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 flower-bed,
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 everyone.  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.  Everyone 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 everyone
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 were 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 everyone 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.

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
anyone 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 anyone'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 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 crepe 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 good of all his money and big place till he
was married."

Mary's eyes turned toward her in spite of her intention not to seem to
care.  She had never thought of the hunchback's being married and she
was a trifle surprised.  Mrs. Medlock saw this, and as she was a
talkative woman she continued with more interest.  This was one way of
passing some of the time, at any rate.

"She was a sweet, pretty thing and he'd have walked the world over to
get her a blade o' grass she wanted.  Nobody thought she'd marry him,
but she did, and people said she married him for his money.  But she
didn't--she didn't," positively.  "When she died--"

Mary gave a little involuntary jump.

"Oh! did she die!" she exclaimed, quite without meaning to.  She had
just remembered a French fairy story she had once read called "Riquet a
la Houppe." It had been about a poor hunchback and a beautiful princess
and it had made her suddenly sorry for Mr. Archibald Craven.

"Yes, she died," Mrs. Medlock answered.  "And it made him queerer than
ever.  He cares about nobody.  He won't see people.  Most of the time
he goes away, and when he is at Misselthwaite he shuts himself up in
the West Wing and won't let any one but Pitcher see him.  Pitcher's an
old fellow, but he took care of him when he was a child and he knows
his ways."

It sounded like something in a book and it did not make Mary feel
cheerful.  A house with a hundred rooms, nearly all shut up and with
their doors locked--a house on the edge of a moor--whatsoever a moor
was--sounded dreary.  A man with a crooked back who shut himself up
also! She stared out of the window with her lips pinched together, and
it seemed quite natural that the rain should have begun to pour down in
gray slanting lines and splash and stream down the window-panes. If the
pretty wife had been alive she might have made things cheerful by being
something like her own mother and by running in and out and going to
parties as she had done in frocks "full of lace." But she was not there
any more.

"You needn't expect to see him, because ten to one you won't," said
Mrs. Medlock.  "And you mustn't expect that there will be people to
talk to you.  You'll have to play about and look after yourself.
You'll be told what rooms you can go into and what rooms you're to keep
out of.  There's gardens enough.  But when you're in the house don't go
wandering and poking about.  Mr. Craven won't have it."

"I shall not want to go poking about," said sour little Mary and just
as suddenly as she had begun to be rather sorry for Mr. Archibald
Craven she began to cease to be sorry and to think he was unpleasant
enough to deserve all that had happened to him.

And she turned her face toward the streaming panes of the window of the
railway carriage and gazed out at the gray rain-storm which looked as
if it would go on forever and ever.  She watched it so long and
steadily that the grayness grew heavier and heavier before her eyes and
she fell asleep.

She slept a long time, and when she awakened Mrs. Medlock had bought a
lunchbasket at one of the stations and they had some chicken and cold
beef and bread and butter and some hot tea.  The rain seemed to be
streaming down more heavily than ever and everybody in the station wore
wet and glistening waterproofs.  The guard lighted the lamps in the
carriage, and Mrs. Medlock cheered up very much over her tea and
chicken and beef.  She ate a great deal and afterward fell asleep
herself, and Mary sat and stared at her and watched her fine bonnet
slip on one side until she herself fell asleep once more in the corner
of the carriage, lulled by the splashing of the rain against the
windows.  It was quite dark when she awakened again.  The train had
stopped at a station and Mrs. Medlock was shaking her.

"You have had a sleep!" she said.  "It's time to open your eyes! We're
at Thwaite Station and we've got a long drive before us."

Mary stood up and tried to keep her eyes open while Mrs. Medlock
collected her parcels.  The little girl did not offer to help her,
because in India native servants always picked up or carried things and
it seemed quite proper that other people should wait on one.

The station was a small one and nobody but themselves seemed to be
getting out of the train.  The station-master spoke to Mrs. Medlock in
a rough, good-natured way, pronouncing his words in a queer broad
fashion which Mary found out afterward was Yorkshire.

"I see tha's got back," he said.  "An' tha's browt th' young 'un with
thee."

"Aye, that's her," answered Mrs. Medlock, speaking with a Yorkshire
accent herself and jerking her head over her shoulder toward Mary.
"How's thy Missus?"

"Well enow.  Th' carriage is waitin' outside for thee."

A brougham stood on the road before the little outside platform.  Mary
saw that it was a smart carriage and that it was a smart footman who
helped her in.  His long waterproof coat and the waterproof covering of
his hat were shining and dripping with rain as everything was, the
burly station-master included.

When he shut the door, mounted the box with the coachman, and they
drove off, the little girl found herself seated in a comfortably
cushioned corner, but she was not inclined to go to sleep again.  She
sat and looked out of the window, curious to see something of the road
over which she was being driven to the queer place Mrs. Medlock had
spoken of.  She was not at all a timid child and she was not exactly
frightened, but she felt that there was no knowing what might happen in
a house with a hundred rooms nearly all shut up--a house standing on
the edge of a moor.

"What is a moor?" she said suddenly to Mrs. Medlock.

