'in this year of our lord eighteen hundred and thirty one i am reached the age of fifteen. i am not very tall and my hair is the colour of milk. my name is mary and i have learned to spell it. m. a. r. y. i want to tell you what it is that happened but i must be ware not to rush at it like heifers at the gate for if i do that i will get ahead of my self so quick that i will trip and fall and anyway you will want me to start where a person ought to. and that is at the beginning . . .' This is the tale of Mary, a simple farm girl, sent to care for the vicar's invalid wife but who discovers wonders in words - and terrors in life.
