ke 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."

"Who is going to dress me?" demanded Mary.

Martha