Music Welcome to Snuescast, the podcast designed to help you fall asleep. Find us on snuescast.com and if you enjoy our show, please share us with a friend. This episode is brought to you by Mystery and Magic. Tonight, we'll read the final part to the secret garden, a novel by Francis Hodgson Burnett. In the last episode, we delve into the concept of how thoughts, good or bad, have power to change one's experience of life. While Colin and Mary were filling their heads with happy magic and their lungs with moreland breezes, Master Craven was hiking across Europe and starting to find a change of heart as well. In a peaceful and quiet moment, he remembers home and opens his mind to the possibility of good things again. He dreams his deceased wife calls to him to come home to the garden. And the next day, he heads home. Let's get cozy. Close your eyes. Relax your body into the softness of your bed. Now, take a few deep breaths. In a few days Archibald Craven was in Yorkshire again, and on his long railroad journey he found himself thinking of his boy as he had never thought in all the past ten years. During those years he had only wished to forget him. Now, though he did not intend to think about him, memories of him constantly drifted into his mind. He remembered the black days when he had raved like a madman because the child was alive and the mother was dead. He had refused to see it, and when he had gone to look at it at last, it had been such a weak, wretched thing that everyone had been sure it would die in a few days. But to the surprise of those who took care of it, the days passed and it lived. And then everyone believed it would be a deformed and crippled creature.

He had not meant to be a bad father, but he had not felt like a father at all. He had supplied doctors and nurses and luxuries, but he had shrunk from the mere thought of the boy and had buried himself in his own misery. The first time after a year's absence, he returned to Missothwait, and the small, miserable looking thing, languidly and indifferently lifted to his face the great-gray eyes with black lashes around them, so like, and yet so horribly unlike, the happy eyes he had adored, he could not bear the sight of them, and turned away, pale as death. After that, he scarcely ever saw him, except when he was asleep, and all he knew of him was that he was a confirmed invalid, with a vicious, hysterical, half insane temper. He could only be kept from fury's dangerous to himself by being given his own way in every detail. All this was not an uplifting thing to recall, but as the train world him through mountain passes and golden plains, the man who was coming alive began to think in a new way, and he thought long and steadily and deeply. Perhaps I've been all wrong for 10 years.

He said to himself, ten years is a long time. It may be too late to do anything, quite too late. What have I been thinking of? Of course, this was the wrong magic, to begin by saying too late. Even Colin could have told him that. But he knew nothing of magic, either black or white. This he had yet to learn. He wondered if Susan Sourby had taken courage and ridden to him only because the motherly creature had realized that the boy was much worse, was fatally ill. If he had not been under the spell of the curious calmness which had taken possession of him, he would have been more wretched than ever, but the comb had brought a sort of courage and hope with it. Instead of giving way to thoughts of the worst, he actually found he was trying to believe in better things. Could it be possible that she sees that I may be able to do him good and control him? He thought, I will go and see her on my way to Missothwait. But when on his way across the more he stopped the carriage at the cottage, seven or eight children who were playing about gathered

in a group and bobbing seven or eight friendly and polite curtsies told him that their mother had gone to the other side of the mor early in the morning to help a woman who had a new baby. Our Dickon, they volunteered, was over at the manner working in one of the gardens where

he went several days each week. Mr. Craven looked over the collection of sturdy little bodies and round red-cheeked faces, each one grinning in its own particular way, and he awoke to the fact that they were a healthy, likeable lot. He smiled at their friendly grins and took a golden sovereign from his pocket and gave it to our Elizabeth Ellen, who was the oldest. If you divide that into eight parts, there will be a half a crown for each of you," he said. Then, amid grins and chuckles, and bobbing of curtsies, he drove away, leaving ecstasy and nudging elbows and little jumps of joy behind. The drive across the wonderfulness of the more was a soothing thing. Why did it seem to give him a sense of homecoming which he had been sure he could never feel again? sense of the beauty of land and sky and purple bloom of distance and a warming of the heart at drawing, nearer to the great old house, which had held those of his blood for 600 years. How he had driven away from it the last time, shuddering to think of its closed rooms and the boy, lying in the foreposted bed with the brocated hangings. Was it possible that perhaps he might find him changed a little for the better, and that he might overcome his shrinking from him. How real that dream had been? How wonderful and clear the voice which called back to him in the garden, in the garden. I will try to find the key, he said. I will try to open the door. I must, though I don't know why." When he arrived at the manor, the servants who received him with the usual ceremony noticed that he looked better, and that he did not go to the remote rooms where

he usually lived, attended by pitcher. He went into the library and sent for Mrs. Medlock. She came to him somewhat excited and curious and flustered. How is Master Colin Metlock?

He inquired.

Well, sir, Mrs. Metlock answered. He's different in a manner of speaking. Worst? He suggested. Mrs. Metlock really was flushed. Well, you see, sir.

She tried to explain. Neither Dr. Craven nor the nurse nor me can exactly make him out. Why is that? To tell the truth, sir, Master Colin might be better and he might be changing for the worse. These appetite, sir, is past understanding, and his ways has he become more peculiar. Her master asked, knitting his brows anxiously. That's it, sir. He's grown very peculiar. When you compare him with what he used to

be, he used to eat nothing, and then suddenly he began to eat something enormous. And then he stopped again all at once, and the meals were sent back, just as they used to be. You never knew, sir, perhaps, that out of doors he never would let himself be taken. The things we've gone through to get him to go out in his chair would leave a body trembling like a leaf. He'd throw himself into such a state that Dr. Craven said he couldn't be responsible for forcing him. Well, sir, just without warning. long after one of of his worst tantrums he suddenly insisted on being taken out every day by Miss Mary and Susan Sourbees boy Dickin that could push his chair. He took a fancy to both Miss Mary and Dickin, and Dickin brought his tame animals, and if you'll credit it, sir, out of doors he will stay from morning until night. How does he look? Was the next question? If he took his food natural, sir, you'd think he was putting on flesh, but we're afraid it may be a sort of bloat. He laughs sometimes in a queer way when he's alone with Miss Mary.

