The next day the rain poured down in torrents again,and when Mary looked out of her window the moor was almosthidden by gray mist and cloud. There could be no goingout today.

"What do you do in your cottage when it rains like this?"she asked Martha.

"Try to keep from under each other's feet mostly,"Martha answered. "Eh! there does seem a lot of us then.

Mother's a good-tempered woman but she gets fair moithered.

The biggest ones goes out in th' cow-shed and plays there.

Dickon he doesn't mind th' wet. He goes out just th'

same as if th' sun was shinin'. He says he sees thingson rainy days as doesn't show when it's fair weather.

He once found a little fox cub half drowned in its hole and hebrought it home in th' bosom of his shirt to keep it warm.

Its mother had been killed nearby an' th' hole was swumout an' th' rest o' th' litter was dead. He's got it athome now. He found a half-drowned young crow another time an'

he brought it home, too, an' tamed it. It's named Sootbecause it's so black, an' it hops an' flies about withhim everywhere."The time had come when Mary had forgotten to resentMartha's familiar talk. She had even begun to find itinteresting and to be sorry when she stopped or went away.

The stories she had been told by her Ayah when she livedin India had been quite unlike those Martha had to tell aboutthe moorland cottage which held fourteen people who livedin four little rooms and never had quite enough to eat.

The children seemed to tumble about and amuse themselveslike a litter of rough, good-natured collie puppies.

Mary was most attracted by the mother and Dickon.

When Martha told stories of what "mother" said or did theyalways sounded comfortable.

"If I had a raven or a fox cub I could play with it,"said Mary. "But I have nothing."Martha looked perplexed.

"Can tha' knit?" she asked.

"No," answered Mary.

"Can tha'sew?""No.""Can tha' read?""Yes.""Then why doesn't tha, read somethin', or learn a bit o'

spellin'? Tha'st old enough to be learnin' thy book a goodbit now.""I haven't any books," said Mary. "Those I had were leftin India.""That's a pity," said Martha. "If Mrs. Medlock'd let theego into th' library, there's thousands o' books there."Mary did not ask where the library was, because she wassuddenly inspired by a new idea. She made up her mindto go and find it herself. She was not troubled aboutMrs. Medlock. Mrs. Medlock seemed always to be in hercomfortable housekeeper's sitting-room downstairs.

In this queer place one scarcely ever saw any one at all.

In fact, there was no one to see but the servants,and when their master was away they lived a luxuriouslife below stairs, where there was a huge kitchen hungabout with shining brass and pewter, and a large servants'

hall where there were four or five abundant meals eatenevery day, and where a great deal of lively romping went onwhen Mrs. Medlock was out of the way.

Mary's meals were served regularly, and Martha waited on her,but no one troubled themselves about her in the least.

Mrs. Medlock came and looked at her every day or two,but no one inquired what she did or told her what to do.

She supposed that perhaps this was the English way oftreating children. In India she had always been attendedby her Ayah, who had followed her about and waited on her,hand and foot. She had often been tired of her company.

Now she was followed by nobody and was learning to dressherself because Martha looked as though she thought she wassilly and stupid when she wanted to have things handed to herand put on.

"Hasn't tha' got good sense?" she said once, when Maryhad stood waiting for her to put on her gloves for her.

"Our Susan Ann is twice as sharp as thee an' she's onlyfour year' old. Sometimes tha' looks fair soft in th' head."Mary had worn her contrary scowl for an hour after that,but it made her think several entirely new things.

She stood at the window for about ten minutes this morningafter Martha had swept up the hearth for the last timeand gone downstairs. She was thinking over the new ideawhich had come to her when she heard of the library.

She did not care very much about the library itself,because she had read very few books; but to hear of it broughtback to her mind the hundred rooms with closed doors.

She wondered if they were all really locked and whatshe would find if she could get into any of them.

Were there a hundred really? Why shouldn't she go and seehow many doors she could count? It would be somethingto do on this morning when she could not go out.

She had never been taught to ask permission to do things,and she knew nothing at all about authority, so she wouldnot have thought it necessary to ask Mrs. Medlock if shemight walk about the house, even if she had seen her.

She opened the door of the room and went into the corridor,and then she began her wanderings. It was a long corridorand it branched into other corridors and it led her upshort flights of steps which mounted to others again.

There were doors and doors, and there were pictureson the walls. Sometimes they were pictures of dark,curious landscapes, but oftenest they were portraitsof men and women in queer, grand costumes made of satinand velvet. She found herself in one long gallerywhose walls were covered with these portraits. She hadnever thought there could be so many in any house.

She walked slowly down this place and stared at the faceswhich also seemed to stare at her. She felt as if theywere wondering what a little girl from India was doingin their house. Some were pictures of children--littlegirls in thick satin frocks which reached to their feetand stood out about them, and boys with puffed sleevesand lace collars and long hair, or with big ruffs aroundtheir necks. She always stopped to look at the children,and wonder what their names were, and where they had gone,and why they wore such odd clothes. There was a stiff,plain little girl rather like herself. She wore a greenbrocade dress and held a green parrot on her finger.

