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diff --git a/137-0.txt b/137-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..91e7f5e --- /dev/null +++ b/137-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1846 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 137 *** + +SARA CREWE + +OR + +WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S + +BY + +FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT + + +In the first place, Miss Minchin lived in London. Her home was a large, +dull, tall one, in a large, dull square, where all the houses were +alike, and all the sparrows were alike, and where all the door-knockers +made the same heavy sound, and on still days--and nearly all the days +were still--seemed to resound through the entire row in which the knock +was knocked. On Miss Minchin's door there was a brass plate. On the +brass plate there was inscribed in black letters, + + MISS MINCHIN'S + + SELECT SEMINARY FOR YOUNG LADIES + +Little Sara Crewe never went in or out of the house without reading that +door-plate and reflecting upon it. By the time she was twelve, she had +decided that all her trouble arose because, in the first place, she was +not “Select,” and in the second she was not a “Young Lady.” When she was +eight years old, she had been brought to Miss Minchin as a pupil, and +left with her. Her papa had brought her all the way from India. Her +mamma had died when she was a baby, and her papa had kept her with him +as long as he could. And then, finding the hot climate was making her +very delicate, he had brought her to England and left her with Miss +Minchin, to be part of the Select Seminary for Young Ladies. Sara, who +had always been a sharp little child, who remembered things, recollected +hearing him say that he had not a relative in the world whom he knew +of, and so he was obliged to place her at a boarding-school, and he had +heard Miss Minchin's establishment spoken of very highly. The same day, +he took Sara out and bought her a great many beautiful clothes--clothes +so grand and rich that only a very young and inexperienced man would +have bought them for a mite of a child who was to be brought up in a +boarding-school. But the fact was that he was a rash, innocent young +man, and very sad at the thought of parting with his little girl, who +was all he had left to remind him of her beautiful mother, whom he had +dearly loved. And he wished her to have everything the most fortunate +little girl could have; and so, when the polite saleswomen in the shops +said, “Here is our very latest thing in hats, the plumes are exactly the +same as those we sold to Lady Diana Sinclair yesterday,” he immediately +bought what was offered to him, and paid whatever was asked. The +consequence was that Sara had a most extraordinary wardrobe. Her dresses +were silk and velvet and India cashmere, her hats and bonnets were +covered with bows and plumes, her small undergarments were adorned with +real lace, and she returned in the cab to Miss Minchin's with a doll +almost as large as herself, dressed quite as grandly as herself, too. + +Then her papa gave Miss Minchin some money and went away, and for +several days Sara would neither touch the doll, nor her breakfast, nor +her dinner, nor her tea, and would do nothing but crouch in a small +corner by the window and cry. She cried so much, indeed, that she made +herself ill. She was a queer little child, with old-fashioned ways and +strong feelings, and she had adored her papa, and could not be made to +think that India and an interesting bungalow were not better for her +than London and Miss Minchin's Select Seminary. The instant she had +entered the house, she had begun promptly to hate Miss Minchin, and +to think little of Miss Amelia Minchin, who was smooth and dumpy, and +lisped, and was evidently afraid of her older sister. Miss Minchin was +tall, and had large, cold, fishy eyes, and large, cold hands, which +seemed fishy, too, because they were damp and made chills run down +Sara's back when they touched her, as Miss Minchin pushed her hair off +her forehead and said: + +“A most beautiful and promising little girl, Captain Crewe. She will be +a favorite pupil; quite a favorite pupil, I see.” + +For the first year she was a favorite pupil; at least she was indulged a +great deal more than was good for her. And when the Select Seminary went +walking, two by two, she was always decked out in her grandest clothes, +and led by the hand at the head of the genteel procession, by Miss +Minchin herself. And when the parents of any of the pupils came, she was +always dressed and called into the parlor with her doll; and she used +to hear Miss Minchin say that her father was a distinguished Indian +officer, and she would be heiress to a great fortune. That her father +had inherited a great deal of money, Sara had heard before; and also +that some day it would be hers, and that he would not remain long in the +army, but would come to live in London. And every time a letter came, +she hoped it would say he was coming, and they were to live together +again. + +But about the middle of the third year a letter came bringing very +different news. Because he was not a business man himself, her papa had +given his affairs into the hands of a friend he trusted. The friend had +deceived and robbed him. All the money was gone, no one knew exactly +where, and the shock was so great to the poor, rash young officer, that, +being attacked by jungle fever shortly afterward, he had no strength to +rally, and so died, leaving Sara, with no one to take care of her. + +Miss Minchin's cold and fishy eyes had never looked so cold and fishy as +they did when Sara went into the parlor, on being sent for, a few days +after the letter was received. + +No one had said anything to the child about mourning, so, in her +old-fashioned way, she had decided to find a black dress for herself, +and had picked out a black velvet she had outgrown, and came into the +room in it, looking the queerest little figure in the world, and a sad +little figure too. The dress was too short and too tight, her face was +white, her eyes had dark rings around them, and her doll, wrapped in a +piece of old black crape, was held under her arm. She was not a pretty +child. She was thin, and had a weird, interesting little face, short +black hair, and very large, green-gray eyes fringed all around with +heavy black lashes. + +“I am the ugliest child in the school,” she had said once, after staring +at herself in the glass for some minutes. + +But there had been a clever, good-natured little French teacher who had +said to the music-master: + +“Zat leetle Crewe. Vat a child! A so ogly beauty! Ze so large eyes! ze +so little spirituelle face. Waid till she grow up. You shall see!” + +This morning, however, in the tight, small black frock, she looked +thinner and odder than ever, and her eyes were fixed on Miss Minchin +with a queer steadiness as she slowly advanced into the parlor, +clutching her doll. + +“Put your doll down!” said Miss Minchin. + +“No,” said the child, “I won't put her down; I want her with me. She is +all I have. She has stayed with me all the time since my papa died.” + +She had never been an obedient child. She had had her own way ever since +she was born, and there was about her