ath, 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