This story about how two children who managed to be both spoiled and neglected healed each other with the aid of a secret garden is something of a classic. I came across it in primary school and eventually got round to finding out if what I remembered as good really was: it is - fairly good, anyway. It becomes somewhat repetative in the latter half and the plot is entirely predictable from early on. It's also a bit over the top regarding the transformative power of nature and gardens. In fact (as often seems to be the case with Victorian novels) it is probably best read at no more than a chapter a day. This, of course, was how it was read to me, in school, back when I was ten. I wonder, in books such as this and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, where the author is relying heavily on personal experience, whether nostalgia makes childhood poverty look happier than it really was, but there is no way of knowing.

I've never read FHB's other famous work, Little Lord Fauntleroy and I can't say I'm likely to seek it out, but I would not avoid it either.