ere a great deal
of lively romping went on when 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 of
treating children. In India she had always been attended by 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 dress herself because Martha looked as though she thought
she was silly and stupid when she wanted to have things handed to her
and put on.

"Hasn't tha' got good sense?" she said once, when Mary had stood waiting
for her to put on her gloves for her. "Our Susan Ann is twice as sharp
as thee an' she's only four 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 morning after Martha
had swept up the hearth for the last time and gone down-stairs. She was
thinking over the new idea which 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 brought back to her mind
the hundred rooms with closed doors. She wondered if they were all
really locked and what she would find if she could get into any of them.
Were there a hundred really? Why shouldn't she go and see how many doors
she could count? It would be something to 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 would not
have thought it necessary to ask Mrs. Medlock if she might 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 corridor and it branched into other
corridors and it led her up short flights of steps which mounted to
others again. There were doors and doors, and there were pictures on the
walls. Sometimes they were pictures of dark, curious landscapes, but
oftenest they were portraits of men and women in queer, grand costumes
made of satin and velvet. She found herself in one long gallery whose
walls wer