an air of silent determination +under which Miss Minchin had always felt secretly uncomfortable. And +that lady felt even now that perhaps it would be as well not to insist +on her point. So she looked at her as severely as possible. + +“You will have no time for dolls in future,” she said; “you will have to +work and improve yourself, and make yourself useful.” + +Sara kept the big odd eyes fixed on her teacher and said nothing. + +“Everything will be very different now,” Miss Minchin went on. “I sent +for you to talk to you and make you understand. Your father is dead. You +have no friends. You have no money. You have no home and no one to take +care of you.” + +The little pale olive face twitched nervously, but the green-gray eyes +did not move from Miss Minchin's, and still Sara said nothing. + +“What are you staring at?” demanded Miss Minchin sharply. “Are you so +stupid you don't understand what I mean? I tell you that you are quite +alone in the world, and have no one to do anything for you, unless I +choose to keep you here.” + +The truth was, Miss Minchin was in her worst mood. To be suddenly +deprived of a large sum of money yearly and a show pupil, and to find +herself with a little beggar on her hands, was more than she could bear +with any degree of calmness. + +“Now listen to me,” she went on, “and remember what I say. If you work +hard and prepare to make yourself useful in a few years, I shall let you +stay here. You are only a child, but you are a sharp child, and you pick +up things almost without being taught. You speak French very well, and +in a year or so you can begin to help with the younger pupils. By the +time you are fifteen you ought to be able to do that much at least.” + +“I can speak French better than you, now,” said Sara; “I always spoke it +with my papa in India.” Which was not at all polite, but was painfully +true; because Miss Minchin could not speak French at all, and, indeed, +was not in the least a clever person. But she was a hard, grasping +business woman; and, after the first shock of disappointment, had seen +that at very little expense to herself she might prepare this clever, +determined child to be very useful to her and save her the necessity of +paying large salaries to teachers of languages. + +“Don't be impudent, or you will be punished,” she said. “You will have +to improve your manners if you expect to earn your bread. You are not a +parlor boarder now. Remember that if you don't please me, and I send you +away, you have no home but the street. You can go now.” + +Sara turned away. + +“Stay,” commanded Miss Minchin, “don't you intend to thank me?” + +Sara turned toward her. The nervous twitch was to be seen again in her +face, and she seemed to be trying to control it. + +“What for?” she said. + +“For my kindness to you,” replied Miss Minchin. “For my kindness in +giving you a home.” + +Sara went two or three steps nearer to her. Her thin little chest was +heaving up and down, and she spoke in a strange, unchildish voice. + +“You are not kind,” she said. “You are not kind.” And she turned +again and went out of the room, leaving Miss Minchin staring after her +strange, small figure in stony anger. + +The child walked up the staircase, holding tightly to her doll; she +meant to go to her bedroom, but at the door she was met by Miss Amelia. + +“You are not to go in there,” she said. “That is not your room now.” + +“Where is my room?” asked Sara. + +“You are to sleep in the attic next to the cook.” + +Sara walked on. She mounted two flights more, and reached the door of +the attic room, opened it and went in, shutting it behind her. She +stood against it and looked about her. The room was slanting-roofed and +whitewashed; there was a rusty grate, an iron bedstead, and some odd +articles of furniture, sent up from better rooms below, where they had +been used until they were considered to be worn out. Under the skylight +in the roof, which showed nothing but an oblong piece of dull gray sky, +there was a battered old red footstool. + +Sara went to it and sat down. She was a queer child, as I have said +before, and quite unlike other children. She seldom cried. She did not +cry now. She laid her doll, Emily, across her knees, and put her face +down upon her, and her arms around her, and sat there, her little black +head resting on the black crape, not saying one word, not making one +sound. + + +From that day her life changed entirely. Sometimes she used to feel as +if it must be another life altogether, the life of some other child. She +was a little drudge and outcast; she was given her lessons at odd times +and expected to learn without being taught; she was sent on errands by +Miss Minchin, Miss Amelia and the cook. Nobody took any notice of her +except when they ordered her about. She was often kept busy all day and +then sent into the deserted school-room with a pile of books to learn +her lessons or practise at night. She had never been intimate with +the other pupils, and soon she became so shabby that, taking her queer +clothes together with her queer little ways, they began to look upon +her as a being of another world than their own. The fact was that, as +a rule, Miss Minchin's pupils were rather dull, matter-of-fact young +people, accustomed to being rich and comfortable; and Sara, with her +elfish cleverness, her desolate life, and her odd habit of fixing her +eyes upon them and staring them out of countenance, was too much for +them. + +“She always looks as if she was finding you out,” said one girl, who was +sly and given to making mischief. “I am,” said Sara promptly, when +she heard of it. “That's what I look at them for. I like to know about +people. I think them over afterward.” + +She never made any mischief herself or interfered with any one. She +talked very little, did as she was told, and thought a great deal. +Nobody knew, and in fact nobody cared, whether she was unhappy or happy, +unless, perhaps, it was Emily, who lived in the attic and slept on the +iron bedstead at night. Sara thought Emily understood her feelings, +though she was only wax and had a habit of staring herself. Sara used to +talk to her at night. + +“You are the only friend I have in the world,” she would say to her. +“Why don't you say something? Why don't you speak? Sometimes I am sure +you could, if you would try. It ought to make you try, to know you are +the only thing I have. If I were you, I should try. Why don't you try?” + +It really was a very strange feeling she had about Emily. It arose from +her being so desolate. She did not like to own to herself that her only +friend, her only companion, could feel and hear nothing. She wanted to +believe, or to pretend to believe, that Emily understood and sympathized +with her, that she heard her even though she did not speak in answer. +She used to put her in a chair sometimes and sit opposite to her on +the old red footstool, and stare at her and think and pretend about her +until her own eyes would grow large with something which was almost like +fear, particularly at night, when the garret was so still, when the only +sound that was to be heard was the occasional squeak and scurry of rats +in the wainscot. There were rat-holes in the garret, and Sara detested +rats, and was always glad Emily was with her when she heard