Mary dressed quickly and tore out of her room at top speed. It was 8 o'clock already—Dickon would be expecting her. She usually got to the garden at about seven, but last night she had stayed up late, so she had slept in this morning.

She ran to the garden as fast as she could, panting from the exertion. She stopped short in front of the door and began fumbling with the latch. "Sorry I'm late," she called breathlessly. Then she stepped into the garden, shocked. Dickon was not there. She prayed that nothing had happened to him. In the five years since she'd told Dickon about the garden, he had never been late.

She began working, preparing the garden for winter, which would be coming soon. Somehow it was not the same without Dickon.

As soon as Dickon had finished setting Soot's wing, he set the bird back in his nest and dashed for the garden. His seventeen-year old legs raced over the moor, and he leapt over obstacles like a young deer.

He was so late! Mary would be there already, she might be worried. After all, he almost always got there first. Dickon paused for a moment to leap on his pony's back. He was mildly surprised to notice how high he had to pull up his long legs. He was getting too tall for a pony. He dismounted a ways from the garden and paused for a moment to catch his breath before pushing open the door.

"I'm sorry I'm la—" he began, then stopped suddenly. Mary had looked up when he came in, and at the sight of her—thick fair hair tousled, eyes shining, cheeks flushed with the cold and exertion—his heart flopped inside his chest.

"There tha' art!" Mary exclaimed happily, speaking in the broad Yorkshire dialect, as she always did when with Dickon. "I was gettin' fair worried about thee."

"I—I'm sorry, Miss Mary," Dickon answered breathlessly. "But Soot broke a wing, an' I couldna jus' leave him lyin' there—"

"O' course not," Mary agreed. They fell into a companionable silence, working among the flowers they both loved.

"Eh! But it is a graidely day," Mary said blissfully. And it was true: The pure blue autumn sky arched over the moor, the sun shone, and the flowers in the garden bloomed as though it were spring.

"Aye, it is," Dickon agreed. The beat of his heart had not slowed since he'd seen Mary, and he felt awkward, not knowing what he was feeling, but knowing that this was not the kind of thing he could ask her about.

"Look, Dickon!" Mary exclaimed suddenly. "It's a red rose!" She reached up to touch it, and one of her fingers caught on a thorn. "Oooh," she moaned. A bright bead of blood was welling up on her fingertip.

Dickon started to rip a piece from his shirt for bandaging. "Don't," Mary said. "You can't spare it." Then she tore a strip from the hem of her petticoat. She started trying to wrap her finger, without much luck.

"Here, let me," Dickon said. He took the makeshift bandage from Mary and bound the cut deftly. Mary bit her lip against the pain.

"That was silly of me," she said softly.

"Nay, Miss Mary," Dickon told her. "I'm sure I'd ha' done the same mysel'."

Mary smiled gratefully. After a moment she said, "Well, we've much to do—we'd best get back to work."

"Is tha' sure tha' can?" Dickon asked.

"Tha' doesn't have to treat me like I'm like to break," Mary teased. "It's only a wee cut."

Dickon blushed. "O' course, Miss Mary."

"Dickon, I've told you and told you!" Mary said, abandoning her Yorkshire in her exasperation. "You don't have to call me 'Miss Mary' all the time! I'd rather just be called Mary—you know that."

"Beg pardon, Miss—uh, Mary," Dickon said meekly. He was usually as good with people as he was with animals, but something about Mary flustered him these days.

Mary beamed at him. "There now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" She felt as flustered around Dickon as he did around her, but she was better at hiding it. And she was surprised at how delighted she was at him calling her by her name.

The robin chirped suddenly, and his mate twittered something that sounded like an explanation. Dickon blushed.

"What did they say?" Mary asked curiously.

"Uh, n—nothin'," Dickon said, blushing harder.

Mary looked at him quizzically.

"Please don' ask, Mary," he said pleadingly.

"You just called me 'Mary,'" she said in astonishment.

"Aye, that I did," Dickon replied. "Just like I do whenever I think about tha'—" He stopped short, realizing what he had just said.

"So tha'—tha' thinks about me?" Mary asked. Dickon remembered the day he had met her, when she had asked, "Does tha' like me?" so hesitantly, as though she were afraid to know the answer.

"Aye. I do," Dickon whispered.

Mary sat looking up at him for a moment, her heart in her eyes. She was also remembering that same question. "Does tha' like me, Dickon?" she asked softly. The words had not changed, but the question suddenly meant infinitely more.

Dickon said nothing for a moment, staring at her like she was the first blossom of spring, searching for the right words to say. "I—I—"

Mary read his answer in his flushed cheeks and shining eyes. She hesitated for a moment, and then reached up and kissed him. A thunderstruck look blazed across his face, as he finally realized what he felt for her.

She recovered first. "Wasn't that what you meant to say?" she asked sweetly.

By way of an answer, he kissed her again.

Later that day, as they were leaving the garden, Mary remembered something and asked suddenly, "Dickon, what did th' robins say? When tha' wouldna tell?"

Dickon blushed again. "Th' robin said, 'Why's Dickon actin' so peculiar?'"

Mary started to grin. "An' what did his mate tell 'im?"

"She said—" He paused.

"Yes?" Mary prompted.

"She said, 'He mun be fallin' for the lass.'" He said it quickly, all in one breath, but Mary understood anyway.

She laughed. "So that's why tha' wouldna tell me."

"I should have," Dickon answered.

"Aye, that tha' should," Mary replied, and kissed him one more time before she ran back toward the manor.

A graidely day indeed.