It tires me too much." "Does your father come and see you ?" Mary ventured.
"Sometimes.

Generally when I am asleep.

He doesn't want to see me." "Why ?" Mary could not help asking again.
A sort of angry shadow passed over the boy's face.
"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.