"Well, don't cry—you've cried enough to-day. Go to bed, now, and have a good night; it's long past eleven. By the way, don't I hear you up very early in the morning?"
Martha’s room was over mine.
“Yes m'm. Now it's so cold I get up at a quarter to six to make tea for the other servants. They like a cup in bed in the mornings."
She said it in all simplicity, and I made no comment upon the communication. If it had been my own house . . . . But it wasn’t, and I had no excuse for interference. ***** I bought Martha a thick stuff gown—and she needed it. Winter, which set in late that year, made up for its loitering by an intense severity. I could barely keep myself warm, even with the help of a big fire in my bedroom; Martha's little chamber next to the great water-cistern must have been bitterly cold. It contained no fireplace, and Mrs. Norris, whose fear of fire amounted to a craze, would not allow the use of a gas-stove. In all weathers, at all hours, Martha ran the errands of the household. She was up early, she went to bed late; how, when she got there, she contrived to sleep at all, is a mystery to me, save that youth and hopefulness are potent to achieve miracles. The bitter cold froze our tempers below zero; we were fractious and difficult to please, and Martha, as usual, bore the brunt of everybody's dissatisfaction; yet, in spite of her difficult lot, the girl seemed to expand and flourish. She looked very neat in her new frock, and I noticed that her hair was arranged more loosely, so that the fluffy little curls about her forehead showed to advantage. This was the result of a chance remark of mine—whether wise or not I am now uncertain. When, at last, winter left us, and the streets of London broke into an epidemic of violets and of primroses, Martha had grown into a positively pretty girl.
