Mary’s heart started to pound so fast she thought it was going to burst out of her chest. Mother and Daddy . . . both dead? She drew in a sharp breath. No, they couldn’t be dead. They couldn’t be! But even as the thought formed she knew, with a horrible, crashing certainty, that it must be true. The officers wouldn’t make a mistake about something like that. A sob ripped up through her, half whimper, half choking cry.

There was the sound of feet, and one of the officers looked in through the door. “Oh, Lord. She’s here.” He cleared his throat awkwardly, obviously having no idea how to comfort a ten-year-old girl.

His companion joined him. “What in heaven’s name are we going to do with her? She can’t stay here,” he said.

Mary looked up through her tears to see the first officer consulting his notes.

“She has a widowed uncle in England,” he said. “We’ll send her back on the boat with the other children.”

From then on, Mary was passed around like an unwanted parcel. On leaving the hospital, she was sent to stay with a clergyman named Mr. Crawford, who had a wife and five children of his own. She heard the adults around her saying it would be better for her to be with other children, but she didn’t understand why. She didn’t want to play with the Crawford children. They were younger than her, and they wanted to know all about her parents and how they had died. She felt miserable and wouldn’t answer their questions. Finally, she lost her temper, ripping up a drawing that the youngest had done for her and screaming at them all to leave her alone. After that, they stayed away from her, watching her as if she was a strange, wild animal. Mary didn’t care. She didn’t feel like she would care about anything ever again.

She had heard the clergyman and his stout, well-meaning wife talking about her in whispers: “Poor child . . . word has been sent to England . . . He’s her uncle by marriage, you know. . . . He was married to her mother’s twin sister, who died years ago. . . . Such a tragedy, poor man . . . but he’s her only living relative. . . . He’ll have to take her, whether he likes it or not. . . .”

Finally, a telegram had arrived. “The ship that will take you to England leaves tomorrow,” Mrs. Crawford informed Mary. “Your uncle—Mr. Craven—who was married to your aunt, Grace, has agreed to take you in. He lives in Yorkshire at a place called Misselthwaite Manor. You’re a lucky girl, Mary. Your uncle is a rich man.”