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    The Secret Garden
    The Secret Garden
    The Secret Garden
    Ebook295 pages4 hours

    The Secret Garden

    By Frances Hodgson Burnett and Charles Robinson

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Spoiled and rude, Mary Lennox has been raised by servants as her parents had no time for her. When her parents die in a cholera epidemic, Mary suddenly becomes an orphan. She moves to her uncle's mysterious house in England. The huge mansion and its friendly staff offer Mary a new kind of environment in which to grow. As she explores, she discovers a key to a secret garden and builds friendships with a local boy and her invalid cousin. A story of overcoming selfish desires, this unabridged version of Frances Hodgson Burnett's classic English novel is taken from the 1911 copyright edition, with original illustrations by Charles Robinson.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLerner Publishing
    Release dateJan 1, 2014
    ISBN9781467749848
    Author

    Frances Hodgson Burnett

    Frances Hodgson Burnett (1849–1924) grew up in England, but she began writing what was to become The Secret Garden in 1909, when she was creating a garden for a new home in Long Island, New York. Frances was a born storyteller. Even as a young child, her greatest pleasure was making up stories and acting them out, using her dolls as characters. She wrote over forty books in her lifetime.

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    Reviews for The Secret Garden

    4.5/5

    131 ratings198 reviews

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    • 3/5
      A really good read, and a classic, but not really my thing.
    • 5/5
      One of my favorite childhood books, about a young girl named Mary who is sent to live with her recluse Uncle in England after her parents die in India. She befriends her spoiled cousin and a local common boy, and together they discover an abandoned garden.
    • 5/5
      This charming children’s classic, written by Frances Hodgson Burnett, is worth reading as an adult, even if you read it first as a child. The story vividly and accurately portrays the emotional journey that many third-culture-kids experience, as they confront the reverse-culture-shock of repatriation.Mary Lennox is a nine-year-old, British military brat, born and raised in British Colonial India. The story begins in the midst of a cholera epidemic, which kills both of her parents. When a pair of British officers discover Mary all alone in her parents’ empty bungalow, she is quickly sent “home” to England, to live with an uncle she has never met. Although the “spoilt and sour” demeanor Mary exhibits at the start of the book is certainly in part the result of attachment issues caused by neglectful parents, it is also very clear that many of the things that trouble her about her new home are simply the result of culture shock. And, as is typical for TCKs “returning home” to their passport countries, her ignorance of local customs is perceived as willful insolence, and any mention she makes of “how things were done” in India, is perceived as boastful arrogance.It is only when she begins applying her TCK skills of “foreign” language acquisition (learning to speak the Yorkshire dialect spoken by the local people), studying the details of her new environment (learning to understand an appreciate the strange natural beauty and wildlife of the moor), and working on collaborative projects with local residents (reviving a neglected, secret garden), that she overcomes her grief, and begins to thrive in her passport culture.And the secret to her success? The “magic” of choosing to change her attitude toward the foreign land she now calls home.
    • 4/5
      A very sweet, and well written book. A perfect read for February/March/April, and fits the transition from winter to summer. I just disliked Colin so much, that it weighed down my opinion of the book. In the middle of the book you find colin and, after that the focus on Mary disappears almost completely. I was very displeased with that, because she was in sort the main character. That said it is a book that makes you very happy, and makes you think about being outside more.
    • 5/5
      “The Secret Garden” passed me by during childhood. Don’t know why, as I read a lot during my primary school years.Having read and enjoyed it as an adult, however, I’m certain I would’ve loved it as a child. It has that charming quality that you find in Louis May Alcott's children's books.The descriptive parts are vivid. I’m no gardening fanatic, but loved every minute of following little Mary around the huge gardens, especial the secret one. I like how the robin is used as a character, and how he helps to change Mary from a selfish brat into a precious child.My only disappointment – a slight one at that – is the two closing chapters. Without giving anything away, the narrative switches gears in that it changes focus from Mary to Colin and his father. Yes, this is important, and it should be worked through to a satisfactory closure, but Mary is sidelined, pushed right of the limelight, when this – in my mind at least – is her story. In other words, I felt disappointed that the main character doesn’t get the last word in or have the same level of closure as the supporting cast.Despite the above criticism, it’s not so disappointing that it detracts from the story overall. Therefore, I feel this charming little tale deserves five stars.
    • 5/5
      An "children's book" adults should read or reread

      When I was young, I skipped from Golden Books and comic books to adult reading and missed many of the classics for children. Reading The Secret Garden now as an older adult opens the gate to remembering the Magic when I was young enough to know that everything and everyone was constantly new and fresh and rich with living.
    • 5/5
      I cherished this book as a child, and I still adore it as an adult. Not all books hold up well into adulthood, I am thrilled that this one did.

