Sleep Story: The Secret Garden Chapters 1, 2 And 3

Enjoy this sleep story to help you drift off into a peaceful slumber. Tonight we read Chapters 1, 2, and 3 of the timeless classic, The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. Although the first few chapters of this tale are dark, it reminds us of the hope that remains for us all to change our perspective and our life at any time. This audio is perfect for children or adults who want to relax or find adventure into a great night's sleep.

Transcript

Good evening.

My name is Hillary LaFawn and I'm so grateful you join me to explore Chapter 1,

2,

And 3 of The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett.

Before we begin,

Allow yourself to get oh so comfortable in only the ways that you know best.

Allow yourself to be cradled in your sheets and blankets,

Cozied in your pillows,

And when you're ready,

Close your eyes and settle in.

Chapter 1 of The Secret Garden.

There is no one left.

When Mary Lennox was sent to Misslewaite Manor to live with her uncle,

Everybody said she was the most disagreeable looking child ever seen.

It was true too.

She had a little thin face and a little thin body,

Thin light hair,

And a sour expression.

Her hair was yellow and her face was yellow because she had been born in India and had always been ill in one way or another.

Her father had held a position under the English government and had always been busy and ill himself.

And her mother had been a great beauty who cared only to go to parties and amuse herself with gay people.

She had not wanted a little girl at all.

And when Mary was born,

She handed her over to the care of an Ayah who was made to understand that if she wished to please the Mem Sahib,

She must keep the child out of sight as much as possible.

So when she was a sickly,

Fretful,

Ugly little baby,

She was kept out of the way.

And when she became a sickly,

Fretful,

Toddling thing,

She was kept out of the way also.

She never remembered seeing familiar anything but dark faces of her Ayah and the other native servants.

And as they always obeyed her and gave her her own way in everything,

Because the Mem Sahib would be angry if she was disturbed by her crying.

By the time she was six years old,

She was as tyrannical and selfish a little pig as ever lived.

The young English governess who came to teach her to read and write disliked her so much that she gave up her place in three months.

And when the other governesses came to try to fill it,

They always went away in a shorter time than the first.

So if Mary had not chosen to really want to know how to read books,

She would never have learned her letters at all.

One frightfully hot morning,

When she was about nine years old,

She awakened feeling very cross.

And she became crosser still when she saw that the servant who stood by her bedside was not her Ayah.

Why did you come,

She said to the strange woman?

I will not let you stay.

Send my Ayah to me.

The woman looked frightened,

But she only stammered that the Ayah could not come.

And when Mary threw herself into a passion and beat and kicked her,

She looked only more frightened and repeated that it was not possible for the Ayah to come see Missy Sahib.

There was something mysterious in the air that morning.

Nothing was done in its regular order,

And several of the native servants seemed missing,

While those whom Mary saw slunk or hurried about with ashy and scared faces.

But no one would tell her anything,

And her Ayah did not come.

She was actually left alone as the morning went on,

And at last she wandered out into the garden and began to play by herself under a tree near the veranda.

She pretended that she was making a flowerbed,

And she stuck big scarlet hibiscus blossoms into little heaps of earth,

All the time growing more and more angry and muttering to herself,

Pig,

Pig,

Daughter of pig,

She said,

Because to call a native a pig is the worst insult of all.

She was grinding her teeth and saying this over and over again when she heard her mother come out of the veranda with someone.

She was with a fair young man,

And they stood talking together in low,

Strange voices.

Mary knew the fair young man,

And who looked like a little boy.

She had heard that he was very young,

And he'd just come from England.

The child stared at him,

But she stared mostly at her mother.

She always did this when she had a chance to see her,

Because the Mem Sahib,

Mary used to call her that oftener than anything else,

Was such a tall,

Slim,

Pretty person,

And wore such lovely clothes.

Her hair was like curly silk,

And she had a delicate little nose which seemed to be disdaining,

And she had large laughing eyes.