their +hateful squeak and rush and scratching. One of her “pretends” was that +Emily was a kind of good witch and could protect her. Poor little Sara! +everything was “pretend” with her. She had a strong imagination; there +was almost more imagination than there was Sara, and her whole forlorn, +uncared-for child-life was made up of imaginings. She imagined and +pretended things until she almost believed them, and she would scarcely +have been surprised at any remarkable thing that could have happened. So +she insisted to herself that Emily understood all about her troubles and +was really her friend. + +“As to answering,” she used to say, “I don't answer very often. I never +answer when I can help it. When people are insulting you, there is +nothing so good for them as not to say a word--just to look at them and +think. Miss Minchin turns pale with rage when I do it. Miss Amelia looks +frightened, so do the girls. They know you are stronger than they are, +because you are strong enough to hold in your rage and they are not, +and they say stupid things they wish they hadn't said afterward. There's +nothing so strong as rage, except what makes you hold it in--that's +stronger. It's a good thing not to answer your enemies. I scarcely ever +do. Perhaps Emily is more like me than I am like myself. Perhaps she +would rather not answer her friends, even. She keeps it all in her +heart.” + +But though she tried to satisfy herself with these arguments, Sara did +not find it easy. When, after a long, hard day, in which she had been +sent here and there, sometimes on long errands, through wind and cold +and rain; and, when she came in wet and hungry, had been sent out again +because nobody chose to remember that she was only a child, and that +her thin little legs might be tired, and her small body, clad in +its forlorn, too small finery, all too short and too tight, might be +chilled; when she had been given only harsh words and cold, slighting +looks for thanks, when the cook had been vulgar and insolent; when Miss +Minchin had been in her worst moods, and when she had seen the girls +sneering at her among themselves and making fun of her poor, outgrown +clothes--then Sara did not find Emily quite all that her sore, proud, +desolate little heart needed as the doll sat in her little old chair and +stared. + +One of these nights, when she came up to the garret cold, hungry, tired, +and with a tempest raging in her small breast, Emily's stare seemed so +vacant, her sawdust legs and arms so limp and inexpressive, that Sara +lost all control over herself. + +“I shall die presently!” she said at first. + +Emily stared. + +“I can't bear this!” said the poor child, trembling. “I know I shall +die. I'm cold, I'm wet, I'm starving to death. I've walked a thousand +miles to-day, and they have done nothing but scold me from morning until +night. And because I could not find that last thing they sent me for, +they would not give me any supper. Some men laughed at me because my old +shoes made me slip down in the mud. I'm covered with mud now. And they +laughed! Do you hear!” + +She looked at the staring glass eyes and complacent wax face, and +suddenly a sort of heartbroken rage seized her. She lifted her little +savage hand and knocked Emily off the chair, bursting into a passion of +sobbing. + +“You are nothing but a doll!” she cried. + +“Nothing but a doll-doll-doll! You care for nothing. You are stuffed +with sawdust. You never had a heart. Nothing could ever make you feel. +You are a doll!” + +Emily lay upon the floor, with her legs ignominiously doubled up over +her head, and a new flat place on the end of her nose; but she was still +calm, even dignified. + +Sara hid her face on her arms and sobbed. Some rats in the wall began +to fight and bite each other, and squeak and scramble. But, as I have +already intimated, Sara was not in the habit of crying. After a while +she stopped, and when she stopped she looked at Emily, who seemed to be +gazing at her around the side of one ankle, and actually with a kind of +glassy-eyed sympathy. Sara bent and picked her up. Remorse overtook her. + +“You can't help being a doll,” she said, with a resigned sigh, “any more +than those girls downstairs can help not having any sense. We are not +all alike. Perhaps you do your sawdust best.” + +None of Miss Minchin's young ladies were very remarkable for being +brilliant; they were select, but some of them were very dull, and some +of them were fond of applying themselves to their lessons. Sara, who +snatched her lessons at all sorts of untimely hours from tattered and +discarded books, and who had a hungry craving for everything readable, +was often severe upon them in her small mind. They had books they never +read; she had no books at all. If she had always had something to read, +she would not have been so lonely. She liked romances and history and +poetry; she would read anything. There was a sentimental housemaid in +the establishment who bought the weekly penny papers, and subscribed +to a circulating library, from which she got greasy volumes containing +stories of marquises and dukes who invariably fell in love with +orange-girls and gypsies and servant-maids, and made them the proud +brides of coronets; and Sara often did parts of this maid's work so that +she might earn the privilege of reading these romantic histories. There +was also a fat, dull pupil, whose name was Ermengarde St. John, who was +one of her resources. Ermengarde had an intellectual father, who, in +his despairing desire to encourage his daughter, constantly sent her +valuable and interesting books, which were a continual source of grief +to her. Sara had once actually found her crying over a big package of +them. + +“What is the matter with you?” she asked her, perhaps rather +disdainfully. + +And it is just possible she would not have spoken to her, if she had not +seen the books. The sight of books always gave Sara a hungry feeling, +and she could not help drawing near to them if only to read their +titles. + +“What is the matter with you?” she asked. + +“My papa has sent me some more books,” answered Ermengarde woefully, +“and he expects me to read them.” + +“Don't you like reading?” said Sara. + +“I hate it!” replied Miss Ermengarde St. John. “And he will ask me +questions when he sees me: he will want to know how much I remember; how +would you like to have to read all those?” + +“I'd like it better than anything else in the world,” said Sara. + +Ermengarde wiped her eyes to look at such a prodigy. + +“Oh, gracious!” she exclaimed. + +Sara returned the look with interest. A sudden plan formed itself in her +sharp mind. + +“Look here!” she said. “If you'll lend me those books, I'll read them +and tell you everything that's in them afterward, and I'll tell it +to you so that you will remember it. I know I can. The A B C children +always remember what I tell them.” + +“Oh, goodness!” said Ermengarde. “Do you think you could?” + +“I know I could,” answered Sara. “I like to read, and I always remember. +I'll take care of the books, too; they will look just as new as they do +now, when I give them back to you.” + +Ermengarde put her handkerchief in her pocket. + +“If you'll do that,” she said, “and if you'll make me remember, I'll +give you--I'll give you some money.” + +“I