The woman was his housekeeper at Misselthwaite Manor, and her name was Mrs. Archibald Craven sent to meet her, in London. 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. 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.
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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.” Think of the servants running away and leaving her all alone in that deserted bungalow. “When her Ayah was dead there was no one to give a thought to the little thing.
“I believe she scarcely ever looked at her,” sighed Mrs. 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.” “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. The children call her ‘Mistress Mary Quite Contrary,’ and though it’s naughty of them, one can’t help understanding it.” She had a very pretty manner, too, and Mary has the most unattractive ways I ever saw in a child. “And her mother was such a pretty creature. Crawford attempted to kiss her, and held herself stiffly when Mr. They tried to be kind to her, but she only turned her face away when Mrs. Archibald Craven, who lived at Misselthwaite Manor, she looked so stony and stubbornly uninterested that they did not know what to think about her. Crawford told her that night that she was going to sail away to England in a few days and go to her uncle, Mr. “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.īut she thought over it a great deal afterward and when Mrs. He’s so cross he won’t let them, and they wouldn’t come if he would let them. He lives in a great, big, desolate old house in the country and no one goes near him. I heard father and mother talking about him. “I don’t know anything about him,” snapped Mary. Our grandmama lives there and our sister Mabel was sent to her last year. “She doesn’t know where home is!” said Basil, with seven-year-old scorn. “You are going to be sent home,” Basil said to her, “at the end of the week. 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. He danced round and round her and made faces and sang and laughed. Go away!”įor a moment Basil looked angry, and then he began to tease. “There in the middle,” and he leaned over her to point. “Why don’t you put a heap of stones there and pretend it is a rockery?” he said.
Presently he got rather interested and suddenly made a suggestion.
She was making heaps of earth and paths for a garden and Basil came and stood near to watch her. She was playing by herself under a tree, just as she had been playing the day the cholera broke out. Basil was a little boy with impudent blue eyes and a turned-up nose, and Mary hated him. By the second day they had given her a nickname which made her furious. Mary hated their untidy bungalow and was so disagreeable to them that after the first day or two nobody would play with her. 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. She knew that she was not going to stay at the English clergyman’s house where she was taken at first. 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. 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. 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. 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.
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