All her clothes were thin and floating,

And Mary said they were full of lace.

They looked fuller of lace than ever this morning,

But her eyes were not laughing at all.

They were large and scared,

And lifted imploringly to the fair boy officer's face.

Is it so very bad?

Oh,

Is it?

Mary heard her say.

Awfully,

The young man answered in a trembling voice.

Awfully,

Miss Lennox.

You ought to have gone to the hills two weeks ago.

The Mem Sahib wrung her hands.

Oh,

I know I ought,

She cried.

I only stayed to go to that silly dinner party.

What a fool I was.

At that very moment,

Such a loud sound of wailing broke out from the servant's quarters that she clutched the young man's arm.

Mary stood shivering from head to foot.

The wailing grew wilder and wilder.

What is it?

What is it?

Miss Lennox gasped.

Someone has died,

Answered the boy officer.

You did not say it had broken out among your servants.

I did not know,

The Mem Sahib cried.

Come with me.

Come with me.

And she turned and ran into the house.

After that,

Appalling things happened,

And the mysteriousness of the morning was explained to Mary.

The cholera had broken out in its most fatal form,

And people were dying like flies.

The ayah had been taken ill in the night,

And it was because she had just died that the servants had wailed in the huts.

Before the next three,

Other servants were dead and others had to run away in terror.

There was panic on every side,

And dying people in the bungalows.

During the confusion and bewilderment of the second day,

Mary hid herself in the nursery and was forgotten by everyone.

Nobody thought of her,

Nobody wanted her,

And strange things happened of which she knew nothing.

Mary alternately cried and slept through the hours.

She only knew that people were ill and that she had heard mysterious and frightening sounds.

Once she crept into the dining room and found it empty,

Though a partly finished meal was on the table.

And chairs and plates looked as if they'd been hastily pushed back when the diners rose suddenly for some reason.

The child ate some fruits and biscuits and began being thirsty.

She drank a glass of water which stood very nearly filled.

It was sweet,

And she did not know how strong it was.

Very soon it made her intensely drowsy,

And she went back to the nursery,

Shut herself in again,

Frightened by crises she heard in the huts and by a hurring sound of feet.

The wine made her so sleepy that she could scarcely keep her eyes open,

And she lay down on her bed and knew nothing more for a long time.

Many things happened during the hours in which she slept so heavenly,

But she did not be disturbed by the wails and sounds of things being carried in and out of the bungalow.

When she awakened she lay and stared at the wall.

The house was perfectly still.

She had never known it to be so still before.

She heard neither voices nor footsteps and wondered if everybody had got well of the cholera and all the trouble was over.

She also wondered who would take care of her now.

Now that her Ayah was dead,

There would be a new Ayah,

And perhaps she would know some new stories.

Mary had been quite 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 anyone.

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 all they remembered was themselves.

But if everyone had got well again,

Surely someone 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 doors.

She watched him.

How queer and quiet it is,

She says.

It sounds as if there is no one in the bungalow but me and this 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,

But 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 so hungry and feeling disgracefully neglected.

The first man who came in was a large officer.

She had seen him talking to her father.

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 men were very rude to call her father's bungalow a place like this.

I fell asleep when everyone had the cholera and I've only just wakened up.

Why does nobody come?

It is if the child doesn't know.

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,

Looked at her very sadly.

Mary even thought she saw him wink his eye 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 away.

None of them even remembering that there was a little missy sahib.

That was why the place was so quiet.

It was true that there was no one in the bungalow but herself and that wrestling little snake.

Chapter Two.

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 always a self-absorbed child,

She gave her an entire thoughts to herself,

As she had always done.

If she had been older,

She would have no doubt have been very anxious at being left alone in the world.

But she was very young,

And as she always had 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 other native servants had done.

She knew that she was not going to stay at the English clergyman's house,

For 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 shabby clothes and were always quarreling and snatching toys from each other.

Mary hated their untidy bungalow and was so disagreeable to them that after the first day or two,

Nobody would play with her.