don't want your money,” said Sara. “I want your books--I want them.” + And her eyes grew big and queer, and her chest heaved once. + +“Take them, then,” said Ermengarde; “I wish I wanted them, but I am not +clever, and my father is, and he thinks I ought to be.” + +Sara picked up the books and marched off with them. But when she was at +the door, she stopped and turned around. + +“What are you going to tell your father?” she asked. + +“Oh,” said Ermengarde, “he needn't know; he'll think I've read them.” + +Sara looked down at the books; her heart really began to beat fast. + +“I won't do it,” she said rather slowly, “if you are going to tell him +lies about it--I don't like lies. Why can't you tell him I read them and +then told you about them?” + +“But he wants me to read them,” said Ermengarde. + +“He wants you to know what is in them,” said Sara; “and if I can tell +it to you in an easy way and make you remember, I should think he would +like that.” + +“He would like it better if I read them myself,” replied Ermengarde. + +“He will like it, I dare say, if you learn anything in any way,” said +Sara. “I should, if I were your father.” + +And though this was not a flattering way of stating the case, Ermengarde +was obliged to admit it was true, and, after a little more argument, +gave in. And so she used afterward always to hand over her books to +Sara, and Sara would carry them to her garret and devour them; and after +she had read each volume, she would return it and tell Ermengarde about +it in a way of her own. She had a gift for making things interesting. +Her imagination helped her to make everything rather like a story, +and she managed this matter so well that Miss St. John gained more +information from her books than she would have gained if she had read +them three times over by her poor stupid little self. When Sara sat down +by her and began to tell some story of travel or history, she made the +travellers and historical people seem real; and Ermengarde used to sit +and regard her dramatic gesticulations, her thin little flushed cheeks, +and her shining, odd eyes with amazement. + +“It sounds nicer than it seems in the book,” she would say. “I never +cared about Mary, Queen of Scots, before, and I always hated the French +Revolution, but you make it seem like a story.” + +“It is a story,” Sara would answer. “They are all stories. Everything is +a story--everything in this world. You are a story--I am a story--Miss +Minchin is a story. You can make a story out of anything.” + +“I can't,” said Ermengarde. + +Sara stared at her a minute reflectively. + +“No,” she said at last. “I suppose you couldn't. You are a little like +Emily.” + +“Who is Emily?” + +Sara recollected herself. She knew she was sometimes rather impolite in +the candor of her remarks, and she did not want to be impolite to a girl +who was not unkind--only stupid. Notwithstanding all her sharp little +ways she had the sense to wish to be just to everybody. In the hours she +spent alone, she used to argue out a great many curious questions with +herself. One thing she had decided upon was, that a person who was +clever ought to be clever enough not to be unjust or deliberately unkind +to any one. Miss Minchin was unjust and cruel, Miss Amelia was unkind +and spiteful, the cook was malicious and hasty-tempered--they all were +stupid, and made her despise them, and she desired to be as unlike them +as possible. So she would be as polite as she could to people who in the +least deserved politeness. + +“Emily is--a person--I know,” she replied. + +“Do you like her?” asked Ermengarde. + +“Yes, I do,” said Sara. + +Ermengarde examined her queer little face and figure again. She did +look odd. She had on, that day, a faded blue plush skirt, which barely +covered her knees, a brown Cloth sacque, and a pair of olive-green +stockings which Miss Minchin had made her piece out with black ones, +so that they would be long enough to be kept on. And yet Ermengarde was +beginning slowly to admire her. Such a forlorn, thin, neglected little +thing as that, who could read and read and remember and tell you things +so that they did not tire you all out! A child who could speak French, +and who had learned German, no one knew how! One could not help staring +at her and feeling interested, particularly one to whom the simplest +lesson was a trouble and a woe. + +“Do you like me?” said Ermengarde, finally, at the end of her scrutiny. + +Sara hesitated one second, then she answered: + +“I like you because you are not ill-natured--I like you for letting me +read your books--I like you because you don't make spiteful fun of me +for what I can't help. It's not your fault that--” + +She pulled herself up quickly. She had been going to say, “that you are +stupid.” + +“That what?” asked Ermengarde. + +“That you can't learn things quickly. If you can't, you can't. If I can, +why, I can--that's all.” She paused a minute, looking at the plump face +before her, and then, rather slowly, one of her wise, old-fashioned +thoughts came to her. + +“Perhaps,” she said, “to be able to learn things quickly isn't +everything. To be kind is worth a good deal to other people. If Miss +Minchin knew everything on earth, which she doesn't, and if she was like +what she is now, she'd still be a detestable thing, and everybody would +hate her. Lots of clever people have done harm and been wicked. Look at +Robespierre--” + +She stopped again and examined her companion's countenance. + +“Do you remember about him?” she demanded. “I believe you've forgotten.” + +“Well, I don't remember all of it,” admitted Ermengarde. + +“Well,” said Sara, with courage and determination, “I'll tell it to you +over again.” + +And she plunged once more into the gory records of the French +Revolution, and told such stories of it, and made such vivid pictures of +its horrors, that Miss St. John was afraid to go to bed afterward, and +hid her head under the blankets when she did go, and shivered until she +fell asleep. But afterward she preserved lively recollections of the +character of Robespierre, and did not even forget Marie Antoinette and +the Princess de Lamballe. + +“You know they put her head on a pike and danced around it,” Sara had +said; “and she had beautiful blonde hair; and when I think of her, I +never see her head on her body, but always on a pike, with those furious +people dancing and howling.” + +Yes, it was true; to this imaginative child everything was a story; and +the more books she read, the more imaginative she became. One of her +chief entertainments was to sit in her garret, or walk about it, and +“suppose” things. On a cold night, when she had not had enough to eat, +she would draw the red footstool up before the empty grate, and say in +the most intense voice: + +“Suppose there was a grate, wide steel grate here, and a great glowing +fire--a glowing fire--with beds of red-hot coal and lots of little +dancing, flickering flames. Suppose there was a soft, deep rug, and this +was a comfortable chair, all cushions and crimson velvet; and suppose I +had a crimson velvet frock on, and a deep lace collar, like a child in +a picture; and suppose all the rest of the room was furnished in lovely +colors, and there were book-shelves full of books, which changed by +magic as soon as you had read