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 two-pence
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! th art a queer, old-womanish thing, she said. If tha d been our
Lizabeth Ellen tha d have given 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
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