      I just finished reading this together with my daughter, who loves The Secret Garden as much as I do. We read a beautifully illustrated (unabridged) edition, by the talented illustrator Inga Moore.
    • 4/5
      Not an exciting adventure, but a sweet story. I enjoyed the story probably as much as I did when I read it as a child. An ignored, lonely, spoiled child unites with another ignored, lonely, spoiled child and they have childish "adventures" together. I enjoyed seeing the children grow together.
    • 4/5
      What a sweet story this was. I can't wait to have the opportunity to sit with both my granddaughters and read this out loud with them.
    • 4/5
      After Mary Lennox's parent die, she is sent from India to Yorkshire, where, ignored by the adults, she finds a secret garden and a few other of the manor's secrets as well. I never read this as a child for some reason, but I enjoyed it a lot more than I had expected, to be honest. I think I had expected a more simplistic story, but it's quite complex (for a children's story) and the characters are well-developed as well (even if one of them tends slightly toward caricature). Very feel-good read.
    • 5/5
      Very very close to the movie version that I fell in love with as a child. For a classic it is very easy to read and easy to follow. The story is full of magic and a child's wonder. Very entertaining and captivating. Highly recommend.
    • 4/5
      This was the first book I read in school and I loved it then. I love it now. I would definitely recommend it.
    • 4/5
      lovely story about the power of nature and nurture to restore and teach young and old
    • 4/5
      I love this book! I think the author would have had a slightly stronger message if she hadn't gone into exposition on the power of focusing on the positive; the narrative carried that message very strongly all by itself. I cried at the end. I will be re-reading this one; it's like therapy in book form.
    • 5/5
      An old story that is well deserving of classic status. Timeless story of friendship, change, hope, motivation, and working together. Ends as expected, but makes you feel good all the way.
    • 3/5
      The story overall was a good one and I really enjoyed Mary as a character however I did feel as though there were something missing. There was no real climax in the story which made it a bit boring and slow at times. Also feel like some key characters were underdeveloped when they should have been further explored.
    • 5/5
      great book
    • 4/5
      I've been on a roll this holiday season re-reading old children's classics, and I returned to this book with some trepidation fearing that it would be so saccharine sweet that I would need a countervailing insulin shot. Luckily I was wrong.The story does not romanticize it's two main characters. Mary Lenox is an unloved spoiled brat living in India. when her parents die in a cholera epidemic. She is shipped off to live with her austere uncle in England. There she remains just as disagreeable as she was in India However, she is befriended by a young servant, Martha, who tells her about a secret garden on the estate. She finds the garden and with the help of Martha's brother Dickon , they start putting the garden together again.One nigh Mary hears crying from down the hall & finds a secret bedroom (naturally) where a young boy she discovers is her cousin Collin is living. He is thought to be doomed to be a hunchback (why? we don't find that out except that these kinds of illnesses are a staple of Victorian fiction) He is also spoiled and fractious and largely ignored by his father who is in perpetual mourning for his mother.The two become friends and Mary and Dicken take Collin out into the garden where he, of course learns that he isn't a cripple at all. The story shows how the power of both love and friendship can transform lives. A good moral lesson for today.
    • 3/5
      I'd probably give this a 3.5 star rating if that was an option. I enjoyed the book. I did. But it didn't really resonate with me the way it might have had I read it when I was younger.
    • 4/5
      Wish I hadn't waited most of my life to read this delightful book. I would invite each and every character to tea. How can a book be bad when it is based on the recuperative value of magic.
    • 5/5
      Two very spoiled and ill-mannered children are brought out of isolation by the healing power of a garden. A timeless and well told tale.
    • 5/5
      This is a nice children's story of friendship and the power of friendship with others and with nature to heal the soul. Two cousins, both really orphans by emotional and physical absence of parents find each other and find new reasons to live and love. I missed this story when I was growing up so glad to finally have read it.
    • 5/5
      My favorite kids book.
    • 4/5
      As Mary, Dickon, and Colin would say: This book is Magic!
      A very sweet story with cute and unique characters. I only wish I had read it as a child.
    • 5/5
      Mary Lenox never saw too much of her parents - they were always too busy. But when they both die she has to move from her home in India to England where her "strange and sour" uncle lives. Will she ever have friends and truly be happy? I was 10 years old when my mother gave me this book for my birthday. We spent more than a week reading it aloud to one another. My Mom is 90 years old now and we still share those precious memories created with a lovely book and an inciting story. Five stars for those memories alone!
    • 4/5
      I thoroughly enjoyed reading this novel, however I had a few problems with it. To begin, there was no set narrator. You didn't really get inside any character's head, and none of the character's were really "round." Even Mary, the protagonist, seemed distant to me. One of the things I cherish about books is the connection I have with the characters, and this was certainly a novel lacking in that aspect. Another issue was that the novel was so thoroughly a product of its time period that I found myself overwhelmed, especially by some of the morals. It seems to be a light children's book but the author is pushing Victorian ideals on the reader, on a deeper level. For example, Mary is a disagreeable, stubborn child until she finds the garden and then she does a total 180 and ends up likable. All she needed was something to care about and some love from children her own age. How sweet. Additionally, the Magic deals with power of Christianity and it got a little overwhelmingly religious at times.
      However, overall, this book was certainly beautiful, especially the language when describing the garden. I can see why it remains a childhood classic.
    • 5/5
      A childhood classic!
    • 4/5
      I come to this book uninfluenced by film adaptations of the story, so my comments here apply only to the actual novel.