them; and suppose there was a little table +here, with a snow-white cover on it, and little silver dishes, and in +one there was hot, hot soup, and in another a roast chicken, and in +another some raspberry-jam tarts with crisscross on them, and in another +some grapes; and suppose Emily could speak, and we could sit and eat our +supper, and then talk and read; and then suppose there was a soft, warm +bed in the corner, and when we were tired we could go to sleep, and +sleep as long as we liked.” + +Sometimes, after she had supposed things like these for half an hour, +she would feel almost warm, and would creep into bed with Emily and fall +asleep with a smile on her face. + +“What large, downy pillows!” she would whisper. “What white sheets +and fleecy blankets!” And she almost forgot that her real pillows had +scarcely any feathers in them at all, and smelled musty, and that her +blankets and coverlid were thin and full of holes. + +At another time she would “suppose” she was a princess, and then she +would go about the house with an expression on her face which was a +source of great secret annoyance to Miss Minchin, because it seemed as +if the child scarcely heard the spiteful, insulting things said to her, +or, if she heard them, did not care for them at all. Sometimes, while +she was in the midst of some harsh and cruel speech, Miss Minchin would +find the odd, unchildish eyes fixed upon her with something like a proud +smile in them. At such times she did not know that Sara was saying to +herself: + +“You don't know that you are saying these things to a princess, and that +if I chose I could wave my hand and order you to execution. I only spare +you because I am a princess, and you are a poor, stupid, old, vulgar +thing, and don't know any better.” + +This used to please and amuse her more than anything else; and queer and +fanciful as it was, she found comfort in it, and it was not a bad thing +for her. It really kept her from being made rude and malicious by the +rudeness and malice of those about her. + +“A princess must be polite,” she said to herself. And so when the +servants, who took their tone from their mistress, were insolent and +ordered her about, she would hold her head erect, and reply to them +sometimes in a way which made them stare at her, it was so quaintly +civil. + +“I am a princess in rags and tatters,” she would think, “but I am a +princess, inside. It would be easy to be a princess if I were dressed +in cloth-of-gold; it is a great deal more of a triumph to be one all the +time when no one knows it. There was Marie Antoinette; when she was in +prison, and her throne was gone, and she had only a black gown on, +and her hair was white, and they insulted her and called her the Widow +Capet,--she was a great deal more like a queen then than when she was so +gay and had everything grand. I like her best then. Those howling mobs +of people did not frighten her. She was stronger than they were even +when they cut her head off.” + +Once when such thoughts were passing through her mind the look in her +eyes so enraged Miss Minchin that she flew at Sara and boxed her ears. + +Sara awakened from her dream, started a little, and then broke into a +laugh. + +“What are you laughing at, you bold, impudent child!” exclaimed Miss +Minchin. + +It took Sara a few seconds to remember she was a princess. Her cheeks +were red and smarting from the blows she had received. + +“I was thinking,” she said. + +“Beg my pardon immediately,” said Miss Minchin. + +“I will beg your pardon for laughing, if it was rude,” said Sara; “but I +won't beg your pardon for thinking.” + +“What were you thinking?” demanded Miss Minchin. “How dare you think? +What were you thinking?” + +This occurred in the school-room, and all the girls looked up from their +books to listen. It always interested them when Miss Minchin flew at +Sara, because Sara always said something queer, and never seemed in the +least frightened. She was not in the least frightened now, though her +boxed ears were scarlet, and her eyes were as bright as stars. + +“I was thinking,” she answered gravely and quite politely, “that you did +not know what you were doing.” + +“That I did not know what I was doing!” Miss Minchin fairly gasped. + +“Yes,” said Sara, “and I was thinking what would happen, if I were +a princess and you boxed my ears--what I should do to you. And I was +thinking that if I were one, you would never dare to do it, whatever I +said or did. And I was thinking how surprised and frightened you would +be if you suddenly found out--” + +She had the imagined picture so clearly before her eyes, that she spoke +in a manner which had an effect even on Miss Minchin. It almost seemed +for the moment to her narrow, unimaginative mind that there must be some +real power behind this candid daring. + +“What!” she exclaimed, “found out what?” + +“That I really was a princess,” said Sara, “and could do +anything--anything I liked.” + +“Go to your room,” cried Miss Minchin breathlessly, “this instant. Leave +the school-room. Attend to your lessons, young ladies.” + +Sara made a little bow. + +“Excuse me for laughing, if it was impolite,” she said, and walked out +of the room, leaving Miss Minchin in a rage and the girls whispering +over their books. + +“I shouldn't be at all surprised if she did turn out to be something,” + said one of them. “Suppose she should!” + + +That very afternoon Sara had an opportunity of proving to herself +whether she was really a princess or not. It was a dreadful afternoon. +For several days it had rained continuously, the streets were chilly and +sloppy; there was mud everywhere--sticky London mud--and over everything +a pall of fog and drizzle. Of course there were several long and +tiresome errands to be done,--there always were on days like this,--and +Sara was sent out again and again, until her shabby clothes were damp +through. The absurd old feathers on her forlorn hat were more draggled +and absurd than ever, and her down-trodden shoes were so wet they could +not hold any more water. Added to this, she had been deprived of her +dinner, because Miss Minchin wished to punish her. She was very hungry. +She was so cold and hungry and tired that her little face had a pinched +look, and now and then some kind-hearted person passing her in the +crowded street glanced at her with sympathy. But she did not know that. +She hurried on, trying to comfort herself in that queer way of hers by +pretending and “supposing,”--but really this time it was harder than she +had ever found it, and once or twice she thought it almost made her +more cold and hungry instead of less so. But she persevered obstinately. +“Suppose I had dry clothes on,” she thought. “Suppose I had good shoes +and a long, thick coat and merino stockings and a whole umbrella. And +suppose--suppose, just when I was near a baker's where they sold hot +buns, I should find sixpence--which belonged to nobody. Suppose, if +I did, I should go into the shop and buy six of the hottest buns, and +should eat them all without stopping.” + +Some very odd things happen in this world sometimes. It certainly was +an odd thing which happened to Sara. She had to cross the street just as +she was saying this to herself--the mud was dreadful--she almost had to +wade. She picked her way as