CHAPTER XIII 110
" My mother died when I was born and it makes him wretched 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," said Mary half speaking to herself. " What garden?" the boy asked.
" Oh! just--just a garden she used to like," Mary stammered. " Have you been here always?"
" Nearly always. Sometimes I have been taken to places at the seaside, but I won ' t stay because people stare at me. I used to wear an iron thing to keep my back straight, but a grand doctor came from London to see me and said it was stupid. He told them to take it off and keep me out in the fresh air. I hate fresh air and I don ' t want to go out."
" I didn ' t when first I came here," said Mary. " Why do you keep looking at me like that?"
" Because of the dreams that are so real," he answered rather fretfully. " Sometimes when I open my eyes I don ' t believe I ' m awake."
" We ' re both awake," said Mary. She glanced round the room with its high ceiling and shadowy corners and dim firelight. " It looks quite like a dream, and it ' s the middle of the night, and everybody in the house is asleep--everybody but us. We are wide awake."
" I don ' t want it to be a dream," the boy said restlessly. Mary thought of something all at once.
" If you don ' t like people to see you," she began, " do you want me to go away?"
He still held the fold of her wrapper and he gave it a little pull.