"If the garden was a secret and we could get into it we could watch the things grow bigger every day, and see how many roses are alive.

Don't you see?
Oh, don't you see how much nicer it would be if it was a secret ?" He dropped back on his pillow and lay there with an odd expression on his face.
"I never had a secret," he said, "except that one about not living to grow up.

They don't know I know that, so it is a sort of secret.

But I like this kind better." "If you won't make them take you to the garden," pleaded Mary, "perhaps--I feel almost sure I can find out how to get in sometime.

And then--if the doctor wants you to go out in your chair, and if you can always do what you want to do, perhaps--perhaps we might find some boy who would push you, and we could go alone and it would always be a secret garden." "I should--like--that," he said very slowly, his eyes looking dreamy.