“Put on tha’ things and run an’ skip out o’ doors,” said Martha.  “Mother said I must tell you to keep out o’ doors as much as you could, even when it rains a bit, so as tha’ wrap up warm.”

Mary put on her coat and hat and took her skipping-rope over her arm.  She opened the door to go out, and then suddenly thought of something and turned back rather slowly.

“Martha,” she said, “they were your wages.  It was your twopence really.  Thank you.”  She said it stiffly because she was not used to thanking people or noticing that they did things for her.  “Thank you,” she said, and held out her hand because she did not know what else to do.

Martha gave her hand a clumsy little shake, as if she was not accustomed to this sort of thing either.  Then she laughed.

“Eh! tha’ art a queer, old-womanish thing,” she said.  “If tha’d been our ’Lizabeth Ellen tha’d have give me a kiss.”

Mary looked stiffer than ever.

“Do you want me to kiss you?”

Martha laughed again.

“Nay, not me,” she answered.  “If tha’ was different, p’raps tha’d want to thysel’.  But tha’ isn’t.  Run off outside an’ play with thy rope.”

Mistress Mary felt a little awkward as she went out of the room.  Yorkshire people seemed strange, and Martha was always rather a puzzle to her.  At first she had disliked her very much, but now she did not.

The skipping-rope was a wonderful thing.  She counted and skipped, and skipped and counted, until her cheeks were quite red, and she was more interested than she had ever been since she was born.  The sun was shining and a little wind was blowing—­not a rough wind, but one which came in delightful little gusts and brought a fresh scent of newly turned earth with it.  She skipped round the fountain garden, and up one walk and down another.  She skipped at last into the kitchen-garden and saw Ben Weatherstaff digging and talking to his robin, which was hopping about him.  She skipped down the walk toward him and he lifted his head and looked at her with a curious expression.  She had wondered if he would notice her.  She really wanted him to see her skip.

“Well!” he exclaimed.  “Upon my word!  P’raps tha’ art a young ’un, after all, an’ p’raps tha’s got child’s blood in thy veins instead of sour buttermilk.  Tha’s skipped red into thy cheeks as sure as my name’s Ben Weatherstaff.  I wouldn’t have believed tha’ could do it.”

“I never skipped before,” Mary said.  “I’m just beginning.  I can only go up to twenty.”

“Tha’ keep on,” said Ben.  “Tha’ shapes well enough at it for a young ’un that’s lived with heathen.  Just see how he’s watchin’ thee,” jerking his head toward the robin.  “He followed after thee yesterday.  He’ll be at it again to-day.  He’ll be bound to find out what th’ skippin’-rope is.  He’s never seen one.  Eh!” shaking his head at the bird, “tha’ curosity will be th’ death of thee sometime if tha’ doesn’t look sharp.”