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“
What
is
that
?
”
she
said
,
pointing
out
of
the
window
.
Martha
,
the
young
housemaid
,
who
had
just
risen
to
her
feet
,
looked
and
pointed
also
.
“
That
there
?
”
she
said
.
“
Yes
.
”
“
That
’
s
th
’
moor
,
”
with
a
good
-
natured
grin
.
“
Does
tha
’
like
it
?
”
“
No
,
”
answered
Mary
.
“
I
hate
it
.
”
“
That
’
s
because
tha
’
rt
not
used
to
it
,
”
Martha
said
,
going
back
to
her
hearth
.
“
Tha
’
thinks
it
’
s
too
big
an
’
bare
now
.
But
tha
’
will
like
it
.
”
“
Do
you
?
”
inquired
Mary
.
“
Aye
,
that
I
do
,
”
answered
Martha
,
cheerfully
polishing
away
at
the
grate
.
“
I
just
love
it
.
It
’
s
none
bare
.
It
’
s
covered
wi
’
growin
’
things
as
smells
sweet
.
It
’
s
fair
lovely
in
spring
an
’
summer
when
th
’
gorse
an
’
broom
an
’
heather
’
s
in
flower
.
It
smells
o
’
honey
an
’
there
’
s
such
a
lot
o
’
fresh
air
—
an
’
th
’
sky
looks
so
high
an
’
th
’
bees
an
’
skylarks
makes
such
a
nice
noise
hummin
’
an
’
singin
’
.
Eh
!
I
wouldn
’
t
live
away
from
th
’
moor
for
anythin
’
.
”