      Basically a middle-grades book espousing the idea of positive thinking to cure one's ailments. It was a five star book up till the halfway mark and the carefully constructed character of Mary was unceremoniously pushed to the side by the Cravens, and if this were a book for adults I would be pretty harsh about marking it down. Yet, I feel that somewhat different standards ought to be applied to it given its era. That's why it also gets a pass when it comes to the English class system, colonialism, and a mysterious Gothic mansion that ends up being no kind of mystery at all.

      As for the plot, I never did quite figure out whether the mother really died in childbirth, as the boy seemed to believe, or whether the accident with a rose tree was actually the case. And the slight hint of intrigue on the part of Dr. Craven's scheme to inherit the mansion was never really paid off.

      I listened to the Librivox audiobook version, which had its special charm. This listener's delight in hearing the Yorkshire dialect started to wear thin around the time the story lost its way, but the readers put on a pretty good show nonetheless.
    • 5/5
      When i was reading this, I found it very good, but it caught me quite unawares, when there was slow build up, towards the end, which left me with a lump in my throat. Very powerful. Brilliant story.
    • 3/5
      Mary's wealthy, indulgent, but completely unloving parents are killed in an epidemic in India, and she is shipped off to an uncle, who will provide for her every need except love and attention. The spoiled girl soon comes under the spell of Yorkshire, the young maid who attends to her, and it softens her obnoxious, self indulgent ways. When she meets the maid's brother, Dickon, he softens her further. Then she learns that her absent guardian has a son of his own, about her age, who believes he is dying - though he is not. She and Dickon manage to convince Colin that he is fine, and he grows healthy. Oh yes - and there's a secret garden involved in all of this.This nice tale has two distinct weaknesses. One is that the plot only develops for about two thirds of the book. The final third just plods along to the 100% predictable conclusion with no further development or plot twists. The second and more serious weakness is that the protagonist totally changes halfway through the book. As we start reading - this is a book about Mary Lennox. She is absolutely who this book is about. We root for her as she softens to become a likable child. Then, suddenly Colin shows up - as hateful as Mary was at the beginning, and he becomes the main character. Mary fades further and further into the background until she is merely an incidental character in Colin's story. OK, but definitely not up to par with other children's classics of the same era.