He never used to laugh at all. Dr. Craven is coming to see you at once if you'll allow him. He never was as puzzled in all his life. Where is Master Colin now? Mr. Craven asked.

In the garden, sir, he is always in the garden, though not a human creature is allowed to go near for fear they'll look at him. Mr. Craven scarcely heard her last words. In the garden, he said.

And after he had sent Mrs. Medlock away, he stood and repeated it again and again. In the garden. He had to make an effort to bring himself back to the place he was standing in, and when he felt he was on Earth again,

he turned and went out of the room. He took his way, as Mary had done, through the door in the shrubbery and among the laurels and the fountain beds. The fountain was playing now and was encircled by beds of brilliant autumn flowers. He crossed the lawn and turned into the long walk by the ivy walls. He did not walk quickly, but slowly and his eyes were on the path.

He felt as if he were being drawn back to the place he had so long forsaken, and he did not know why. As he drew near to it, his step became still more slow.

He knew where the door was, even though the ivy hung thick over it, but he did not know exactly where it lay. That buried key. So he stopped and stood still, looking about him.

And So, he stopped and stood still, looking about him, and almost the moment after he had paused, he started and listened, asking himself if he were walking in a dream. the ivy hung thick over the door. The key was buried under the shrubs. No human being had passed that portal for ten lonely years. And yet inside the garden there were sounds. There were the sounds of running, scuffling feet, seeming to chase round and round under the trees. They were strange sounds of lowered, suppressed voices, exclamations, and smothered, joyous cries. It seemed actually like the laughter of young things, the uncontrollable laughter of children who were trying not to be heard, but who in a moment or so, as their excitement mounted, would burst forth. What in heaven's name was he dreaming of? What in heaven's name did he hear? Was he losing his reason and thinking he heard things which were not for human ears? Was it that the far clear voice had meant? And then the moment came, the uncontrollable moment when the sounds forgot to hush themselves. The feet ran faster and faster. They were nearing the garden door. There was quick strong young breathing and a wild outbreak of laughing shouts which could not be contained. And the door in the wall was flung wide open, the sheet of ivy swinging back, and a boy burst through it at full speed, and, without seeing the outsider, dashed almost into his arms. Mr. Craven had extended them just in time to save him from falling as a result of his unseeing dash against him. And when he held him away to look at him in amazement at his being there, he truly gasped for breath. He was a tall boy and a handsome one.

He was glowing with life, and his running had sense splendid color leaping to his face. He threw the thick hair back from his forehead and lifted a pair of strange gray eyes. full of boyish laughter and rimmed with black lashes like a fringe. It was the eyes which made Mr. Craven gasp for breath. Oh, what? Who? He stammered. This was not what Colin had expected. This was not what he had planned. He had never thought of such a meeting, and yet to come dashing out, winning a race. Perhaps it was even better. He drew himself up to his very tallest. Mary, who had been running with him and had dashed through the door too, believed that he managed to make himself look taller than he had ever looked before. Inch is taller. Father, he said, I'm Colin. You can't believe it.

I scarcely can myself. Inch is taller. Father, he said, I'm Colin.

You can't believe it. I scarcely can myself. I'm Colin." Like Mrs. Medlock, he did not understand what his father meant when he said hurriedly, in the garden, in the garden. Yes, Harried on Colin. It was the garden that did it, and Mary and Dickens and the creatures, and the magic. No one knows. We kept it to tell you when you came. I'm well. I can beat Mary in a race. I'm going to be an athlete." He said it all so like a healthy boy. His face flushed. His words tumbling over each other in his eagerness that Mr. Craven's soul shook with unbelieving joy.

Colin put out his hand and lead it on his father's arm. Aren't you glad, father? He ended. Aren't you glad? I'm going to live forever and ever and ever. Mr. Craven put his hands on both the boy's shoulders and held him still. He knew he dared not even try to speak for a moment. Take me into the garden, my boy. He said at last and tell me all about it. And so they led him in. The place was a wilderness of autumn gold and purple and violet blue and flaming scarlet, and on every side were sheaves of late lilies standing together. lilies which were white or white and ruby. He remembered well when the first of them had been planted that just at this season of the year their late glories should reveal themselves.

Late roses climbed and hung and clustered, and the sunshine deepening the hue of the yellowing trees made one feel that one stood in an empowered temple of gold. the newcomer stood silent just as the children had done when they came into its greatness. He looked round and round. I thought it would be dead, he said. Mary thought so at first, said Colin, but it came alive. Then they sat down under their tree, all but Colin, who wanted to stand while he told the story. It was the strangest thing he had ever heard Archibald Craven thought, as it was poured forth in headlong boy fashion. Mystery and magic and wild creatures, the weird midnight meeting, the coming of the spring, the passion of insulted pride which had dragged the young Rajah to his feet to defy old Ben-Weather staff to his face. The odd companionship, the play-acting, the great secret so carefully kept. The listener laughed until tears came into his eyes, and sometimes tears came into his eyes when he was not laughing. The athlete, the lecturer, the scientific discoverer, was a laughable, lovable, healthy, young human thing. Now, he said, at the end of the story, it need not be a secret anymore. I dare say it will frighten them nearly into fits when they see me, but I am never going to get into that chair again. I shall walk back with you, Father,

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