By the second day,

They had given her a nickname,

Which made her furious.

It was Basil who thought of it first.

Basil was a little boy with impudent blue eyes and a turned up nose,

And Mary hated him.

She was playing by herself under a tree,

Just as she had been playing the day the cholera broke out.

She was making heaps of earth and paths for a walk,

And Basil came and stood near to watch her.

Presently,

He got rather interested and suddenly made a suggestion.

Why don't you put a heap of stones over there and pretend it's a rockery,

He said.

There in the middle,

And he leaned over to point.

Go away,

Cried Mary.

I don't want boys.

Go away.

For a moment,

Basil looked angry,

And then he began to tease.

He was always teasing his daughters.

He danced around and around and made faces and sang and laughed.

Mistress Mary,

Quite contrary,

How does your garden grow,

With silver bells and a cockle shells and marigolds all in a row?

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.

You're going to be sent home,

Basil said to her at the end of the week,

And we're glad of it.

I'm glad of it too,

Answered Mary.

Where is home?

She doesn't even know where home is,

Said Basil,

With seven-year-old Scorn.

It's England,

Of course.

Your grandmama lives there,

And our sister Mabel was sent to her last year.

You are not going to your grandmama.

You have none.

You're just going to your uncle.

His name is Mr.

Archibald Craven.

I don't know anything about him,

Snapped Mary.

I know you don't,

Basil answered.

You don't know anything.

Girls never do.

I heard father and mother talking about him.

He lives in a great,

Big,

Desolate old house in the country,

And no one goes near him.

He's so cross,

He won't let them.

And they wouldn't come if they let him.

He's a hunchback,

And he's horrid.

I don't believe you,

Said Mary,

And she turned her back and stuck her fingers in her ears,

Because she would never listen anymore.

She thought over it a great deal afterwards,

And when Miss Crawford told her that night that she was going to sail away to England in a few days and go to her uncle,

Mr.

Archibald Craven,

Who lived at Misslewaith Manor,

She looked so stony and stubbornly uninterested that they did not know what to think about her.

They tried to be kind to her,

But she only turned her face away when Miss Crawford attempted to kiss her and held herself stiffly when Miss Crawford patted her shoulder.

She is such a plain child,

Miss Crawford said pityingly afterwards,

And her mother was such a pretty creature.

She had a very pretty manner,

Too,

And Mary has the most unattractive ways I've ever seen in a child.

The children call her mistress Mary quite contrary,

And though it's naughty of them,

One can't help understanding it.

Perhaps if her mother had carried her pretty face and her pretty manners off into the nursery,

Mary might have learned some pretty ways,

Too.

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.

I believe she scarcely ever looked at her,

Sighed Miss Crawford.

Within her,

Ia was dead.

There was no one to give her a thought to the little thing.

Think of the servants running away and leaving her all alone in that deserted bungalow.

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.

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.

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.

Archibald Craven sent to meet her.

This woman was his housekeeper at Missal Waite Manor,

And her name was Miss Medlock.

She was a stout woman with very red cheeks and sharp black eyes.

She wore a very purple dress,

A black silk mantle with her jet fringe on it,

And a black bonnet with purple velvet flowers which stuck up and trembled when she moved her head.

Mary did not like her at all,

But as she very seldom liked people,

There was nothing remarkable in that.

Besides,

It was very evident Miss Medlock did not think much of her.

My word,

She's a plain little piece of good,

She said.

And we heard that her mother was such a great beauty.

She hasn't handed down much of that,

Has she,

Ma'am?

Perhaps she will improve as she grows older,

The officer's wife said good-naturedly.

If she were not so sallow and had a nicer expression,

Her features are rather good.

Children alter so much.

She'll have to alter a good deal,

Answered Miss Medlock,

And there's nothing likely to improve children in Missal Waite,

If you ask me.

They thought Mary was not listening because she was standing a little apart from them in the window of the private hotel they'd gone to in London.