    Book preview

    The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett

    delightfulness"

    I. There Is No One Left

    When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen. It was true, too. She had a little thin face and a little thin body, thin light hair and a sour expression. Her hair was yellow, and her face was yellow because she had been born in India and had always been ill in one way or another. Her father had held a position under the English Government and had always been busy and ill himself, and her mother had been a great beauty who cared only to go to parties and amuse herself with gay people. She had not wanted a little girl at all, and when Mary was born she handed her over to the care of an Ayah, who was made to understand that if she wished to please the Mem Sahib she must keep the child out of sight as much as possible. So when she was a sickly, fretful, ugly little baby she was kept out of the way, and when she became a sickly, fretful, toddling thing she was kept out of the way also. She never remembered seeing familiarly anything but the dark faces of her Ayah and the other native servants, and as they always obeyed her and gave her her own way in everything, because the Mem Sahib would be angry if she was disturbed by her crying, by the time she was six years old she was as tyrannical and selfish a little pig as ever lived. The young English governess who came to teach her to read and write disliked her so much that she gave up her place in three months, and when other governesses came to try to fill it they always went away in a shorter time than the first one. So if Mary had not chosen to really want to know how to read books she would never have learned her letters at all.

    One frightfully hot morning, when she was about nine years old, she awakened feeling very cross, and she became crosser still when she saw that the servant who stood by her bedside was not her Ayah.

    Why did you come? she said to the strange woman. I will not let you stay. Send my Ayah to me.

    The woman looked frightened, but she only stammered that the Ayah could not come and when Mary threw herself into a passion and beat and kicked her, she looked only more frightened and repeated that it was not possible for the Ayah to come to Missie Sahib.

    There was something mysterious in the air that morning. Nothing was done in its regular order and several of the native servants seemed missing, while those whom Mary saw slunk or hurried about with ashy and scared faces. But no one would tell her anything and her Ayah did not come. She was actually left alone as the morning went on, and at last she wandered out into the garden and began to play by herself under a tree near the veranda. She pretended that she was making a flowerbed, and she stuck big scarlet hibiscus blossoms into little heaps of earth, all the time growing more and more angry and muttering to herself the things she would say and the names she would call Saidie when she returned.

    Pig! Pig! Daughter of Pigs! she said, because to call a native a pig is the worst insult of all.

    She was grinding her teeth and saying this over and over again when she heard her mother come out on the veranda with some one. She was with a fair young man and they stood talking together in low strange voices. Mary knew the fair young man who looked like a boy. She had heard that he was a very young officer who had just come from England. The child stared at him, but she stared most at her mother. She always did this when she had a chance to see her, because the Mem Sahib—Mary used to call her that oftener than anything else—was such a tall, slim, pretty person and wore such lovely clothes. Her hair was like curly silk and she had a delicate little nose which seemed to be disdaining things, and she had large laughing eyes. All her clothes were thin and floating, and Mary said they were full of lace. They looked fuller of lace than ever this morning, but her eyes were not laughing at all. They were large and scared and lifted imploringly to the fair boy officer’s face.

    Is it so very bad? Oh, is it? Mary heard her say.

    Awfully, the young man answered in a trembling voice. Awfully, Mrs. Lennox. You ought to have gone to the hills two weeks ago.

    The Mem Sahib wrung her hands.

    Oh, I know I ought! she cried. I only stayed to go to that silly dinner party. What a fool I was!

    At that very moment such a loud sound of wailing broke out from the servants’ quarters that she clutched the young man’s arm, and Mary stood shivering from head to foot. The wailing grew wilder and wilder. What is it? What is it? Mrs. Lennox gasped.

    Some one has died, answered the boy officer. You did not say it had broken out among your servants.

    I did not know! the Mem Sahib cried. Come with me! Come with me! and she turned and ran into the house.

    After that appalling things happened, and the mysteriousness of the morning was explained to Mary. The cholera had broken out in its most fatal form and people were dying like flies. The Ayah had been taken ill in the night, and it was because she had just died that the servants had wailed in the huts. Before the next day three other servants were dead and others had run away in terror. There was panic on every side, and dying people in all the bungalows.