"Look out of the window in about ten minutes and you'll see," the woman
answered.  "We've got to drive five miles across Missel Moor before we
get to the Manor.  You won't see much because it's a dark night, but
you can see something."

Mary asked no more questions but waited in the darkness of her corner,
keeping her eyes on the window.  The carriage lamps cast rays of light
a little distance ahead of them and she caught glimpses of the things
they passed.  After they had left the station they had driven through a
tiny village and she had seen whitewashed cottages and the lights of a
public house.  Then they had passed a church and a vicarage and a
little shop-window or so in a cottage with toys and sweets and odd
things set out for sale.  Then they were on the highroad and she saw
hedges and trees.  After that there seemed nothing different for a long
time--or at least it seemed a long time to her.

At last the horses began to go more slowly, as if they were climbing
up-hill, and presently there seemed to be no more hedges and no more
trees.  She could see nothing, in fact, but a dense darkness on either
side.  She leaned forward and pressed her face against the window just
as the carriage gave a big jolt.

"Eh! We're on the moor now sure enough," said Mrs. Medlock.

The carriage lamps shed a yellow light on a rough-looking road which
seemed to be cut through bushes and low-growing things which ended in
the great expanse of dark apparently spread out before and around them.
A wind was rising and making a singular, wild, low, rushing sound.

"It's--it's not the sea, is it?" said Mary, looking round at her
companion.

"No, not it," answered Mrs. Medlock.  "Nor it isn't fields nor
mountains, it's just miles and miles and miles of wild land that
nothing grows on but heather and gorse and broom, and nothing lives on
but wild ponies and sheep."

"I feel as if it might be the sea, if there were water on it," said
Mary.  "It sounds like the sea just now."

"That's the wind blowing through the bushes," Mrs. Medlock said.  "It's
a wild, dreary enough place to my mind, though there's plenty that
likes it--particularly when the heather's in bloom."

On and on they drove through the darkness, and though the rain stopped,
the wind rushed by and whistled and made strange sounds.  The road went
up and down, and several times the carriage passed over a little bridge
beneath which water rushed very fast with a great deal of noise.  Mary
felt as if the drive would never come to an end and that the wide,
bleak moor was a wide expanse of black ocean through which she was
passing on a strip of dry land.

"I don't like it," she said to herself.  "I don't like it," and she
pinched her thin lips more tightly together.

The horses were climbing up a hilly piece of road when she first caught
sight of a light.  Mrs. Medlock saw it as soon as she did and drew a
long sigh of relief.

"Eh, I am glad to see that bit o' light twinkling," she exclaimed.
"It's the light in the lodge window.  We shall get a good cup of tea
after a bit, at all events."

It was "after a bit," as she said, for when the carriage passed through
the park gates there was still two miles of avenue to drive through and
the trees (which nearly met overhead) made it seem as if they were
driving through a long dark vault.

They drove out of the vault into a clear space and stopped before an
immensely long but low-built house which seemed to ramble round a stone
court.  At first Mary thought that there were no lights at all in the
windows, but as she got out of the carriage she saw that one room in a
corner upstairs showed a dull glow.

The entrance door was a huge one made of massive, curiously shaped
panels of oak studded with big iron nails and bound with great iron
bars.  It opened into an enormous hall, which was so dimly lighted that
the faces in the portraits on the walls and the figures in the suits of
armor made Mary feel that she did not want to look at them.  As she
stood on the stone floor she looked a very small, odd little black
figure, and she felt as small and lost and odd as she looked.

A neat, thin old man stood near the manservant who opened the door for
them.

"You are to take her to her room," he said in a husky voice.  "He
doesn't want to see her.  He's going to London in the morning."

"Very well, Mr. Pitcher," Mrs. Medlock answered.  "So long as I know
what's expected of me, I can manage."

"What's expected of you, Mrs. Medlock," Mr. Pitcher said, "is that you
make sure that he's not disturbed and that he doesn't see what he
doesn't want to see."

And then Mary Lennox was led up a broad staircase and down a long
corridor and up a short flight of steps and through another corridor
and another, until a door opened in a wall and she found herself in a
room with a fire in it and a supper on a table.

Mrs. Medlock said unceremoniously:

"Well, here you are! This room and the next are where you'll live--and
you must keep to them.  Don't you forget that!"

It was in this way Mistress Mary arrived at Misselthwaite Manor and she
had perhaps never felt quite so contrary in all her life.

When she opened her eyes in the morning it was because a young
housemaid had come into her room to light the fire and was kneeling on
the hearth-rug raking out the cinders noisily.  Mary lay and watched
her for a few moments and then began to look about the room.  She had
never seen a room at all like it and thought it curious and gloomy.
The walls were covered with tapestry with a forest scene embroidered on
it.  There were fantastically dressed people under the trees and in the
distance there was a glimpse of the turrets of a castle.  There were
hunters and horses and dogs and ladies.  Mary felt as if she were in
the forest with them.  Out of a deep window she could see a great
climbing stretch of land which seemed to have no trees on it, and to
look rather like an endless, dull, purplish sea.

"What is that?" she said, pointing out of the window.

Martha, the young housemaid, who had just risen to her feet, looked and
pointed also.  "That there?" she said.