She was watching the passing buses and cabs and people,

But she heard quite well and was made very curious about her uncle and the place he lived.

What sort of place was it,

And what would he be like?

What was a hunchback?

She had never seen one.

Perhaps there were none in India.

Since she had been living in other people's houses and had no ayah,

She began to feel lonely and to think queer thoughts which were new to her.

She began to wonder why she never seemed to belong to anyone,

Even when her father and mother had been alive.

Other children seemed to belong to their fathers and mothers,

But she had never seemed to really be anyone's little girl.

She had had servants and food and clothes,

But no one had taken any notice of her.

She did not know that this was because she was a disagreeable child,

But then,

Of course,

She did not know she was disagreeable.

She often thought that other people were,

But she did not know that she was herself.

She thought Miss Medlock the most disagreeable person she'd ever seen,

With her common,

Highly colored face and her common fine bonnet.

When the station to the railway carriage,

When they walked with their head up trying to keep her as far away as she could because she did not want to seem to belong to her,

It would have made her a very angry thing to let people imagine she was her little girl.

But Miss Medlock was not the least disturbed by her and her thoughts.

She was the kind of woman who would stand no nonsense from young ones.

At least,

That is what she would have said if she had been asked.

Captain Lennox and his wife died of cholera.

Mr.

Craven had sent in his short cold way.

Captain Lennox was my brother's wife,

And I am their daughter's guardian.

The child is to be brought here.

You must go to London and bring her yourself.

And so Miss Medlock did just that.

So she packed her small trunk and made the journey.

Mary sat in the corner of the railway carriage and looked plain and fretful.

She had nothing to read or look at.

She had folded her little black gloved hands in her lap.

Her black dress made her look yellower than ever,

And her limp light hair straggled in from under the black hat.

A more marred looking young woman I have never saw in my life,

Said Miss Medlock.

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.

Hmm,

Muttered Miss Medlock,

Staring at her queer unresponsive little face.

I suppose you might as well be told something to prepare yourself.

You are going to quite a queer place.

Mary had said nothing at all,

And Miss Medlock looked rather discomfited by her apparent indifference.

But after taking a breath,

She went on.

Not,

But that is a grand big place in a gloomy way,

And Mr.

Craven is 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,

But most of them are shut up and locked.

And there's pictures,

And fine old furniture,

And things that have been here for ages,

And there's a big park round,

And gardens,

And trees,

And branches.

She paused and took another breath.

But there's nothing else,

She said suddenly.

Mary had begun to listen in spite of herself.

It all sounded so unlike India,

And anything new rather attracted her.

But she did not intend to look as if she were interested.

That was one of her unhappy disagreeable ways.

So she sat still.

Well,

Said Miss Medlock,

What do you think of it?

Nothing she answered.

I know nothing about such places.

That made Miss Medlock laugh a short sort of laugh.

But you are like an old woman,

Don't you care?

It doesn't matter,

Said Mary,

Whether I care or not.

Well,

You're right about that there.

It doesn't.

Well,

You're to be kept in the misaligned manner.

For I don't know,

Unless it's the easiest way.

He's not going to trouble himself with you,

That's sure and certain.

He never troubles himself with anyone.

She stopped herself as if she had just remembered something in time.

He's got a crooked back.

That set him wrong.

He was a sour young man,

And no good of all his money,

And big place until he was married.

Mary's eyes turned toward her in spite of her intention not to seem to care.

She never thought of the hunchbacks being married,

And she was a trifle bit surprised.

Miss Medlock saw this,

And as she was a talkative woman,

She continued with more interest.

This was one way of passing some time at any rate.

She was a sweet pretty thing,

And he'd have walked the world over to get her a blade of grass if she ever wanted.

Nobody thought she'd married him,

But she did,

And people said she married him for his money,

But she didn't.

When she died,

Mary gave a little involuntary jump.

Oh,

Did she die?

