Mary knew that Dickon had meant the picture of the nesting bird to be a message.
It was a promise that he would keep her secret.
She was the bird, and the garden was her nest.
Mary hoped that Dickon would come back the next day.
She fell asleep that night looking forward to the morning.
But she was awakened in the night by the sound of rain beating against her window and wind howling.
Mary sat up in bed and felt miserable and angry.
"The rain only came because it knew I didn't want it."
She threw herself on her pillow.
Though she tried to go back to sleep, the wind kept her awake.
She had been lying awake for nearly an hour, when a sound made her sit up in bed.
"That isn't the wind. It's that crying I heard before."
The door of her room was open a little, and the sound came down the corridor.
She had to find out who was crying!
There was a candle by her bed, so she took that and stepped out of her room.
She walked slowly along the corridors, letting the crying lead her on.
Finally she came to the door covered with tapestry, the one she had found that day she was lost.
She pushed it open and stood in the corridor.
The crying was quite nearby now.
Mary could see light coming from beneath a door.
Whoever was crying was in that room.
Mary took a deep breath and opened the door.
She found herself in a big room.
A fire glowed faintly on the hearth, and a light burned by the side of a bed.
A boy was lying in the bed. He had a pale face with large, dark eyes.
His hair tumbled over his forehead and made his thin face seem even smaller.
Mary began to walk toward the bed.
"Are you a ghost?" cried the boy in surprise.
"No. Are you?" asked Mary.
"No. I'm Colin Craven," replied the boy. "Who are you?"
"I'm Mary Lennox. Mr. Craven is my uncle."
"He's my father," said the boy.
"Your father!" gasped Mary.
"No one ever told me that Mr. Craven had a son!
Did anyone ever tell you that I live here?"
The boy shook his head. "They didn't dare tell me that.
They knew I'd be afraid you would see me and talk about me."
"Why?" Mary felt more mystified every moment.
"Because I'm always ill and lying in bed.
If I live, I may be a hunchback, but I won't live.
My father won't let anyone, not even the servants, talk about me."
"Oh, what a strange house this is!" said Mary.
"Rooms are locked up, and gardens are locked up.
Have you been locked up too?"
"No. I stay in this room because I don't want to be moved.
It tires me too much."
"Does your father come to see you?"
"Sometimes when I'm asleep," said the boy. "He doesn't want to see me."
Mary could not believe this. "Why?"
"My mother died when I was born, and it makes him miserable to look at me.
He thinks I don't know, but I've heard people talking. He almost hates me."
"He hates the garden because she died," Mary said quietly.
"What garden?"
"Oh, just . . . just a garden your mother liked," Mary said cautiously.
She tried to change the subject. "Have you always been here?"
Colin told her he used to be taken to the seaside, but he didn't like it when people stared at him.
A doctor from London recommended that he go out in the fresh air, but he didn't like that either.
He was allowed to have whatever he asked for, yet he still wasn't happy.
"Everyone must do as I say or I get angry, and it makes me ill to be angry.
No one believes I shall live to grow up."
He said this as if he were so used to the idea that it didn't bother him anymore.
He was more interested in asking Mary lots of questions about herself.
As she talked about her life in India and the long voyage to England, he seemed to grow sleepy.
But then he asked how old she was.
"I'm ten, and so are you," said Mary, forgetting to be careful for a moment.
"How do you know that?" Colin demanded in a surprised voice.
"Because when you were born, the garden door was locked, and the key was buried.
And it has been locked for ten years."
Colin half sat up. "What garden door was locked? Who did it?
Where was the key buried?" he exclaimed.
Mary's heart suddenly began to pound.