time."

And he actually stopped digging, threw his spade over his shoulder and
walked off, without even glancing at her or saying good-by.

CHAPTER V

THE CRY IN THE CORRIDOR

At first each day which passed by for Mary Lennox was exactly like the
others. Every morning she awoke in her tapestried room and found Martha
kneeling upon the hearth building her fire; every morning she ate her
breakfast in the nursery which had nothing amusing in it; and after each
breakfast she gazed out of the window across to the huge moor which
seemed to spread out on all sides and climb up to the sky, and after she
had stared for a while she realized that if she did not go out she would
have to stay in and do nothing--and so she went out. She did not know
that this was the best thing she could have done, and she did not know
that, when she began to walk quickly or even run along the paths and
down the avenue, she was stirring her slow blood and making herself
stronger by fighting with the wind which swept down from the moor. She
ran only to make herself warm, and she hated the wind which rushed at
her face and roared and held her back as if it were some giant she could
not see. But the big breaths of rough fresh air blown over the heather
filled her lungs with something which was good for her whole thin body
and whipped some red color into her cheeks and brightened her dull eyes
when she did not know anything about it.

But after a few days spent almost entirely out of doors she wakened one
morning knowing what it was to be hungry, and when she sat down to her
breakfast she did not glance disdainfully at her porridge and push it
away, but took up her spoon and began to eat it and went on eating it
until her bowl was empty.

"Tha' got on well enough with that this mornin', didn't tha'?" said
Martha.

"It tastes nice to-day," said Mary, feeling a little surprised herself.

"It's th' air of th' moor that's givin' thee stomach for tha' victuals,"
answered Martha. "It's lucky for thee that tha's got victuals as well as
appetite. There's been twelve in our cottage as had th' stomach an'
nothin' to put in it. You go on playin' you out o' doors every day an'
you'll get some flesh on your bones an' you won't be so yeller."

"I don't play," said Mary. "I have nothing to play with."

"Nothin' to play with!" exclaimed Martha. "Our children plays with
sticks and stones. They just runs about an' shouts an' looks at things."

Mary di