carefully as she could, but she could not +save herself much, only, in picking her way she had to look down at +her feet and the mud, and in looking down--just as she reached the +pavement--she saw something shining in the gutter. A piece of silver--a +tiny piece trodden upon by many feet, but still with spirit enough +to shine a little. Not quite a sixpence, but the next thing to it--a +four-penny piece! In one second it was in her cold, little red and blue +hand. “Oh!” she gasped. “It is true!” + +And then, if you will believe me, she looked straight before her at the +shop directly facing her. And it was a baker's, and a cheerful, stout, +motherly woman, with rosy cheeks, was just putting into the window a +tray of delicious hot buns,--large, plump, shiny buns, with currants in +them. + +It almost made Sara feel faint for a few seconds--the shock and the +sight of the buns and the delightful odors of warm bread floating up +through the baker's cellar-window. + +She knew that she need not hesitate to use the little piece of money. +It had evidently been lying in the mud for some time, and its owner was +completely lost in the streams of passing people who crowded and jostled +each other all through the day. + +“But I'll go and ask the baker's woman if she has lost a piece of +money,” she said to herself, rather faintly. + +So she crossed the pavement and put her wet foot on the step of the +shop; and as she did so she saw something which made her stop. + +It was a little figure more forlorn than her own--a little figure which +was not much more than a bundle of rags, from which small, bare, red and +muddy feet peeped out--only because the rags with which the wearer was +trying to cover them were not long enough. Above the rags appeared a +shock head of tangled hair and a dirty face, with big, hollow, hungry +eyes. + +Sara knew they were hungry eyes the moment she saw them, and she felt a +sudden sympathy. + +“This,” she said to herself, with a little sigh, “is one of the +Populace--and she is hungrier than I am.” + +The child--this “one of the Populace”--stared up at Sara, and shuffled +herself aside a little, so as to give her more room. She was used to +being made to give room to everybody. She knew that if a policeman +chanced to see her, he would tell her to “move on.” + +Sara clutched her little four-penny piece, and hesitated a few seconds. +Then she spoke to her. + +“Are you hungry?” she asked. + +The child shuffled herself and her rags a little more. + +“Ain't I jist!” she said, in a hoarse voice. “Jist ain't I!” + +“Haven't you had any dinner?” said Sara. + +“No dinner,” more hoarsely still and with more shuffling, “nor yet no +bre'fast--nor yet no supper--nor nothin'.” + +“Since when?” asked Sara. + +“Dun'no. Never got nothin' to-day--nowhere. I've axed and axed.” + +Just to look at her made Sara more hungry and faint. But those queer +little thoughts were at work in her brain, and she was talking to +herself though she was sick at heart. + +“If I'm a princess,” she was saying--“if I'm a princess--! When they +were poor and driven from their thrones--they always shared--with the +Populace--if they met one poorer and hungrier. They always shared. Buns +are a penny each. If it had been sixpence! I could have eaten six. It +won't be enough for either of us--but it will be better than nothing.” + +“Wait a minute,” she said to the beggar-child. She went into the shop. +It was warm and smelled delightfully. The woman was just going to put +more hot buns in the window. + +“If you please,” said Sara, “have you lost fourpence--a silver +fourpence?” And she held the forlorn little piece of money out to her. + +The woman looked at it and at her--at her intense little face and +draggled, once-fine clothes. + +“Bless us--no,” she answered. “Did you find it?” + +“In the gutter,” said Sara. + +“Keep it, then,” said the woman. “It may have been there a week, and +goodness knows who lost it. You could never find out.” + +“I know that,” said Sara, “but I thought I'd ask you.” + +“Not many would,” said the woman, looking puzzled and interested and +good-natured all at once. “Do you want to buy something?” she added, as +she saw Sara glance toward the buns. + +“Four buns, if you please,” said Sara; “those at a penny each.” + +The woman went to the window and put some in a paper bag. Sara noticed +that she put in six. + +“I said four, if you please,” she explained. “I have only the +fourpence.” + +“I'll throw in two for make-weight,” said the woman, with her +good-natured look. “I dare say you can eat them some time. Aren't you +hungry?” + +A mist rose before Sara's eyes. + +“Yes,” she answered. “I am very hungry, and I am much obliged to you for +your kindness, and,” she was going to add, “there is a child outside who +is hungrier than I am.” But just at that moment two or three customers +came in at once and each one seemed in a hurry, so she could only thank +the woman again and go out. + +The child was still huddled up on the corner of the steps. She looked +frightful in her wet and dirty rags. She was staring with a stupid look +of suffering straight before her, and Sara saw her suddenly draw the +back of her roughened, black hand across her eyes to rub away the tears +which seemed to have surprised her by forcing their way from under her +lids. She was muttering to herself. + +Sara opened the paper bag and took out one of the hot buns, which had +already warmed her cold hands a little. + +“See,” she said, putting the bun on the ragged lap, “that is nice and +hot. Eat it, and you will not be so hungry.” + +The child started and stared up at her; then she snatched up the bun and +began to cram it into her mouth with great wolfish bites. + +“Oh, my! Oh, my!” Sara heard her say hoarsely, in wild delight. + +“Oh, my!” + +Sara took out three more buns and put them down. + +“She is hungrier than I am,” she said to herself. “She's starving.” But +her hand trembled when she put down the fourth bun. “I'm not starving,” + she said--and she put down the fifth. + +The little starving London savage was still snatching and devouring when +she turned away. She was too ravenous to give any thanks, even if she +had been taught politeness--which she had not. She was only a poor +little wild animal. + +“Good-bye,” said Sara. + +When she reached the other side of the street she looked back. The child +had a bun in both hands, and had stopped in the middle of a bite to +watch her. Sara gave her a little nod, and the child, after another +stare,--a curious, longing stare,--jerked her shaggy head in response, +and until Sara was out of sight she did not take another bite or even +finish the one she had begun. + +At that moment the baker-woman glanced out of her shop-window. + +“Well, I never!” she exclaimed. “If that young'un hasn't given her buns +to a beggar-child! It wasn't because she didn't want them, either--well, +well, she looked hungry enough. I'd give something to know what she did +it for.” She stood behind her window for a few moments and pondered. +Then her curiosity got the better of her. She went to the door and spoke +to the beggar-child. + +“Who gave you those buns?” she asked her. + +The child nodded her head toward Sara's vanishing figure. + +“What did she say?” inquired the woman. + +“Axed me if I was 'ungry,” replied the