    During the confusion and bewilderment of the second day Mary hid herself in the nursery and was forgotten by every one. Nobody thought of her, nobody wanted her, and strange things happened of which she knew nothing. Mary alternately cried and slept through the hours. She only knew that people were ill and that she heard mysterious and frightening sounds. Once she crept into the dining-room and found it empty, though a partly finished meal was on the table and chairs and plates looked as if they had been hastily pushed back when the diners rose suddenly for some reason. The child ate some fruit and biscuits, and being thirsty she drank a glass of wine which stood nearly filled. It was sweet, and she did not know how strong it was. Very soon it made her intensely drowsy, and she went back to her nursery and shut herself in again, frightened by cries she heard in the huts and by the hurrying sound of feet. The wine made her so sleepy that she could scarcely keep her eyes open and she lay down on her bed and knew nothing more for a long time.

    Many things happened during the hours in which she slept so heavily, but she was not disturbed by the wails and the sound of things being carried in and out of the bungalow.

    When she awakened she lay and stared at the wall. The house was perfectly still. She had never known it to be so silent before. She heard neither voices nor footsteps, and wondered if everybody had got well of the cholera and all the trouble was over. She wondered also who would take care of her now her Ayah was dead. There would be a new Ayah, and perhaps she would know some new stories. Mary had been rather tired of the old ones. She did not cry because her nurse had died. She was not an affectionate child and had never cared much for any one. The noise and hurrying about and wailing over the cholera had frightened her, and she had been angry because no one seemed to remember that she was alive. Every one was too panic-stricken to think of a little girl no one was fond of. When people had the cholera it seemed that they remembered nothing but themselves. But if every one had got well again, surely some one would remember and come to look for her.

    But no one came, and as she lay waiting the house seemed to grow more and more silent. She heard something rustling on the matting and when she looked down she saw a little snake gliding along and watching her with eyes like jewels. She was not frightened, because he was a harmless little thing who would not hurt her and he seemed in a hurry to get out of the room. He slipped under the door as she watched him.

    How queer and quiet it is, she said. It sounds as if there was no one in the bungalow but me and the snake.

    Almost the next minute she heard footsteps in the compound, and then on the veranda. They were men’s footsteps, and the men entered the bungalow and talked in low voices. No one went to meet or speak to them and they seemed to open doors and look into rooms.

    What desolation! she heard one voice say. That pretty, pretty woman! I suppose the child, too. I heard there was a child, though no one ever saw her.

    Mary was standing in the middle of the nursery when they opened the door a few minutes later. She looked an ugly, cross little thing and was frowning because she was beginning to be hungry and feel disgracefully neglected. The first man who came in was a large officer she had once seen talking to her father. He looked tired and troubled, but when he saw her he was so startled that he almost jumped back.

    Barney! he cried out. There is a child here! A child alone! In a place like this! Mercy on us, who is she!

    I am Mary Lennox, the little girl said, drawing herself up stiffly. She thought the man was very rude to call her father’s bungalow A place like this! I fell asleep when every one had the cholera and I have only just wakened up. Why does nobody come?

    It is the child no one ever saw! exclaimed the man, turning to his companions. She has actually been forgotten!

    Why was I forgotten? Mary said, stamping her foot. Why does nobody come?

    The young man whose name was Barney looked at her very sadly. Mary even thought she saw him wink his eyes as if to wink tears away.

    Poor little kid! he said. There is nobody left to come.

    It was in that strange and sudden way that Mary found out that she had neither father nor mother left; that they had died and been carried away in the night, and that the few native servants who had not died also had left the house as quickly as they could get out of it, none of them even remembering that there was a Missie Sahib. That was why the place was so quiet. It was true that there was no one in the bungalow but herself and the little rustling snake.

    II. Mistress Mary Quite Contrary

    Mary had liked to look at her mother from a distance and she had thought her very pretty, but as she knew very little of her she could scarcely have been expected to love her or to miss her very much when she was gone. She did not miss her at all, in fact, and as she was a self-absorbed child she gave her entire thought to herself, as she had always done. If she had been older she would no doubt have been very anxious at being left alone in the world, but she was very young, and as she had always been taken care of, she supposed she always would be. What she thought was that she would like to know if she was going to nice people, who would be polite to her and give her her own way as her Ayah and the other native servants had done.

    She knew that she was not going to stay at the English clergyman’s house where she was taken at first. She did not want to stay. The English clergyman was poor and he had five children nearly all the same age and they wore shabby clothes and were always quarreling and snatching toys from each other. Mary hated their untidy bungalow and was so disagreeable to them that after the first day or two nobody would play with her. By the second day they had given her a nickname which made her furious.