"Yes."

"That's th' moor," with a good-natured grin.  "Does tha' like it?"

"No," answered Mary.  "I hate it."

"That's because tha'rt not used to it," Martha said, going back to her
hearth.  "Tha' thinks it's too big an' bare now.  But tha' will like
it."

"Do you?" inquired Mary.

"Aye, that I do," answered Martha, cheerfully polishing away at the
grate.  "I just love it.  It's none bare.  It's covered wi' growin'
things as smells sweet.  It's fair lovely in spring an' summer when th'
gorse an' broom an' heather's in flower.  It smells o' honey an'
there's such a lot o' fresh air--an' th' sky looks so high an' th' bees
an' skylarks makes such a nice noise hummin' an' singin'. Eh! I
wouldn't live away from th' moor for anythin'."

Mary listened to her with a grave, puzzled expression.  The native
servants she had been used to in India were not in the least like this.
They were obsequious and servile and did not presume to talk to their
masters as if they were their equals.  They made salaams and called
them "protector of the poor" and names of that sort.  Indian servants
were commanded to do things, not asked.  It was not the custom to say
"please" and "thank you" and Mary had always slapped her Ayah in the
face when she was angry.  She wondered a little what this girl would do
if one slapped her in the face.  She was a round, rosy,
good-natured-looking creature, but she had a sturdy way which made
Mistress Mary wonder if she might not even slap back--if the person who
slapped her was only a little girl.

"You are a strange servant," she said from her pillows, rather
haughtily.

Martha sat up on her heels, with her blacking-brush in her hand, and
laughed, without seeming the least out of temper.

"Eh! I know that," she said.  "If there was a grand Missus at
Misselthwaite I should never have been even one of th' under
house-maids. I might have been let to be scullerymaid but I'd never
have been let upstairs.  I'm too common an' I talk too much Yorkshire.
But this is a funny house for all it's so grand.  Seems like there's
neither Master nor Mistress except Mr. Pitcher an' Mrs. Medlock.  Mr.
Craven, he won't be troubled about anythin' when he's here, an' he's
nearly always away.  Mrs. Medlock gave me th' place out o' kindness.
She told me she could never have done it if Misselthwaite had been like
other big houses." "Are you going to be my servant?" Mary asked, still
in her imperious little Indian way.

Martha began to rub her grate again.

"I'm Mrs. Medlock's servant," she said stoutly.  "An' she's Mr.
Craven's--but I'm to do the housemaid's work up here an' wait on you a
bit.  But you won't need much waitin' on."

"Who is going to dress me?" demanded Mary.

Martha sat up on her heels again and stared.  She spoke in broad
Yorkshire in her amazement.

"Canna' tha' dress thysen!" she said.

"What do you mean? I don't understand your language," said Mary.

"Eh! I forgot," Martha said.  "Mrs. Medlock told me I'd have to be
careful or you wouldn't know what I was sayin'.  I mean can't you put
on your own clothes?"

"No," answered Mary, quite indignantly.  "I never did in my life.  My
Ayah dressed me, of course."

"Well," said Martha, evidently not in the least aware that she was
impudent, "it's time tha' should learn.  Tha' cannot begin younger.
It'll do thee good to wait on thysen a bit.  My mother always said she
couldn't see why grand people's children didn't turn out fair
fools--what with nurses an' bein' washed an' dressed an' took out to
walk as if they was puppies!"

"It is different in India," said Mistress Mary disdainfully.  She could
scarcely stand this.

But Martha was not at all crushed.

"Eh! I can see it's different," she answered almost sympathetically.
"I dare say it's because there's such a lot o' blacks there instead o'
respectable white people.  When I heard you was comin' from India I
thought you was a black too."

Mary sat up in bed furious.

"What!" she said.  "What! You thought I was a native.  You--you
daughter of a pig!"

Martha stared and looked hot.

"Who are you callin' names?" she said.  "You needn't be so vexed.
That's not th' way for a young lady to talk.  I've nothin' against th'
blacks.  When you read about 'em in tracts they're always very
religious.  You always read as a black's a man an' a brother.  I've
never seen a black an' I was fair pleased to think I was goin' to see
one close.  When I come in to light your fire this mornin' I crep' up
to your bed an' pulled th' cover back careful to look at you.  An'
there you was," disappointedly, "no more black than me--for all you're
so yeller."

Mary did not even try to control her rage and humiliation.  "You
thought I was a native! You dared! You don't know anything about
natives! They are not people--they're servants who must salaam to you.
You know nothing about India.  You know nothing about anything!"

She was in such a rage and felt so helpless before the girl's simple
stare, and somehow she suddenly felt so horribly lonely and far away
from everything she understood and which understood her, that she threw
herself face downward on the pillows and burst into passionate sobbing.
She sobbed so unrestrainedly that good-natured Yorkshire Martha was a
little frightened and quite sorry for her.  She went to the bed and
bent over her.

"Eh! you mustn't cry like that there!" she begged.  "You mustn't for
sure.  I didn't know you'd be vexed.  I don't know anythin' about
anythin'--just like you said.  I beg your pardon, Miss. Do stop cryin'."

