She led him round the laurel path and to the walk where the ivy grew so thickly. Dickon followed her with a queer, almost pitying, look on his face. He felt as if he were being led to look at some strange bird’s nest and must move softly. When she stepped to the wall and lifted the hanging ivy he started. There was a door and Mary pushed it slowly open and they passed in together, and then Mary stood and waved her hand round defiantly.
“It’s this,” she said. “It’s a secret garden, and I’m the only one in the world who wants it to be alive.”
Dickon looked round and round about it, and round and round again.
“Eh!” he almost whispered, “it is a queer, pretty place! It’s like as if a body was in a dream.”