VI. The Key To The Garden

           Twodaysafterthis,whenMaryopenedhereyesshesatuprightinbedimmediately,andcalledtoMartha.

           “Lookatthemoor!Lookatthemoor!”

           Therainstormhadendedandthegraymistandcloudshadbeensweptawayinthenightbythewind.Thewinditselfhadceasedandabrilliant,deepblueskyarchedhighoverthemoorland.Never,neverhadMarydreamedofaskysoblue.InIndiaskieswerehotandblazing;thiswasofadeepcoolbluewhichalmostseemedtosparklelikethewatersofsomelovelybottomlesslake,andhereandthere,high,highinthearchedbluenessfloatedsmallcloudsofsnow-whitefleece.Thefar-reachingworldofthemooritselflookedsoftlyblueinsteadofgloomypurple-blackorawfuldrearygray.

           “Aye,”saidMarthawithacheerfulgrin.“Th’storm’soverforabit.Itdoeslikethisatthistimeo’th’year.Itgoesoffinanightlikeitwaspretendin’ithadneverbeenherean’nevermeanttocomeagain.That’sbecauseth’springtime’sonitsway.It’salongwayoffyet,butit’scomin’.”

           “IthoughtperhapsitalwaysrainedorlookeddarkinEngland,”Marysaid.

           “Eh!no!”saidMartha,sittinguponherheelsamongherblackleadbrushes.“Nowto’th’soart!”

           “Whatdoesthatmean?”askedMaryseriously.InIndiathenativesspokedifferentdialectswhichonlyafewpeopleunderstood,soshewasnotsurprisedwhenMarthausedwordsshedidnotknow.

           Marthalaughedasshehaddonethefirstmorning.

           “Therenow,”shesaid.“I’vetalkedbroadYorkshireagainlikeMrs.MedlocksaidImustn’t.