“What is that?” she said, pointing out of the window.

Martha, the young housemaid, who had just risen to her feet, looked and pointed also.

“That there?” she said.

“Yes.”

“That’s th’ moor,” with a good-natured grin.  “Does tha’ like it?”

“No,” answered Mary.  “I hate it.”

“That’s because tha’rt not used to it,” Martha said, going back to her hearth.  “Tha’ thinks it’s too big an’ bare now.  But tha’ will like it.”

“Do you?” inquired Mary.

“Aye, that I do,” answered Martha, cheerfully polishing away at the grate.  “I just love it.  It’s none bare.  It’s covered wi’ growin’ things as smells sweet.  It’s fair lovely in spring an’ summer when th’ gorse an’ broom an’ heather’s in flower.  It smells o’ honey an’ there’s such a lot o’ fresh air—­an’ th’ sky looks so high an’ th’ bees an’ skylarks makes such a nice noise hummin’ an’ singin’.  Eh!  I wouldn’t live away from th’ moor for anythin’.”

Mary listened to her with a grave, puzzled expression.  The native servants she had been used to in India were not in the least like this.  They were obsequious and servile and did not presume to talk to their masters as if they were their equals.  They made salaams and called them “protector of the poor” and names of that sort.  Indian servants were commanded to do things, not asked.  It was not the custom to say “please” and “thank you” and Mary had always slapped her Ayah in the face when she was angry.  She wondered a little what this girl would do if one slapped her in the face.  She was a round, rosy, good-natured looking creature, but she had a sturdy way which made Mistress Mary wonder if she might not even slap back—­if the person who slapped her was only a little girl.

“You are a strange servant,” she said from her pillows, rather haughtily.

Martha sat up on her heels, with her blacking-brush in her hand, and laughed, without seeming the least out of temper.

“Eh!  I know that,” she said.  “If there was a grand Missus at Misselthwaite I should never have been even one of th’ under housemaids.  I might have been let to be scullery-maid but I’d never have been let up-stairs.  I’m too common an’ I talk too much Yorkshire.  But this is a funny house for all it’s so grand.  Seems like there’s neither Master nor Mistress except Mr. Pitcher an’ Mrs. Medlock.  Mr. Craven, he won’t be troubled about anythin’ when he’s here, an’ he’s nearly always away.  Mrs. Medlock gave me th’ place out o’ kindness.  She told me she could never have done it if Misselthwaite had been like other big houses.”

“Are you going to be my servant?” Mary asked, still in her imperious little Indian way.

Martha began to rub her grate again.

“I’m Mrs. Medlock’s servant,” she said stoutly.  “An’ she’s Mr. Craven’s—­but I’m to do the housemaid’s work up here an’ wait on you a bit.  But you won’t need much waitin’ on.”