me," Mary said stiffly. "No one does."
Martha looked serious. "How do you like yourself?"
Mary hesitated for a moment. "Not at all, really.
But I never thought of that before."
Martha grinned. "Mother asked me that once when I was in a bad temper and speaking ill of everyone.
She said, 'There you stand saying you don't like this one and you don't like that one.
How do you like yourself?' It made me laugh and brought me to my senses."
Martha was in high spirits that morning because it was her day off.
She gave Mary her breakfast, and then she was going home to the cottage.
She wouldn't be back until the next morning.
After Martha left, Mary felt lonelier than ever.
She went outside, and the first thing she did was run around the fountain ten times.
Then she ran into the kitchen gardens and found Ben Weatherstaff at work.
The change in the weather seemed to have done him good.
"Springtime's coming," he said cheerfully. "Can you smell it?"
Mary sniffed the air. "I smell something nice and fresh and damp."
"That's the good, rich earth," he said, digging away.
"In the flower gardens, things will be stirring down there in the dark.
The sun's warming them. You'll see bits of green sticking up soon."
"What will they be?"
"Crocuses and snowdrops and daffodils. Haven't you ever seen them?"
"No," said Mary. "In India everything is hot and wet and green after the rains.
Things there seem to grow up overnight."
"These won't grow up in a night," said Ben. "You'll have to wait for them.
They'll poke up a bit higher here and push out a bit more there.
Then they'll uncurl a leaf this day and another one that day. You watch."
"I'm going to." Mary heard the soft rustling of wings, and there was the robin looking right at her.
"Do you think he remembers me?"
"Remember you?" said Ben. "Of course he does."
"Are things stirring in the garden where he lives?"
"What garden?" Ben said gruffly.
"The one where the old roses are." Mary couldn't help asking more questions.
"Are all the flowers dead? Are there ever any roses?"
"Ask the robin. He's the only one who knows.
No one else has seen it for ten years."
Ten years was a long time. She was ten years old herself.
Mary slowly walked away, lost in thought.
She had begun to like the garden, just as she had begun to like Dickon and Martha and their mother too.
That seemed a lot of people to like when you weren't used to liking people.
She also counted the robin as a person.
She spotted him again as she was strolling along her favorite path outside the kitchen gardens.
He was pecking in the earth and pretending that he hadn't followed her.
But Mary knew he had.
"You do remember me!" she cried.
She chirped and talked and coaxed, while he hopped and twittered.
The robin allowed her to move closer and closer to him.
She bent down and tried to make robin sounds.
The robin hopped under some shrubs.
Then Mary saw him stop to look for a worm near a pile of freshly turned-up dirt.
An animal must have been digging in the garden.
As she watched the robin, she spotted something half-buried in the little pile of soil.
It looked like a ring of brass or rusty iron.
When the robin flew up into a nearby tree, Mary picked up the ring.
But it wasn't a ring. It was an old key.
Mary stared in amazement at the key in her hand.
"Perhaps it has been buried for ten years," she whispered.
"Perhaps this is the key to the garden."