She had just remembered a French fairy story about what was called,

About a beautiful princess,

And it made her suddenly sorry for Dr.

Archibald Craven.

Yes,

She died,

Miss Medlock answered,

And it made him queerer than ever.

He cares about no one.

He won't see people.

Most of the time he goes away,

And when he's at myth-a-wait,

He shuts himself up in the West Wing and won't let anyone see him.

It sounded like something from a book,

And it did not make Mary feel cheerful.

The house was a hundred rooms,

Nearly all shut up.

You'd needn't expect to see him,

Because ten to one you won't,

Said Miss Medlock,

And you mustn't expect that there'll be people to talk to.

You'll have to play about and look after yourself.

You'll be told what rooms you can go into and what rooms you're to keep out of.

There's gardens enough,

But when you're in the house,

Don't go wandering and poking about.

Mr.

Craven won't have it.

I shall not want to go poking about,

Said little sour Mary,

And just as suddenly as she began to be rather sorry for Mr.

Archibald Craven,

She began to cease to be sorry and to think he was unpleasant enough to deserve all that happened to him.

Chapter Three.

Across the Moor.

She slept a long time,

And when she awakened,

Miss Medlock had bought a lunch basket at one of the stations,

And they had some chicken and cold beef,

Bread and butter and some hot tea.

The rain seemed to be streaming down more heavily than ever,

And everybody in the station wore wet and glistening waterproofs.

The guard lighted the lamps and the carriage,

And Miss Medlock cheered up very much over her tea and chicken and beef.

She ate a great deal and afterward fell asleep.

You have a sleep,

She said.

It's time to open your eyes.

We're at Thwaite Station,

And we've got a long drive before us.

Mary stood up and tried to keep her eyes open while Miss Medlock collected her parcels.

The little girl did not offer to help because in India,

Native servants always picked up or carried her things and seemed quite proper that other people should wait on one.

The station was a small one,

And nobody but themselves seemed to be getting out of this train.

The stationmaster spoke to Miss Medlock in a rough,

Good-natured way,

Pronouncing his words in a queer,

Broad fashion which Mary found out afterward was Yorkshire.

I see this got back,

He said,

And this proud young thing with thee.

Aye,

That's her,

Answered Miss Medlock.

How's the missus?

Well enough,

And the carriage is waiting outside for thee.

A brown stood on the road before the little outside platform.

Mary saw that it was a smart carriage and that it was a smart footman who helped her in.

His long waterproof coat and the waterproof covering of the hat were shining and dripping with rain as everything was.

When he shut the door,

Mounted the boxes with the coachman,

And they drove off,

The little girl found herself seated in a comfortably cushioned corner,

But she was not inclined to go to sleep again.

She sat and looked out of the window,

Curious to see something on the road.

What is it more,

She said suddenly to Miss Medlock?

Look out the window in about ten minutes and you'll see,

The woman answered.

We've got to drive five miles across Missilmore before we get to the manor.

You won't see much because it's a dark night,

But you can see something.

Mary asked no more questions,

But waited in the darkness of her own corner,

Keeping her eyes on the window.

The carriage lamps cast rays of light in a little distance ahead of them,

And she caught glimpses of things they passed.

After they had left the station,

They had driven through a tiny village and she had seen whitewashed cottages in the lights of a public house.

Then they passed a church and a vicarage and a little shop window or so on a cottage with toys and sweets and odd things set out for sale.

Then they were on the high road and she saw hedges and trees.

After that there seemed nothing different for a long time,

Or at least it seemed a long time for her.

At last the horses began to go more slowly,

As if they were climbing uphill and presently there seemed to be no more hedges and no more trees.

She could see nothing.

In fact,

But a dense darkness on either side.

She leaned forward and pressed her face against the window,

Just as the carriage gave a big jolt.

Hey,

We're on the mornell for sure,

Said Miss Medlock.

The carriage lamps shed a yellow light on the rough-looking road which seemed to be cut through bushes and low-growing things,

Which ended in the great expanse of a dark,

Apparently spread out before and around them.