Her eyes had a sharp, curious look.

"Where do you live now?" said Mary aloud to her.

"I wish you were here."Surely no other little girl ever spent such a queer morning.

It seemed as if there was no one in all the huge ramblinghouse but her own small self, wandering about upstairsand down, through narrow passages and wide ones, where itseemed to her that no one but herself had ever walked.

Since so many rooms had been built, people must have livedin them, but it all seemed so empty that she could not quitebelieve it true.

It was not until she climbed to the second floor that shethought of turning the handle of a door. All the doorswere shut, as Mrs. Medlock had said they were, but at last sheput her hand on the handle of one of them and turned it.

She was almost frightened for a moment when she feltthat it turned without difficulty and that when she pushedupon the door itself it slowly and heavily opened.

It was a massive door and opened into a big bedroom.

There were embroidered hangings on the wall, and inlaidfurniture such as she had seen in India stood about the room.

A broad window with leaded panes looked out upon the moor;and over the mantel was another portrait of the stiff,plain little girl who seemed to stare at her more curiouslythan ever.

"Perhaps she slept here once," said Mary. "She staresat me so that she makes me feel queer."After that she opened more doors and more. She sawso many rooms that she became quite tired and beganto think that there must be a hundred, though she had notcounted them. In all of them there were old picturesor old tapestries with strange scenes worked on them.

There were curious pieces of furniture and curiousornaments in nearly all of them.

In one room, which looked like a lady's sitting-room,the hangings were all embroidered velvet, and in a cabinetwere about a hundred little elephants made of ivory.

They were of different sizes, and some had their mahoutsor palanquins on their backs. Some were much bigger than theothers and some were so tiny that they seemed only babies.

Mary had seen carved ivory in India and she knew allabout elephants. She opened the door of the cabinetand stood on a footstool and played with these for quitea long time. When she got tired she set the elephantsin order and shut the door of the cabinet.

In all her wanderings through the long corridors and theempty rooms, she had seen nothing alive; but in thisroom she saw something. Just after she had closed thecabinet door she heard a tiny rustling sound. It madeher jump and look around at the sofa by the fireplace,from which it seemed to come. In the corner of the sofathere was a cushion, and in the velvet which coveredit there was a hole, and out of the hole peeped a tinyhead with a pair of tightened eyes in it.

Mary crept softly across the room to look. The bright eyesbelonged to a little gray mouse, and the mouse had eatena hole into the cushion and made a comfortable nest there.

Six baby mice were cuddled up asleep near her. If therewas no one else alive in the hundred rooms there wereseven mice who did not look lonely at all.

"If they wouldn't be so frightened I would take them backwith me," said Mary.

She had wandered about long enough to feel too tiredto wander any farther, and she turned back. Two or threetimes she lost her way by turning down the wrong corridorand was obliged to ramble up and down until she foundthe right one; but at last she reached her own floor again,though she was some distance from her own room and didnot know exactly where she was.

"I believe I have taken a wrong turning again," she said,standing still at what seemed the end of a short passagewith tapestry on the wall. "I don't know which way to go.

How still everything is!"It was while she was standing here and just after shehad said this that the stillness was broken by a sound.

It was another cry, but not quite like the one she had heardlast night; it was only a short one, a fretful childishwhine muffled by passing through walls.

"It's nearer than it was," said Mary, her heart beatingrather faster. "And it is crying."She put her hand accidentally upon the tapestry near her,and then sprang back, feeling quite startled. The tapestrywas the covering of a door which fell open and showedher that there was another part of the corridor behind it,and Mrs. Medlock was coming up it with her bunch of keysin her hand and a very cross look on her face.

"What are you doing here?" she said, and she took Maryby the arm and pulled her away. "What did I tell you?""I turned round the wrong corner," explained Mary.

"I didn't know which way to go and I heard some one crying."She quite hated Mrs. Medlock at the moment, but she hatedher more the next.

"You didn't hear anything of the sort," said the housekeeper.

"You come along back to your own nursery or I'll boxyour ears."And she took her by the arm and half pushed, half pulledher up one passage and down another until she pushedher in at the door of her own room.

"Now," she said, "you stay where you're told to stayor you'll find yourself locked up. The master hadbetter get you a governess, same as he said he would.

You're one that needs some one to look sharp after you.

I've got enough to do."She went out of the room and slammed the door after her,and Mary went and sat on the hearth-rug, pale with rage.

She did not cry, but ground her teeth.

"There was some one crying--there was--there was!"she said to herself.

She had heard it twice now, and sometime she would find out.

She had found out a great deal this morning. She feltas if she had been on a long journey, and at any rateshe had had something to amuse her all the time, and shehad played with the ivory elephants and had seen the graymouse and its babies in their nest in the velvet cushion.