There was something comforting and really friendly in her queer Yorkshire speech and sturdy way which had a good effect on Mary.  She gradually ceased crying and became quiet.  Martha looked relieved.

“It’s time for thee to get up now,” she said.  “Mrs. Medlock said I was to carry tha’ breakfast an’ tea an’ dinner into th’ room next to this.  It’s been made into a nursery for thee.  I’ll help thee on with thy clothes if tha’ll get out o’ bed.  If th’ buttons are at th’ back tha’ cannot button them up tha’self.”

When Mary at last decided to get up, the clothes Martha took from the wardrobe were not the ones she had worn when she arrived the night before with Mrs. Medlock.

“Those are not mine,” she said.  “Mine are black.”

She looked the thick white wool coat and dress over, and added with cool approval: 

“Those are nicer than mine.”

“These are th’ ones tha’ must put on,” Martha answered.  “Mr. Craven ordered Mrs. Medlock to get ’em in London.  He said ’I won’t have a child dressed in black wanderin’ about like a lost soul,’ he said.  ’It’d make the place sadder than it is.  Put color on her.’  Mother she said she knew what he meant.  Mother always knows what a body means.  She doesn’t hold with black hersel’.”

“I hate black things,” said Mary.

The dressing process was one which taught them both something.  Martha had “buttoned up” her little sisters and brothers but she had never seen a child who stood still and waited for another person to do things for her as if she had neither hands nor feet of her own.

“Why doesn’t tha’ put on tha’ own shoes?” she said when Mary quietly held out her foot.

“My Ayah did it,” answered Mary, staring.  “It was the custom.”

She said that very often—­“It was the custom.”  The native servants were always saying it.  If one told them to do a thing their ancestors had not done for a thousand years they gazed at one mildly and said, “It is not the custom” and one knew that was the end of the matter.

It had not been the custom that Mistress Mary should do anything but stand and allow herself to be dressed like a doll, but before she was ready for breakfast she began to suspect that her life at Misselthwaite Manor would end by teaching her a number of things quite new to her—­things such as putting on her own shoes and stockings, and picking up things she let fall.  If Martha had been a well-trained fine young lady’s maid she would have been more subservient and respectful and would have known that it was her business to brush hair, and button boots, and pick things up and lay them away.  She was, however, only an untrained Yorkshire rustic who had been brought up in a moorland cottage with a swarm of little brothers and sisters who had never dreamed of doing anything but waiting on themselves and on the younger ones who were either babies in arms or just learning to totter about and tumble over things.