The next morning the rain poured down.
When Mary looked out her window, the moor was almost hidden by gray mist.
There would be no going out today.
"What do you do in your cottage when it rains like this?" she asked Martha.
"Try to stay out of each other's way," said Martha.
"Dickon likes the wet. He says he sees things he doesn't see on fair days.
He once found a little fox cub half-drowned in a hole after its mother died.
He brought it home, tucked under his shirt to keep warm."
Mary had grown to like Martha's stories.
She especially liked the ones about Martha's mother, who seemed wise and kind, and her brother Dickon.
"He found a crow another time," Martha went on.
"He brought that one home too and tamed it.
The crow's name is Soot because it's so black."
"If I had a crow or a fox cub, I could play with it," said Mary.
"But I have nothing."
Martha looked puzzled. "Can you knit or sew?"
"No."
"Can you read?" asked Martha.
"Yes."
"Then why don't you read something?"
"I don't have any books."
"That's a pity. If Mrs. Medlock would let you go into the library, you'd have thousands of books to read."
Mary did not care about the library.
But hearing about it reminded her of the many rooms in the house.
Were there really a hundred? Were they really all locked?
Maybe she could count them. That would give her something to do.
After Martha finished her work, Mary waited a few minutes.
Then she opened her door and set off down the long corridor.
It branched into other corridors, which led her up flights of steps that led to more steps.
There were doors and more doors, and many portraits on the walls.
The men and women wore grand costumes made of satin and velvet.
She came upon a portrait of a plain girl rather like herself.
"Where do you live now?" Mary asked the girl. "I wish you were here."
It took a while before she thought to try opening a door.
She was almost frightened when she felt the handle turn.
She stepped into what looked like a bedroom, and on the wall was another portrait of the same little girl.
Mary opened more doors.
She opened so many that she grew tired of opening them.
There could have been a hundred, though she hadn't counted them.
In one room, which looked like a lady's sitting room, she found a cabinet full of ivory elephants.
She played with them until she became bored.
Mary was shutting the cabinet door when she heard a rustling sound.
On the sofa she spotted a family of mice living in a velvet cushion.
"If they weren't so frightened, I would take them back with me," said Mary, who was ready to return to her room.
She went out into the corridor again.
Two or three times she lost her way by turning down the wrong corridor.
At last she reached her own floor, although she did not know exactly where she was.
"I believe I've taken a wrong turn again."
She was standing at the end of a short corridor with tapestries on the wall.
"I don't know which way to go. How still everything is!"
Suddenly the stillness was broken by a strange sound.
It was a cry, but not quite like the one she'd heard before.
"That sounds closer than it was last night."
Mary's heart was beating faster. "And it is someone crying."
She accidentally touched the tapestry near her and then sprang back, feeling quite startled.
The tapestry covered a door, which swung open and revealed another corridor.
Mrs. Medlock was coming down it with a bunch of keys in her hands and a very angry look on her face.
"What are you doing here?" Mrs. Medlock took Mary by the arm and pulled her away.
"What did I tell you about wandering through the house?"
"I went the wrong way, and then I heard someone crying."
"You heard nothing of the sort," said the housekeeper.
"You come along back to your own rooms."
And she half-pushed and half-pulled Mary up one corridor and down another until they were standing in Mary's rooms.
"Now," said Mrs. Medlock.
"You stay where you're told to stay, or you'll find yourself locked up.
Mr. Craven had better get you a governess.
You need someone sharp to look after you. I've got enough to do."
Mrs. Medlock stormed from the room and slammed the door after her.
Mary sat on the rug before the fire.
She did not cry, but she was pale with rage.
"There was someone crying," she said to herself. "There was."