As he sat gazing into the clear running of the water, Archibald Craven gradually felt his mind and body both grow quiet, as quiet as the valley itself.  He wondered if he were going to sleep, but he was not.  He sat and gazed at the sunlit water and his eyes began to see things growing at its edge.  There was one lovely mass of blue forget-me-nots growing so close to the stream that its leaves were wet and at these he found himself looking as he remembered he had looked at such things years ago.  He was actually thinking tenderly how lovely it was and what wonders of blue its hundreds of little blossoms were.  He did not know that just that simple thought was slowly filling his mind—­filling and filling it until other things were softly pushed aside.  It was as if a sweet clear spring had begun to rise in a stagnant pool and had risen and risen until at last it swept the dark water away.  But of course he did not think of this himself.  He only knew that the valley seemed to grow quieter and quieter as he sat and stared at the bright delicate blueness.  He did not know how long he sat there or what was happening to him, but at last he moved as if he were awakening and he got up slowly and stood on the moss carpet, drawing a long, deep, soft breath and wondering at himself.  Something seemed to have been unbound and released in him, very quietly.

“What is it?” he said, almost in a whisper, and he passed his hand over his forehead.  “I almost feel as if—­I were alive!”

I do not know enough about the wonderfulness of undiscovered things to be able to explain how this had happened to him.  Neither does any one else yet.  He did not understand at all himself—­but he remembered this strange hour months afterward when he was at Misselthwaite again and he found out quite by accident that on this very day Colin had cried out as he went into the secret garden: 

“I am going to live forever and ever and ever!”

The singular calmness remained with him the rest of the evening and he slept a new reposeful sleep; but it was not with him very long.  He did not know that it could be kept.  By the next night he had opened the doors wide to his dark thoughts and they had come trooping and rushing back.  He left the valley and went on his wandering way again.  But, strange as it seemed to him, there were minutes—­sometimes half-hours—­when, without his knowing why, the black burden seemed to lift itself again and he knew he was a living man and not a dead one.  Slowly—­slowly—­for no reason that he knew of—­he was “coming alive” with the garden.

As the golden summer changed into the deeper golden autumn he went to the Lake of Como.  There he found the loveliness of a dream.  He spent his days upon the crystal blueness of the lake or he walked back into the soft thick verdure of the hills and tramped until he was tired so that he might sleep.  But by this time he had begun to sleep better, he knew, and his dreams had ceased to be a terror to him.