There was something comforting and really friendly in her queer
Yorkshire speech and sturdy way which had a good effect on Mary.  She
gradually ceased crying and became quiet.  Martha looked relieved.

"It's time for thee to get up now," she said.  "Mrs. Medlock said I was
to carry tha' breakfast an' tea an' dinner into th' room next to this.
It's been made into a nursery for thee.  I'll help thee on with thy
clothes if tha'll get out o' bed.  If th' buttons are at th' back tha'
cannot button them up tha'self."

When Mary at last decided to get up, the clothes Martha took from the
wardrobe were not the ones she had worn when she arrived the night
before with Mrs. Medlock.

"Those are not mine," she said.  "Mine are black."

She looked the thick white wool coat and dress over, and added with
cool approval:

"Those are nicer than mine."

"These are th' ones tha' must put on," Martha answered.  "Mr. Craven
ordered Mrs. Medlock to get 'em in London.  He said 'I won't have a
child dressed in black wanderin' about like a lost soul,' he said.
'It'd make the place sadder than it is.  Put color on her.' Mother she
said she knew what he meant.  Mother always knows what a body means.
She doesn't hold with black hersel'."

"I hate black things," said Mary.

The dressing process was one which taught them both something.  Martha
had "buttoned up" her little sisters and brothers but she had never
seen a child who stood still and waited for another person to do things
for her as if she had neither hands nor feet of her own.

"Why doesn't tha' put on tha' own shoes?" she said when Mary quietly
held out her foot.

"My Ayah did it," answered Mary, staring.  "It was the custom."

She said that very often--"It was the custom." The native servants were
always saying it.  If one told them to do a thing their ancestors had
not done for a thousand years they gazed at one mildly and said, "It is
not the custom" and one knew that was the end of the matter.

It had not been the custom that Mistress Mary should do anything but
stand and allow herself to be dressed like a doll, but before she was
ready for breakfast she began to suspect that her life at Misselthwaite
Manor would end by teaching her a number of things quite new to
her--things such as putting on her own shoes and stockings, and picking
up things she let fall.  If Martha had been a well-trained fine young
lady's maid she would have been more subservient and respectful and
would have known that it was her business to brush hair, and button
boots, and pick things up and lay them away.  She was, however, only an
untrained Yorkshire rustic who had been brought up in a moorland
cottage with a swarm of little brothers and sisters who had never
dreamed of doing anything but waiting on themselves and on the younger
ones who were either babies in arms or just learning to totter about
and tumble over things.

If Mary Lennox had been a child who was ready to be amused she would
perhaps have laughed at Martha's readiness to talk, but Mary only
listened to her coldly and wondered at her freedom of manner.  At first
she was not at all interested, but gradually, as the girl rattled on in
her good-tempered, homely way, Mary began to notice what she was saying.

"Eh! you should see 'em all," she said.  "There's twelve of us an' my
father only gets sixteen shilling a week.  I can tell you my mother's
put to it to get porridge for 'em all.  They tumble about on th' moor
an' play there all day an' mother says th' air of th' moor fattens 'em.
She says she believes they eat th' grass same as th' wild ponies do.
Our Dickon, he's twelve years old and he's got a young pony he calls
his own."

"Where did he get it?" asked Mary.

"He found it on th' moor with its mother when it was a little one an'
he began to make friends with it an' give it bits o' bread an' pluck
young grass for it.  And it got to like him so it follows him about an'
it lets him get on its back.  Dickon's a kind lad an' animals likes
him."

Mary had never possessed an animal pet of her own and had always
thought she should like one.  So she began to feel a slight interest in
Dickon, and as she had never before been interested in any one but
herself, it was the dawning of a healthy sentiment.  When she went into
the room which had been made into a nursery for her, she found that it
was rather like the one she had slept in.  It was not a child's room,
but a grown-up person's room, with gloomy old pictures on the walls and
heavy old oak chairs.  A table in the center was set with a good
substantial breakfast.  But she had always had a very small appetite,
and she looked with something more than indifference at the first plate
Martha set before her.

"I don't want it," she said.

"Tha' doesn't want thy porridge!" Martha exclaimed incredulously.

"No."

"Tha' doesn't know how good it is.  Put a bit o' treacle on it or a bit
o' sugar."

"I don't want it," repeated Mary.

"Eh!" said Martha.  "I can't abide to see good victuals go to waste.
If our children was at this table they'd clean it bare in five minutes."

"Why?" said Mary coldly.  "Why!" echoed Martha.  "Because they scarce
ever had their stomachs full in their lives.  They're as hungry as
young hawks an' foxes."

"I don't know what it is to be hungry," said Mary, with the
indifference of ignorance.

Martha looked indignant.

"Well, it would do thee good to try it.  I can see that plain enough,"
she said outspokenly.  "I've no patience with folk as sits an' just
stares at good bread an' meat.  My word! don't I wish Dickon and Phil
an' Jane an' th' rest of 'em had what's here under their pinafores."

"Why don't you take it to them?" suggested Mary.

"It's not mine," answered Martha stoutly.  "An' this isn't my day out.
I get my day out once a month same as th' rest.  Then I go home an'
clean up for mother an' give her a day's rest."