    It was Basil who thought of it first. Basil was a little boy with impudent blue eyes and a turned-up nose and Mary hated him. She was playing by herself under a tree, just as she had been playing the day the cholera broke out. She was making heaps of earth and paths for a garden and Basil came and stood near to watch her. Presently he got rather interested and suddenly made a suggestion.

    Why don’t you put a heap of stones there and pretend it is a rockery? he said. There in the middle, and he leaned over her to point.

    Go away! cried Mary. I don’t want boys. Go away!

    For a moment Basil looked angry, and then he began to tease. He was always teasing his sisters. He danced round and round her and made faces and sang and laughed.

    "Mistress Mary, quite contrary,

    How does your garden grow?

    With silver bells, and cockle shells,

    And marigolds all in a row."

    He sang it until the other children heard and laughed, too; and the crosser Mary got, the more they sang Mistress Mary, quite contrary; and after that as long as she stayed with them they called her Mistress Mary Quite Contrary when they spoke of her to each other, and often when they spoke to her.

    You are going to be sent home, Basil said to her, at the end of the week. And we’re glad of it.

    I am glad of it, too, answered Mary. Where is home?

    She doesn’t know where home is! said Basil, with seven-year-old scorn. It’s England, of course. Our grandmama lives there and our sister Mabel was sent to her last year. You are not going to your grandmama. You have none. You are going to your uncle. His name is Mr. Archibald Craven.

    I don’t know anything about him, snapped Mary.

    I know you don’t, Basil answered. You don’t know anything. Girls never do. I heard father and mother talking about him. He lives in a great, big, desolate old house in the country and no one goes near him. He’s so cross he won’t let them, and they wouldn’t come if he would let them. He’s a hunchback, and he’s horrid.

    I don’t believe you, said Mary; and she turned her back and stuck her fingers in her ears, because she would not listen any more.

    But she thought over it a great deal afterward; and when Mrs. Crawford told her that night that she was going to sail away to England in a few days and go to her uncle, Mr. Archibald Craven, who lived at Misselthwaite Manor, she looked so stony and stubbornly uninterested that they did not know what to think about her. They tried to be kind to her, but she only turned her face away when Mrs. Crawford attempted to kiss her, and held herself stiffly when Mr. Crawford patted her shoulder.

    She is such a plain child, Mrs. Crawford said pityingly, afterward. And her mother was such a pretty creature. She had a very pretty manner, too, and Mary has the most unattractive ways I ever saw in a child. The children call her ‘Mistress Mary Quite Contrary,’ and though it’s naughty of them, one can’t help understanding it.

    Perhaps if her mother had carried her pretty face and her pretty manners oftener into the nursery Mary might have learned some pretty ways too. It is very sad, now the poor beautiful thing is gone, to remember that many people never even knew that she had a child at all.

    I believe she scarcely ever looked at her, sighed Mrs. Crawford. When her Ayah was dead there was no one to give a thought to the little thing. Think of the servants running away and leaving her all alone in that deserted bungalow. Colonel McGrew said he nearly jumped out of his skin when he opened the door and found her standing by herself in the middle of the room.

    Mary made the long voyage to England under the care of an officer’s wife, who was taking her children to leave them in a boarding-school. She was very much absorbed in her own little boy and girl, and was rather glad to hand the child over to the woman Mr. Archibald Craven sent to meet her, in London. The woman was his housekeeper at Misselthwaite Manor, and her name was Mrs. Medlock. She was a stout woman, with very red cheeks and sharp black eyes. She wore a very purple dress, a black silk mantle with jet fringe on it and a black bonnet with purple velvet flowers which stuck up and trembled when she moved her head. Mary did not like her at all, but as she very seldom liked people there was nothing remarkable in that; besides which it was very evident Mrs. Medlock did not think much of her.

    My word! she’s a plain little piece of goods! she said. And we’d heard that her mother was a beauty. She hasn’t handed much of it down, has she, ma’am?

    Perhaps she will improve as she grows older, the officer’s wife said good-naturedly. If she were not so sallow and had a nicer expression, her features are rather good. Children alter so much.

    She’ll have to alter a good deal, answered Mrs. Medlock. And there’s nothing likely to improve children at Misselthwaite—if you ask me!

