a young housemaid had come into her room to light
the fire and was kneeling on the hearth-rug raking
out the cinders noisily.  Mary lay and watched her for
a few moments and then began to look about the room. 
She had never seen a room at all like it and thought it
curious and gloomy.  The walls were covered with tapestry
with a forest scene embroidered on it.  There were
fantastically dressed people under the trees and in the
distance there was a glimpse of the turrets of a castle. 
There were hunters and horses and dogs and ladies. 
Mary felt as if she were in the forest with them. 
Out of a deep window she could see a great climbing
stretch of land which seemed to have no trees on it,
and to look rather like an endless, dull, purplish sea. 

"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 blackingbrush 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 house-maids. I might have been let to be scullerymaid
but I'd never have been let upstairs.  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 sat up on her heels again and stared.  She spoke
in broad Yorkshire in her amazement. 

"Canna' tha' dress thysen!" she said. 

"What do you mean? I don't understand your language,"
said Mary. 

"Eh! I forgot," Martha said.  "Mrs. Medlock told me I'd
have to be careful or you wouldn't know what I was sayin'.
I mean can't you put on your own clothes?"