"He's a conceited one," he chuckled. "He likes to hear folk talk about
him. An' curious--bless me, there never was his like for curiosity an'
meddlin'. He's always comin' to see what I'm plantin'. He knows all th'
things Mester Craven never troubles hissel' to find out. He's th' head
gardener, he is."

The robin hopped about busily pecking the soil and now and then stopped
and looked at them a little. Mary thought his black dewdrop eyes gazed
at her with great curiosity. It really seemed as if he were finding out
all about her. The queer feeling in her heart increased.

"Where did the rest of the brood fly to?" she asked.

"There's no knowin'. The old ones turn 'em out o' their nest an' make
'em fly an' they're scattered before you know it. This one was a knowin'
one an' he knew he was lonely."

Mistress Mary went a step nearer to the robin and looked at him very
hard.

"I'm lonely," she said.

She had not known before that this was one of the things which made her
feel sour and cross. She seemed to find it out when the robin looked at
her and she looked at the robin.

The old gardener pushed his cap back on his bald head and stared at her
a minute.

"Art tha' th' little wench from India?" he asked.