The Secret Garden

by Frances Hodgson Burnett

Nobody thought of her, nobody wanted her, and strange things happened of which she knew nothing.

The wine made her so sleepy that she could scarcely keep her eyes open and she lay down on her bed and knew nothing more for a long time.

Girl that couldkill you

There would be a new Ayah, and perhaps she would know some new stories. Mary had been rather tired of the old ones. She did not cry because her nurse had died.

She was not an affectionate child and had never cared much for any one.

and she had been angry because no one seemed to remember ...

Everyone was too panic-stricken to think of a little girl ...

When people had the cholera it seemed that they remembered nothing but themselves. But if everyone had got well again, surely some one wo...

"Why was I forgotten?" Mary said, stamping her foot. "Why does nobody come?"

It was in that strange and sudden way that Mary found out that she had neither father nor mother left; that they had died

It was true that there was no one in the bungalow but herself and the little rustling snake.

but as she knew very little of her she could scarcely have been expected to love her or to miss her very much when she was gone.

"Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With silver bells, and cockle shells, And marigolds all in a row."

"You don't know anything. Girls never do.

She had begun to wonder why she had never seemed to belong to anyone even when her father and mother had been alive.

Other children seemed to belong to their fathers and mothers, but she had never seemed to really be anyone's little girl.

She did not know that this was because she was a disagreeable child; but then, of course, she did n...

"A more marred-looking young one I never saw in my life," Mrs. Medlock thought. (Marred is a Yorkshire word and means spoiled and pettish.)

"No," said Mary frowning. She frowned because she remembered that her father and mother had never talked to her about anything in particular.

But she did not intend to look as if she were interested. That was one of her unhappy, disagreeable ways. So she sat still.

He's not going to trouble himself about you, that's sure and certain. He never troubles himself about no one."

This poor girl

"Yes, she died," Mrs. Medlock answered. "And it made him queerer than ever. He cares about nobody. He won't see people.

Ahh... When you lose the love of your life...

she herself fell asleep once more in the corner of the carriage, lulled by the splashing of the rain against the windows.

The little girl did not offer to help her, because in India native servants always picked up or carried things and it seemed quite proper that other people should wait on one.

She sat and looked out of the window, curious to see something of the road over which she was being driven to the queer place

As she stood on the stone floor she looked a very small, odd little black figure, and she felt as small and lost and odd as she looked.

"I dare say it's because there's such a lot o' blacks there instead o' respectable white people. When I heard you was comin' from India I thought you was a black too."

Oh wow okay

she suddenly felt so horribly lonely and far away from everything she understood and which understood her,

"You mustn't for sure. I didn't know you'd be vexed. I don't know anythin' about anythin'—just like you said. I beg your pardon, Miss. Do stop cryin'."

It had not been the custom that Mistress Mary should do anything but stand and allow herself to be dressed like a doll,

So she began to feel a slight interest in Dickon, and as she had never before been interested in any one but herself, it was the dawning of a healthy sentiment.

"I don't know what it is to be hungry," said Mary, with the indifference of ignorance.

It was really this mention of Dickon which made Mary decide to go out, though she was not aware of it.

It made her think that it was curious how much nicer a person looked when he smiled. She had not thought of it before.

It really seemed as if he were finding out all about her. The queer feeling in her heart increased.

"I'm lonely," she said. She had not known before that this was one of the things which made her feel sour and cross.

"Tha' an' me are a good bit alike," he said. "We was wove out of th' same cloth. We're neither of us good lookin' an' we're both of us as sour as we look. We've got the same nasty tempers, both of us, I'll warrant."

She actually began to wonder also if she was "nasty tempered." She felt uncomfortable.

"He's made up his mind to make friends with thee," replied Ben. "Dang me if he hasn't took a fancy to thee." "To me?" said Mary, and she moved toward the little tree softly and looked up.

"Would you make friends with me?" she said to the robin just as if she was speaking to a person. "Would you?" And she did not say it either in her hard little voice or in her imperious Indian voice, but in a tone so soft and eager and coaxing that Ben Weatherstaff was as surprised as she had been when she heard him whistle.

She did not know that this was the best thing she could have done, and she did not know that, when she began to walk quickly or even run along the paths and down the avenue, she was stirring her slow blood and making herself stronger by fighting with the wind which swept down from the moor.

Mary began to laugh, and as he hopped and took little flights along the wall she ran after him. Poor little thin, sallow, ugly Mary—she actually looked almost pretty for a moment.

the fresh wind from the moor had begun to blow the cobwebs out of her young brain and to waken her up a little.

She did not feel cross when Martha chattered away. She felt as if she rather liked to hear her,

that hollow shuddering sort of roar

She had felt as if she had understood a robin and that he had understood her; she had run in the wind until her blood had grown warm; she had been healthily hungry for the first time in her life; and she had found out what it was to be sorry for some one.

seven mice who did not look lonely at all. "If they wouldn't be so frightened I would take them back with me," said Mary.

Mary went and sat on the hearth-rug, pale with rage. She did not cry, but ground her teeth. "There was some one crying—there was—there was!" she said to herself.

That seemed a good many people to like—when you were not used to liking.

Thank you." She said it stiffly because she was not used to thanking people or noticing that they did things for her.

She had never felt sorry for herself; she had only felt tired and cross, because she disliked people and things so much.