this was of a deep cool blue which almost seemed to sparkle like the
waters of some lovely bottomless lake, and here and there, high, high
in the arched blueness floated small clouds of snow-white fleece. The
far-reaching world of the moor itself looked softly blue instead of
gloomy purple-black or awful dreary gray.
Aye, said Martha with a cheerful grin. Th storm s over for a bit.
It does like this at this time o th year. It goes off in a night like
it was pretendin it had never been here an never meant to come again.
That s because th springtime s on its way. It s a long way off yet,
but it s comin .
I thought perhaps it always rained or looked dark in England, Mary
said.
Eh! no! said Martha, sitting up on her heels among her black lead
brushes. Nowt o th soart!
What does that mean? asked Mary seriously. In India the natives spoke
different dialects which only a few people understood, so she was not
surprised when Martha used words she did not know.
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
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