Mary drank some tea and ate a little toast and some marmalade.

"You wrap up warm an' run out an' play you," said Martha.  "It'll do
you good and give you some stomach for your meat."

Mary went to the window.  There were gardens and paths and big trees,
but everything looked dull and wintry.

"Out? Why should I go out on a day like this?" "Well, if tha' doesn't
go out tha'lt have to stay in, an' what has tha' got to do?"

Mary glanced about her.  There was nothing to do.  When Mrs. Medlock
had prepared the nursery she had not thought of amusement.  Perhaps it
would be better to go and see what the gardens were like.

"Who will go with me?" she inquired.

Martha stared.

"You'll go by yourself," she answered.  "You'll have to learn to play
like other children does when they haven't got sisters and brothers.
Our Dickon goes off on th' moor by himself an' plays for hours.  That's
how he made friends with th' pony.  He's got sheep on th' moor that
knows him, an' birds as comes an' eats out of his hand.  However little
there is to eat, he always saves a bit o' his bread to coax his pets."

It was really this mention of Dickon which made Mary decide to go out,
though she was not aware of it.  There would be, birds outside though
there would not be ponies or sheep.  They would be different from the
birds in India and it might amuse her to look at them.

Martha found her coat and hat for her and a pair of stout little boots
and she showed her her way downstairs.

"If tha' goes round that way tha'll come to th' gardens," she said,
pointing to a gate in a wall of shrubbery.  "There's lots o' flowers in
summer-time, but there's nothin' bloomin' now." She seemed to hesitate
a second before she added, "One of th' gardens is locked up.  No one
has been in it for ten years."

"Why?" asked Mary in spite of herself.  Here was another locked door
added to the hundred in the strange house.

"Mr. Craven had it shut when his wife died so sudden.  He won't let no
one go inside.  It was her garden.  He locked th' door an' dug a hole
and buried th' key.  There's Mrs. Medlock's bell ringing--I must run."

After she was gone Mary turned down the walk which led to the door in
the shrubbery.  She could not help thinking about the garden which no
one had been into for ten years.  She wondered what it would look like
and whether there were any flowers still alive in it.  When she had
passed through the shrubbery gate she found herself in great gardens,
with wide lawns and winding walks with clipped borders.  There were
trees, and flower-beds, and evergreens clipped into strange shapes, and
a large pool with an old gray fountain in its midst.  But the
flower-beds were bare and wintry and the fountain was not playing.
This was not the garden which was shut up.  How could a garden be shut
up? You could always walk into a garden.

She was just thinking this when she saw that, at the end of the path
she was following, there seemed to be a long wall, with ivy growing
over it.  She was not familiar enough with England to know that she was
coming upon the kitchen-gardens where the vegetables and fruit were
growing.  She went toward the wall and found that there was a green
door in the ivy, and that it stood open.  This was not the closed
garden, evidently, and she could go into it.

She went through the door and found that it was a garden with walls all
round it and that it was only one of several walled gardens which
seemed to open into one another.  She saw another open green door,
revealing bushes and pathways between beds containing winter
vegetables.  Fruit-trees were trained flat against the wall, and over
some of the beds there were glass frames.  The place was bare and ugly
enough, Mary thought, as she stood and stared about her.  It might be
nicer in summer when things were green, but there was nothing pretty
about it now.

Presently an old man with a spade over his shoulder walked through the
door leading from the second garden.  He looked startled when he saw
Mary, and then touched his cap.  He had a surly old face, and did not
seem at all pleased to see her--but then she was displeased with his
garden and wore her "quite contrary" expression, and certainly did not
seem at all pleased to see him.

"What is this place?" she asked.

"One o' th' kitchen-gardens," he answered.

"What is that?" said Mary, pointing through the other green door.

"Another of 'em," shortly.  "There's another on t'other side o' th'
wall an' there's th' orchard t'other side o' that."

"Can I go in them?" asked Mary.

"If tha' likes.  But there's nowt to see."

Mary made no response.  She went down the path and through the second
green door.  There, she found more walls and winter vegetables and
glass frames, but in the second wall there was another green door and
it was not open.  Perhaps it led into the garden which no one had seen
for ten years.  As she was not at all a timid child and always did what
she wanted to do, Mary went to the green door and turned the handle.
She hoped the door would not open because she wanted to be sure she had
found the mysterious garden--but it did open quite easily and she
walked through it and found herself in an orchard.  There were walls
all round it also and trees trained against them, and there were bare
fruit-trees growing in the winter-browned grass--but there was no green
door to be seen anywhere.  Mary looked for it, and yet when she had
entered the upper end of the garden she had noticed that the wall did
not seem to end with the orchard but to extend beyond it as if it
enclosed a place at the other side.  She could see the tops of trees
above the wall, and when she stood still she saw a bird with a bright
red breast sitting on the topmost branch of one of them, and suddenly
he burst into his winter song--almost as if he had caught sight of her
and was calling to her.

