Martha laughed as she had done the first morning.

“There now,” she said.  “I’ve talked broad Yorkshire again like Mrs. Medlock said I mustn’t.  ‘Nowt o’ th’ soart’ means ‘nothin’-of-the-sort,’” slowly and carefully, “but it takes so long to say it.  Yorkshire’s th’ sunniest place on earth when it is sunny.  I told thee tha’d like th’ moor after a bit.  Just you wait till you see th’ gold-colored gorse blossoms an’ th’ blossoms o’ th’ broom, an’ th’ heather flowerin’, all purple bells, an’ hundreds o’ butterflies flutterin’ an’ bees hummin’ an’ skylarks soarin’ up an’ singin’.  You’ll want to get out on it at sunrise an’ live out on it all day like Dickon does.”

“Could I ever get there?” asked Mary wistfully, looking through her window at the far-off blue.  It was so new and big and wonderful and such a heavenly color.

“I don’t know,” answered Martha.  “Tha’s never used tha’ legs since tha’ was born, it seems to me.  Tha’ couldn’t walk five mile.  It’s five mile to our cottage.”

“I should like to see your cottage.”

Martha stared at her a moment curiously before she took up her polishing brush and began to rub the grate again.  She was thinking that the small plain face did not look quite as sour at this moment as it had done the first morning she saw it.  It looked just a trifle like little Susan Ann’s when she wanted something very much.

“I’ll ask my mother about it,” she said.  “She’s one o’ them that nearly always sees a way to do things.  It’s my day out to-day an’ I’m goin’ home.  Eh!  I am glad.  Mrs. Medlock thinks a lot o’ mother.  Perhaps she could talk to her.”

“I like your mother,” said Mary.

“I should think tha’ did,” agreed Martha, polishing away.

“I’ve never seen her,” said Mary.

“No, tha’ hasn’t,” replied Martha.

She sat up on her heels again and rubbed the end of her nose with the back of her hand as if puzzled for a moment, but she ended quite positively.

“Well, she’s that sensible an’ hard workin’ an’ good-natured an’ clean that no one could help likin’ her whether they’d seen her or not.  When I’m goin’ home to her on my day out I just jump for joy when I’m crossin’ th’ moor.”

“I like Dickon,” added Mary.  “And I’ve never seen him.”

“Well,” said Martha stoutly, “I’ve told thee that th’ very birds likes him an’ th’ rabbits an’ wild sheep an’ ponies, an’ th’ foxes themselves.  I wonder,” staring at her reflectively, “what Dickon would think of thee?”

“He wouldn’t like me,” said Mary in her stiff, cold little way.  “No one does.”

Martha looked reflective again.

“How does tha’ like thysel’?” she inquired, really quite as if she were curious to know.

Mary hesitated a moment and thought it over.

“Not at all—­really,” she answered.  “But I never thought of that before.”

Martha grinned a little as if at some homely recollection.