nor footsteps, and wondered if everybody had got well of
the cholera and all the trouble was over.  She wondered
also who would take care of her now her Ayah was dead. 
There would be a new Ayah, and perhaps she would know
some new stories.  Mary had been rather tired of the
old ones.  She did not cry because her nurse had died. 
She was not an affectionate child and had never cared much
for any one.  The noise and hurrying about and wailing
over the cholera had frightened her, and she had been angry
because no one seemed to remember that she was alive. 
Everyone was too panic-stricken to think of a little
girl no one was fond of.  When people had the cholera
it seemed that they remembered nothing but themselves. 
But if everyone had got well again, surely some one would
remember and come to look for her. 

But no one came, and as she lay waiting the house seemed
to grow more and more silent.  She heard something rustling
on the matting and when she looked down she saw a little
snake gliding along and watching her with eyes like jewels. 
She was not frightened, because he was a harmless little
thing who would not hurt her and he seemed in a hurry
to get out of the room.  He slipped under the door as she
watched him. 

"How queer and quiet it is," she said.  "It sounds as
if there were no one in the bungalow but me and the snake."

Almost the next minute she heard footsteps in the compound,
and then on the veranda.  They were men's footsteps,
and the men entered the bungalow and talked in low voices. 
No one went to meet or speak to them and they seemed
to open doors and look into rooms.  "What desolation!"
she heard one voice say.  "That pretty, pretty woman!
I suppose the child, too.  I heard there was a child,
though no one ever saw her."

Mary was standing in the middle of the nursery when they
opened the door a few minutes later.  She looked an ugly,
cross little thing and was frowning because she was
beginning to be hungry and feel disgracefully neglected. 
The first man who came in was a large officer she had once
seen talking to her father.  He looked tired and troubled,
but when he saw her he was so startled that he almost
jumped back. 

"Barney!" he cried out.  "There is a child here! A child
alone! In a place like this! Mercy on us, who is she!"

"I am Mary Lennox," the little girl said, drawing herself
up stiffly.  She thought the man was very rude to call her
father's bungalow "A place like this!" "I fell asleep when
everyone had the cholera and I have only just wakened up. 
Why does nobody come?"

"It is the child no one ever saw!" exclaimed the man,
turning to his companions.  "She has actually been forgotten!"

"Why was I forgotten?" Mary said, stamping her foot. 
"Why does nobody come?"

The young man whose name was Barney lookedat her very sadly. 
Mary even thought she saw him wink his eyes as if to wink
tears away. 

"Poor little kid!" he said.  "There is nobody left to come."

It was in that strange and sudden way that Mary found
out that she had neither father nor mother left;
that they had died and been carried away in the night,
and that the few native servants who had not died also had
left the house as quickly as they could get out of it,
none of them even remembering that there was a Missie Sahib. 
That was why the place was so quiet.  It was true that there
was no one in the bungalow but herself and the little
rustling snake. 

Chapter II

MISTRESS MARY QUITE CONTRARY

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. 
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.  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. 
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. 

She knew that she was not going to stay at the English
clergyman's house where she was taken at first.  She did
not want to stay.  The English clergyman was poor and he
had five children nearly all the same age and they wore