She stopped and listened to him and somehow his cheerful, friendly
little whistle gave her a pleased feeling--even a disagreeable little
girl may be lonely, and the big closed house and big bare moor and big
bare gardens had made this one feel as if there was no one left in the
world but herself.  If she had been an affectionate child, who had been
used to being loved, she would have broken her heart, but even though
she was "Mistress Mary Quite Contrary" she was desolate, and the
bright-breasted little bird brought a look into her sour little face
which was almost a smile.  She listened to him until he flew away.  He
was not like an Indian bird and she liked him and wondered if she
should ever see him again.  Perhaps he lived in the mysterious garden
and knew all about it.

Perhaps it was because she had nothing whatever to do that she thought
so much of the deserted garden.  She was curious about it and wanted to
see what it was like.  Why had Mr. Archibald Craven buried the key? If
he had liked his wife so much why did he hate her garden?  She wondered
if she should ever see him, but she knew that if she did she should not
like him, and he would not like her, and that she should only stand and
stare at him and say nothing, though she should be wanting dreadfully
to ask him why he had done such a queer thing.

"People never like me and I never like people," she thought.  "And I
never can talk as the Crawford children could.  They were always
talking and laughing and making noises."

She thought of the robin and of the way he seemed to sing his song at
her, and as she remembered the tree-top he perched on she stopped
rather suddenly on the path.

"I believe that tree was in the secret garden--I feel sure it was," she
said.  "There was a wall round the place and there was no door."

She walked back into the first kitchen-garden she had entered and found
the old man digging there.  She went and stood beside him and watched
him a few moments in her cold little way.  He took no notice of her and
so at last she spoke to him.

"I have been into the other gardens," she said.

"There was nothin' to prevent thee," he answered crustily.

"I went into the orchard."

"There was no dog at th' door to bite thee," he answered.

"There was no door there into the other garden," said Mary.

"What garden?" he said in a rough voice, stopping his digging for a
moment.

"The one on the other side of the wall," answered Mistress Mary.
"There are trees there--I saw the tops of them.  A bird with a red
breast was sitting on one of them and he sang."

To her surprise the surly old weather-beaten face actually changed its
expression.  A slow smile spread over it and the gardener looked quite
different.  It made her think that it was curious how much nicer a
person looked when he smiled.  She had not thought of it before.

He turned about to the orchard side of his garden and began to
whistle--a low soft whistle.  She could not understand how such a surly
man could make such a coaxing sound.  Almost the next moment a
wonderful thing happened.  She heard a soft little rushing flight
through the air--and it was the bird with the red breast flying to
them, and he actually alighted on the big clod of earth quite near to
the gardener's foot.

"Here he is," chuckled the old man, and then he spoke to the bird as if
he were speaking to a child.

"Where has tha' been, tha' cheeky little beggar?" he said.  "I've not
seen thee before today.  Has tha, begun tha' courtin' this early in th'
season? Tha'rt too forrad."

The bird put his tiny head on one side and looked up at him with his
soft bright eye which was like a black dewdrop.  He seemed quite
familiar and not the least afraid.  He hopped about and pecked the
earth briskly, looking for seeds and insects.  It actually gave Mary a
queer feeling in her heart, because he was so pretty and cheerful and
seemed so like a person.  He had a tiny plump body and a delicate beak,
and slender delicate legs.

"Will he always come when you call him?" she asked almost in a whisper.

"Aye, that he will.  I've knowed him ever since he was a fledgling.  He
come out of th' nest in th' other garden an' when first he flew over
th' wall he was too weak to fly back for a few days an' we got
friendly.  When he went over th' wall again th' rest of th' brood was
gone an' he was lonely an' he come back to me."

"What kind of a bird is he?" Mary asked.

"Doesn't tha' know? He's a robin redbreast an' they're th' friendliest,
curiousest birds alive.  They're almost as friendly as dogs--if you
know how to get on with 'em. Watch him peckin' about there an' lookin'
round at us now an' again.  He knows we're talkin' about him."

It was the queerest thing in the world to see the old fellow.  He
looked at the plump little scarlet-waistcoated bird as if he were both
proud and fond of him.

"He's a conceited one," he chuckled.  "He likes to hear folk talk about
him.  An' curious--bless me, there never was his like for curiosity an'
meddlin'. He's always comin' to see what I'm plantin'. He knows all th'
things Mester Craven never troubles hissel' to find out.  He's th' head
gardener, he is."

The robin hopped about busily pecking the soil and now and then stopped
and looked at them a little.  Mary thought his black dewdrop eyes gazed
at her with great curiosity.  It really seemed as if he were finding
out all about her.  The queer feeling in her heart increased.  "Where
did the rest of the brood fly to?" she asked.

"There's no knowin'. The old ones turn 'em out o' their nest an' make
'em fly an' they're scattered before you know it.  This one was a
knowin' one an' he knew he was lonely."

Mistress Mary went a step nearer to the robin and looked at him very
hard.

"I'm lonely," she said.

She had not known before that this was one of the things which made her
feel sour and cross.  She seemed to find it out when the robin looked
at her and she looked at the robin.

The old gardener pushed his cap back on his bald head and stared at her
a minute.

"Art tha' th' little wench from India?" he asked.

Mary nodded.

"Then no wonder tha'rt lonely.  Tha'lt be lonlier before tha's done,"
he said.