It's not the sea,

Is it?

Said Mary.

No,

Not it.

Nor it isn't fields nor mountains.

It's just miles and miles and miles of wild land that nothing grows on but heather and gorse and broom and nothing lives on but wild ponies and sheep.

I feel as if it might be the sea.

If there was water on it,

Said Mary,

It sounds like the sea just now.

That's the wind blowing through the bushes,

Miss Medlock said.

It's a wild,

Dreary enough place in my mind,

But there's plenty that like it,

Particularly when the heathers and bloom.

On and on they drove through the darkness and through the rain.

And when the rain stopped,

The wind rushed by and whistled and made strange sounds.

The road went up and down,

And several times the carriage passed over a little bridge beneath which water rushed very fast with a great deal of noise.

Mary felt as if the drive would never come to an end and that the wide,

Bleak moor was a wide expanse,

A black ocean through which she was passing on a strip of dry land.

I don't like it,

She said to herself.

I don't like it,

And she pinched her thin lips more tightly together.

The horses were climbing up a hilly piece of road when she first caught sight of a light.

Miss Medlock saw it as soon as she did and drew a long sigh of relief.

I'm glad to see that little light twinkling,

She exclaimed.

It's the light in the lodge window.

We shall get a good cup of tea after a bit,

At all events.

It was after a bit,

As she said,

And when the carriage passed through the park gates,

There was still two miles of an avenue to drive through,

And the trees,

Which nearly met overhead,

Made it seem as if they were driving through a long,

Dark vault.

They drove out of the vault into a clear space and stopped before an immensely long but low-built house which seemed to ramble round a stone.

At first Mary thought there was no lights in all the windows,

But as she got out of the carriage she saw that one room in a corner upstairs showed a dull glow.

The entrance door was a huge one made out of a massive,

Curiously shaped panel of oak studded with big iron nails and bound with great iron bars.

It opened into an enormous hall which was so dimly lighted that the faces and the portraits on the walls and the figures in the suits of armor made Mary feel that she did not want to look at them.

As she stood on the stone floor she looked a very small,

Odd little black figure,

And she felt as small and lost and odd as she looked.

A neat,

Thin old man stood near the man servant who opened the door for them.

You are to take her to her room,

He said in a husky voice.

He doesn't want to see her.

He's going to London in the morning.

Very well,

Mr.

Pitcher,

Miss Medlock answered.

So long as I know what's expected of me,

I can manage.

What's expected of you,

Miss Medlock,

Mr.

Pitcher said,

Is that you make sure that he's not disturbed and that he doesn't see what he doesn't want to see.

And then Mary Lennox was led up a broad staircase and down a long corridor and up a short flight of steps and through another corridor and another until a door opened.

She found herself in a room with a fire in it and supper on the table.

Miss Medlock said unceremoniously,

Well,

Here you are.

This room and the next are where you'll live and you must keep to them.

Don't you forget that.

It was in this way that Mistress Mary arrived at Missalwaite Manor and she had perhaps never quite felt so contrary in all her life.

That is the end of our sleep story tonight.

Thank you so much for allowing me the precious gift of your time.

Until next time,

Sweet dreams.

Reviews

That was absolutely brilliant Hillary. I've actually read the book a lot of years ago as my mum gave it to me. And I've seen the film on DVD. It is a wonderful story but I don't think I have the book anymore and I'm not sure if I still have the DVD either. But it really is very good to listen to. Thankyou.

You have a lovely voice but it is so soft and the recording is set so low that I have to have my phone right next to my ear.

Thank you Hilary. Grateful. Sending good wishes. 🌻

Beautiful story yet
Th The volume was so very low

Lovely soothing voice and one of my favorite books!

😍

One of my favorite childhood stories! Thank you so much! This time I heard very little of it but I will be returning to it often. Both during the day to really listen and of course 😌 at night. Wonder if you would consider continuing it?