"I suppose I may as well tell you something about where you are going
to," she said. "Do you know anything about your uncle?"

"No," said Mary.

"Never heard your father and mother talk about him?"

"No," said Mary frowning. She frowned because she remembered that her
father and mother had never talked to her about anything in particular.
Certainly they had never told her things.

"Humph," muttered Mrs. Medlock, staring at her queer, unresponsive
little face. She did not say any more for a few moments and then she
began again.

"I suppose you might as well be told something--to prepare you. You are
going to a queer place."

Mary said nothing at all, and Mrs. Medlock looked rather discomfited by
her apparent indifference, but, after taking a breath, she went on.

"Not but that it's a grand big place in a gloomy way, and Mr. Craven's
proud of it in his way--and that's gloomy enough, too. The house is six
hundred years old and it's on the edge of the moor, and there's near a
hundred rooms in it, though most of them's shut up and locked. And
there's pictures and fine old furniture and things that's been there for
ages, and there's a big park round it and gardens and trees with
branches trailing to the ground--some of them." She paused and took
another breath. "But there's nothing else," she ended suddenly.