He began to dig again, driving his spade deep into the rich black
garden soil while the robin hopped about very busily employed.

"What is your name?" Mary inquired.

He stood up to answer her.

"Ben Weatherstaff," he answered, and then he added with a surly
chuckle, "I'm lonely mysel' except when he's with me," and he jerked
his thumb toward the robin.  "He's th' only friend I've got."

"I have no friends at all," said Mary.  "I never had.  My Ayah didn't
like me and I never played with any one."

It is a Yorkshire habit to say what you think with blunt frankness, and
old Ben Weatherstaff was a Yorkshire moor man.

"Tha' an' me are a good bit alike," he said.  "We was wove out of th'
same cloth.  We're neither of us good lookin' an' we're both of us as
sour as we look.  We've got the same nasty tempers, both of us, I'll
warrant."

This was plain speaking, and Mary Lennox had never heard the truth
about herself in her life.  Native servants always salaamed and
submitted to you, whatever you did.  She had never thought much about
her looks, but she wondered if she was as unattractive as Ben
Weatherstaff and she also wondered if she looked as sour as he had
looked before the robin came.  She actually began to wonder also if she
was "nasty tempered." She felt uncomfortable.

Suddenly a clear rippling little sound broke out near her and she
turned round.  She was standing a few feet from a young apple-tree and
the robin had flown on to one of its branches and had burst out into a
scrap of a song.  Ben Weatherstaff laughed outright.

"What did he do that for?" asked Mary.

"He's made up his mind to make friends with thee," replied Ben.  "Dang
me if he hasn't took a fancy to thee."

"To me?" said Mary, and she moved toward the little tree softly and
looked up.

"Would you make friends with me?" she said to the robin just as if she
was speaking to a person.  "Would you?" And she did not say it either
in her hard little voice or in her imperious Indian voice, but in a
tone so soft and eager and coaxing that Ben Weatherstaff was as
surprised as she had been when she heard him whistle.

"Why," he cried out, "tha' said that as nice an' human as if tha' was a
real child instead of a sharp old woman.  Tha' said it almost like
Dickon talks to his wild things on th' moor."

"Do you know Dickon?" Mary asked, turning round rather in a hurry.

"Everybody knows him.  Dickon's wanderin' about everywhere.  Th' very
blackberries an' heather-bells knows him.  I warrant th' foxes shows
him where their cubs lies an' th' skylarks doesn't hide their nests
from him."

Mary would have liked to ask some more questions.  She was almost as
curious about Dickon as she was about the deserted garden.  But just
that moment the robin, who had ended his song, gave a little shake of
his wings, spread them and flew away.  He had made his visit and had
other things to do.

"He has flown over the wall!" Mary cried out, watching him.  "He has
flown into the orchard--he has flown across the other wall--into the
garden where there is no door!"

"He lives there," said old Ben.  "He came out o' th' egg there.  If
he's courtin', he's makin' up to some young madam of a robin that lives
among th' old rose-trees there."

"Rose-trees," said Mary.  "Are there rose-trees?"

Ben Weatherstaff took up his spade again and began to dig.

"There was ten year' ago," he mumbled.

"I should like to see them," said Mary.  "Where is the green door?
There must be a door somewhere."

Ben drove his spade deep and looked as uncompanionable as he had looked
when she first saw him.

"There was ten year' ago, but there isn't now," he said.

"No door!" cried Mary.  "There must be." "None as any one can find, an'
none as is any one's business.  Don't you be a meddlesome wench an'
poke your nose where it's no cause to go.  Here, I must go on with my
work.  Get you gone an' play you.  I've no more time."

And he actually stopped digging, threw his spade over his shoulder and
walked off, without even glancing at her or saying good-by.