    They thought Mary was not listening because she was standing a little apart from them at the window of the private hotel they had gone to. She was watching the passing buses and cabs, and people, but she heard quite well and was made very curious about her uncle and the place he lived in. What sort of a place was it, and what would he be like? What was a hunchback? She had never seen one. Perhaps there were none in India.

    Since she had been living in other people’s houses and had had no Ayah, she had begun to feel lonely and to think queer thoughts which were new to her. She had begun to wonder why she had never seemed to belong to any one even when her father and mother had been alive. Other children seemed to belong to their fathers and mothers, but she had never seemed to really be any one’s little girl. She had had servants, and food and clothes, but no one had taken any notice of her. She did not know that this was because she was a disagreeable child; but then, of course, she did not know she was disagreeable. She often thought that other people were, but she did not know that she was so herself.

    She thought Mrs. Medlock the most disagreeable person she had ever seen, with her common, highly colored face and her common fine bonnet. When the next day they set out on their journey to Yorkshire, she walked through the station to the railway carriage with her head up and trying to keep as far away from her as she could, because she did not want to seem to belong to her. It would have made her very angry to think people imagined she was her little girl.

    But Mrs. Medlock was not in the least disturbed by her and her thoughts. She was the kind of woman who would stand no nonsense from young ones. At least, that is what she would have said if she had been asked. She had not wanted to go to London just when her sister Maria’s daughter was going to be married, but she had a comfortable, well paid place as housekeeper at Misselthwaite Manor and the only way in which she could keep it was to do at once what Mr. Archibald Craven told her to do. She never dared even to ask a question.

    Captain Lennox and his wife died of the cholera, Mr. Craven had said in his short, cold way. Captain Lennox was my wife’s brother and I am their daughter’s guardian. The child is to be brought here. You must go to London and bring her yourself.

    So she packed her small trunk and made the journey.

    Mary sat in her corner of the railway carriage and looked plain and fretful. She had nothing to read or to look at, and she had folded her thin little black-gloved hands in her lap. Her black dress made her look yellower than ever, and her limp light hair straggled from under her black crêpe hat.

    A more marred-looking young one I never saw in my life, Mrs. Medlock thought. (Marred is a Yorkshire word and means spoiled and pettish.) She had never seen a child who sat so still without doing anything; and at last she got tired of watching her and began to talk in a brisk, hard voice.

    I suppose I may as well tell you something about where you are going to, she said. Do you know anything about your uncle?

    No, said Mary.

    Never heard your father and mother talk about him?

    No, said Mary frowning. She frowned because she remembered that her father and mother had never talked to her about anything in particular. Certainly they had never told her things.

    Humph, muttered Mrs. Medlock, staring at her queer, unresponsive little face. She did not say any more for a few moments and then she began again.

    I suppose you might as well be told something—to prepare you. You are going to a queer place.

    Mary said nothing at all, and Mrs. Medlock looked rather discomfited by her apparent indifference, but, after taking a breath, she went on.

    Not but that it’s a grand big place in a gloomy way, and Mr. Craven’s proud of it in his way—and that’s gloomy enough, too. The house is six hundred years old and it’s on the edge of the moor, and there’s near a hundred rooms in it, though most of them’s shut up and locked. And there’s pictures and fine old furniture and things that’s been there for ages, and there’s a big park round it and gardens and trees with branches trailing to the ground—some of them. She paused and took another breath. But there’s nothing else, she ended suddenly.

    Mary had begun to listen in spite of herself. It all sounded so unlike India, and anything new rather attracted her. But she did not intend to look as if she were interested. That was one of her unhappy, disagreeable ways. So she sat still.

    Well, said Mrs. Medlock. What do you think of it?

    Nothing, she answered. I know nothing about such places.

    That made Mrs. Medlock laugh a short sort of laugh.

    Eh! she said, but you are like an old woman. Don’t you care?

    It doesn’t matter, said Mary, whether I care or not.

    You are right enough there, said Mrs. Medlock. "It doesn’t. What you’re to be kept at Misselthwaite Manor for I don’t know, unless because it’s the easiest way. He’s not going to trouble himself about you, that’s sure and certain. He never troubles himself about no one."

    She stopped herself as if she had just remembered something in time.

    He’s got a crooked back, she said. "That set him wrong. He was a sour young man and got no

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