The novel opens by introducing us to the main character Mary Lennox, a little girl born in India who is described as being particularly disagreeable and sickly. She is the child of an English statesman and a self-absorbed mother who have left her to be raised by a nanny named Ayah. As the daughter of rich parents, her caretakers have never disciplined Mary, and thus she has grown to be very selfish and misbehaved. One morning when Mary is 9 years old, there is a strange feeling in the air and many of the servants are missing. Mary sees that her mother is in distress. Mary finds out that there has been an outbreak of cholera and many people have died, including Ayah. Mary naps for awhile in her father's bungalow and there is much commotion while she sleeps. When she wakes up, everything feels still. Mary wonders if she will have a new nurse and doesn't feel much emotion towards the death of Ayah. Mary feels neglected while everyone is panic stricken about the cholera. The only presence is a snake crawling on the ground. Then suddenly, a police officer named Barney enters and is startled to find Mary in the bungalow. He informs her that both of her parents have died from the disease. Mary continues to act self-absorbed and doesn't feel much grief at the death of her parents, expecting that she would continue to be cared for as always. She stays with an English clergyman, which she dislikes because the house is dirty and the family is poor. The children of the clergyman take to making fun of Mary's snobbish ways, which angers her. She finds out from the children that she will be sent to live with her uncle, Archibald Craven. In a few days she will sail to England, where her uncle lives at a place called Misselthwaite Manor. Mary departs on her journey to England and once arrived is met by her uncle's housekeeper named Mrs. Medlock. Mrs. Medlock is shocked how plain Mary is compared to Mary's beautiful mother. Without Ayah, Mary is beginning to feel lonely and sad at having no sense of belonging. On the way to her uncle's manor, Mrs. Medlock informs Mary that Misselthwaite Manor is a huge, gloomy place with hundreds of locked up rooms. Mary responds indifferently. Mrs. Medlock also informs Mary that her uncle is a "hunchback" who has become very isolated and strange after the death of his pretty young wife. This compels Mary to feel momentarily compassionate for her uncle. Mrs. Medlock and Mary drive to the manor and Mary is curious to see the landscape, including the moor. It is a long drive and finally they see the light of the manor in the distance. When they arrive in the mansion, a servant tells Mrs. Medlock that Archibald does not want to see Mary and to send her to bed immediately. The next morning Mary wakes up and is curious at the sight of her new surroundings. She converses with Martha, the servant of Mrs. Medlock. Mary is surprised at the nature of the English servants, who are much less servile than the ones in India. Mary asks Martha to dress her, and Martha is shocked that she doesn't know how to dress herself at this age. Martha reveals that when she heard Mary was coming from India, she thought she might be dark-skinned, and this idea enrages Mary, who can't believe she could be mistaken for a "native." When Martha tries to serve Mary porridge for breakfast, the little girl refuses to eat it, as it is not what she is used to. Martha encourages Mary to go out to the garden and play by herself. Martha tells Mary that after Mr. Craven's wife died, he shut off one particular garden and that no one has entered it for 10 years. He has buried the key so that no one is able to go in the garden. Mary spends the day exploring the other gardens and is curious to see the different plants, although it is bare because it is winter. She listens to a bird sing, which helps her feel less lonely. Mary approaches a groundskeeper and watches him work. She asks him about the gardens and at first he responds coldly, until Mary mentions the secret garden and the red bird, which makes him smile. He coaxes the bird to come out again which delights Mary. The groundskeeper, named Ben Weatherstaff, tells Mary that the bird is a robin, who are known to be very friendly. Mary steps near the bird and stares at him, and she tells the bird that she is lonely. Ben reveals to her that he is also lonely, and in a blunt, gruff way, compares her sourness and unattractiveness to his own. This honesty startles Mary, who has only known the polite remarks of her servants. Yet she feels happier now to have met Ben and the friendly robin.

The opening chapters of The Secret Garden acquaint the reader with the unfortunate young protagonist, Mary Lennox. Within the first few pages, tragedy has already struck; everyone close to Mary has died from a pandemic and now she has been left alone, without parents or nanny. Yet even before her parents' untimely death, Mary has not exactly been cherished and cared for by her family. We are shown how as wealthy people in a foreign land, the Lennoxes have left their daughter to be raised by servants. At this time in India, the Indian people are regarded by their British employers as almost less than human, and thus Mary's relationship with her main nurse, Ayah, has hardly been warm and familial, but more like that of servant and master. Mary's loneliness is something that pervades these chapters, as she comes to terms with the fact that she has been abandoned and treated like a doll for all of her almost 10 years. This comes to the forefront when Mary must move to her reclusive uncle's manor and is cared for by English housekeepers who are a far cry from the endlessly docile Indian servants. Mary is astounded at being treated like a human being rather than constantly coddled like a princess, such as when she demands Martha to dress her. Mary's assumptions about other people is ultimately what alienates her, making her feel hatred and frustration at not being treated in the glorified way she expects to be. Although Frances Hodgson Burnett repeatedly characterizes Mary in all her sourness, the reader is still made to feel compassion for this abandoned little girl. We are shown how throughout Mary's life, she has been rejected or pushed aside by those adults who were supposed to provide care and love. Even the woman who is in charge of taking Mary on the ship from India to England can't help but to comment on little girl's "ugliness," which is overheard by Mary. In this way, it seems that Mary's class circumstances have assigned her a certain haughty personality that has stuck with her from an early age, and now placed in a wildly different context, she must learn who she is apart from this image. We start to see the sweeter, more childlike nature of Mary come out in certain moments of the story. For example, when first driving to Archibald's manor, Mrs. Medlock informs Mary about her uncle's wife who died young. This temporarily breaks Mary's cold and disinterested demeanor, provoking her feelings of sympathy for a relative she has yet to meet. We also to see her sense of curiosity when she hears about the secret garden that has been locked up since the death of Archibald's wife. For her whole life, Mary has been kept from exploring like a normal child does, and she now has to regain this natural sense of wonder. In these chapters, we can also see how Burnett uses symbolism to evoke certain themes in the lives of her characters. Particularly we see use of natural imagery as a storytelling device. Right before Mary receives news of her parents' death, she spots a little snake, the only moving element in her entire surroundings. From the way that snakes shed their skin and adapt to new circumstances, we can see the snake here as a representation of the major transformation that is about to alter Mary's life. Later, when Mary first enters the gardens at her uncle's estate, the appearance of the friendly red robin serves to break through Mary's coldness and loneliness, allowing her to open herself to the possibility of connection with the vibrant world around her.