hoarse voice. + +“What did you say?” + +“Said I was jist!” + +“And then she came in and got buns and came out and gave them to you, +did she?” + +The child nodded. + +“How many?” + +“Five.” + +The woman thought it over. “Left just one for herself,” she said, in +a low voice. “And she could have eaten the whole six--I saw it in her +eyes.” + +She looked after the little, draggled, far-away figure, and felt more +disturbed in her usually comfortable mind than she had felt for many a +day. + +“I wish she hadn't gone so quick,” she said. “I'm blest if she shouldn't +have had a dozen.” + +Then she turned to the child. + +“Are you hungry, yet?” she asked. + +“I'm allus 'ungry,” was the answer; “but 'tain't so bad as it was.” + +“Come in here,” said the woman, and she held open the shop-door. + +The child got up and shuffled in. To be invited into a warm place full +of bread seemed an incredible thing. She did not know what was going to +happen; she did not care, even. + +“Get yourself warm,” said the woman, pointing to a fire in a tiny back +room. “And, look here,--when you're hard up for a bite of bread, you can +come here and ask for it. I'm blest if I won't give it to you for that +young un's sake.” + + +Sara found some comfort in her remaining bun. It was hot; and it was a +great deal better than nothing. She broke off small pieces and ate them +slowly to make it last longer. + +“Suppose it was a magic bun,” she said, “and a bite was as much as a +whole dinner. I should be over-eating myself if I went on like this.” + +It was dark when she reached the square in which Miss Minchin's Select +Seminary was situated; the lamps were lighted, and in most of the +windows gleams of light were to be seen. It always interested Sara to +catch glimpses of the rooms before the shutters were closed. She liked +to imagine things about people who sat before the fires in the houses, +or who bent over books at the tables. There was, for instance, the Large +Family opposite. She called these people the Large Family--not because +they were large, for indeed most of them were little,--but because there +were so many of them. There were eight children in the Large Family, +and a stout, rosy mother, and a stout, rosy father, and a stout, rosy +grand-mamma, and any number of servants. The eight children were +always either being taken out to walk, or to ride in perambulators, by +comfortable nurses; or they were going to drive with their mamma; or +they were flying to the door in the evening to kiss their papa and +dance around him and drag off his overcoat and look for packages in +the pockets of it; or they were crowding about the nursery windows +and looking out and pushing each other and laughing,--in fact they were +always doing something which seemed enjoyable and suited to the tastes +of a large family. Sara was quite attached to them, and had given them +all names out of books. She called them the Montmorencys, when she did +not call them the Large Family. The fat, fair baby with the lace cap was +Ethelberta Beauchamp Montmorency; the next baby was Violet Cholmondely +Montmorency; the little boy who could just stagger, and who had such +round legs, was Sydney Cecil Vivian Montmorency; and then came Lilian +Evangeline, Guy Clarence, Maud Marian, Rosalind Gladys, Veronica +Eustacia, and Claude Harold Hector. + +Next door to the Large Family lived the Maiden Lady, who had a +companion, and two parrots, and a King Charles spaniel; but Sara was not +so very fond of her, because she did nothing in particular but talk to +the parrots and drive out with the spaniel. The most interesting person +of all lived next door to Miss Minchin herself. Sara called him the +Indian Gentleman. He was an elderly gentleman who was said to have lived +in the East Indies, and to be immensely rich and to have something the +matter with his liver,--in fact, it had been rumored that he had no +liver at all, and was much inconvenienced by the fact. At any rate, he +was very yellow and he did not look happy; and when he went out to his +carriage, he was almost always wrapped up in shawls and overcoats, as +if he were cold. He had a native servant who looked even colder than +himself, and he had a monkey who looked colder than the native servant. +Sara had seen the monkey sitting on a table, in the sun, in the +parlor window, and he always wore such a mournful expression that she +sympathized with him deeply. + +“I dare say,” she used sometimes to remark to herself, “he is thinking +all the time of cocoanut trees and of swinging by his tail under a +tropical sun. He might have had a family dependent on him too, poor +thing!” + +The native servant, whom she called the Lascar, looked mournful too, but +he was evidently very faithful to his master. + +“Perhaps he saved his master's life in the Sepoy rebellion,” she +thought. “They look as if they might have had all sorts of adventures. I +wish I could speak to the Lascar. I remember a little Hindustani.” + +And one day she actually did speak to him, and his start at the sound of +his own language expressed a great deal of surprise and delight. He was +waiting for his master to come out to the carriage, and Sara, who was +going on an errand as usual, stopped and spoke a few words. She had a +special gift for languages and had remembered enough Hindustani to make +herself understood by him. When his master came out, the Lascar spoke +to him quickly, and the Indian Gentleman turned and looked at her +curiously. And afterward the Lascar always greeted her with salaams of +the most profound description. And occasionally they exchanged a few +words. She learned that it was true that the Sahib was very rich--that +he was ill--and also that he had no wife nor children, and that England +did not agree with the monkey. + +“He must be as lonely as I am,” thought Sara. “Being rich does not seem +to make him happy.” + +That evening, as she passed the windows, the Lascar was closing the +shutters, and she caught a glimpse of the room inside. There was a +bright fire glowing in the grate, and the Indian Gentleman was sitting +before it, in a luxurious chair. The room was richly furnished, and +looked delightfully comfortable, but the Indian Gentleman sat with his +head resting on his hand, and looked as lonely and unhappy as ever. + +“Poor man!” said Sara; “I wonder what you are `supposing'?” + +When she went into the house she met Miss Minchin in the hall. + +“Where have you wasted your time?” said Miss Minchin. “You have been out +for hours!” + +“It was so wet and muddy,” Sara answered. “It was hard to walk, because +my shoes were so bad and slipped about so.” + +“Make no excuses,” said Miss Minchin, “and tell no falsehoods.” + +Sara went downstairs to the kitchen. + +“Why didn't you stay all night?” said the cook. + +“Here are the things,” said Sara, and laid her purchases on the table. + +The cook looked over them, grumbling. She was in a very bad temper +indeed. + +“May I have something to eat?” Sara asked rather faintly. + +“Tea's over and done with,” was the answer. “Did you expect me to keep +it hot for you?” + +Sara was silent a second. + +“I had no dinner,” she said, and her voice was quite low. She made it +low, because she was afraid it would tremble. + +“There's some bread in the pantry,” said the cook. “That's all you'll +get at this time of day.” + +Sara went and found the bread. It was old and hard and dry. The cook +was in too bad a humor to give her anything to eat with it. She had just +been scolded by Miss Minchin, and it was always safe and easy to vent +her own spite on Sara. + +Really it was hard for the child to climb the three long flights of +stairs leading to her garret. She often found them long and steep when +she was tired, but to-night it seemed as if she would never reach the +top. Several times a lump rose in her throat and she was obliged to stop +to rest. + +“I can't pretend anything more to-night,” she said wearily to herself. +“I'm sure I can't. I'll eat my bread and drink some water and then go to +sleep, and perhaps a dream will come and pretend for me. I wonder what +dreams are.” + +Yes, when she reached the top landing there were tears in her eyes, and +she did not feel like a princess--only like a tired, hungry, lonely, +lonely child. + +“If my papa had lived,” she said, “they would not have treated me like +this. If my papa had lived, he would have taken care of me.” + +Then she turned the handle and opened the garret-door. + +Can you imagine it--can you believe it? I find it hard to believe it +myself. And Sara found it impossible; for the first few moments she +thought something strange had happened to her eyes--to her mind--that +the dream had come before she had had time to fall asleep. + +“Oh!” she exclaimed breathlessly. “Oh! it isn't true! I know, I know +it isn't true!” And she slipped into the room and closed the door and +locked it, and stood with her back against it, staring straight before +her. + +Do you wonder? In the grate, which had been empty and rusty and cold +when she left it, but which now was blackened and polished up quite +respectably, there was a glowing, blazing fire. On the hob was a little +brass kettle, hissing and boiling; spread upon the floor was a warm, +thick rug; before the fire was a folding-chair, unfolded and with +cushions on it; by the chair was a small folding-table, unfolded, +covered with a white cloth, and upon it were spread small covered +dishes, a cup and saucer, and a tea-pot; on the bed were new, warm +coverings, a curious wadded silk robe, and some books. The little, cold, +miserable room seemed changed into Fairyland. It was actually warm and +glowing. + +“It is bewitched!” said Sara. “Or I am bewitched. I only think I see +it all; but if I can only keep on thinking it, I don't care--I don't +care--if I can only keep it up!” + +She was afraid to move, for fear it would melt away. She stood with her +back against the door and looked and looked. But soon she began to feel +warm, and then she moved forward. + +“A fire that I only thought I saw surely wouldn't feel warm,” she said. +“It feels real--real.” + +She went to it and knelt before it. She touched the chair, the table; +she lifted the cover of one of the dishes. There was something hot and +savory in it--something delicious. The tea-pot had tea in it, ready for +the boiling water from the little kettle; one plate had toast on it, +another, muffins. + +“It is real,” said Sara. “The fire is real enough to warm me; I can sit +in the chair; the things are real enough to eat.” + +It was like a fairy story come true--it was heavenly. She went to the +bed and touched the blankets and the wrap. They were real too. She +opened one book, and on the title-page was written in a strange hand, +“The little girl in the attic.” + +Suddenly--was it a strange thing for her to do?--Sara put her face down +on the queer, foreign looking quilted robe and burst into tears. + +“I don't know who it is,” she said, “but somebody cares about me a +little--somebody is my friend.” + +Somehow that thought warmed her more than the fire. She had never had +a friend since those happy, luxurious days when she had had everything; +and those days had seemed such a long way off--so far away as to be only +like dreams--during these last years at Miss Minchin's. + +She really cried more at this strange thought of having a friend--even +though an unknown one--than she had cried over many of her worst +troubles. + +But these tears seemed different from the others, for when she had wiped +them away they did not seem to leave her eyes and her heart hot and +smarting. + +And then imagine, if you can, what the rest of the evening was like. +The delicious comfort of taking off the damp clothes and putting on the +soft, warm, quilted robe before the glowing fire--of slipping her cold +feet into the luscious little wool-lined slippers she found near her +chair. And then the hot tea and savory dishes, the cushioned chair and +the books! + +It was just like Sara, that, once having found the things real, she +should give herself up to the enjoyment of them to the very utmost. She +had lived such a life of imagining, and had found her pleasure so long +in improbabilities, that she was quite equal to accepting any wonderful +thing that happened. After she was quite warm and had eaten her supper +and enjoyed herself for an hour or so, it had almost ceased to be +surprising to her that such magical surroundings should be hers. As +to finding out who had done all this, she knew that it was out of the +question. She did not know a human soul by whom it could seem in the +least degree probable that it could have been done. + +“There is nobody,” she said to herself, “nobody.” She discussed the +matter with Emily, it is true, but more because it was delightful to +talk about it than with a view to making any discoveries. + +“But we have a friend, Emily,” she said; “we have a friend.” + +Sara could not even imagine a being charming enough to fill her grand +ideal of her mysterious benefactor. If she tried to make in her mind +a picture of him or her, it ended by being something glittering and +strange--not at all like a real person, but bearing resemblance to a +sort of Eastern magician, with long robes and a wand. And when she fell +asleep, beneath the soft white blanket, she dreamed all night of this +magnificent personage, and talked to him in Hindustani, and made salaams +to him. + +Upon one thing she was determined. She would not speak to any one of +her good fortune--it should be her own secret; in fact, she was +rather inclined to think that if Miss Minchin knew, she would take her +treasures from her or in some way spoil her pleasure. So, when she went +down the next morning, she shut her door very tight and did her best to +look as if nothing unusual had occurred. And yet this was rather hard, +because she could not help remembering, every now and then, with a sort +of start, and her heart would beat quickly every time she repeated to +herself, “I have a friend!” + +It was a friend who evidently meant to continue to be kind, for when she +went to her garret the next night--and she opened the door, it must be +confessed, with rather an excited feeling--she found that the same hands +had been again at work, and had done even more than before. The fire and +the supper were again there, and beside them a number of other things +which so altered the look of the garret that Sara quite lost her breath. +A piece of bright, strange, heavy cloth covered the battered mantel, and +on it some ornaments had been placed. All the bare, ugly things which +could be covered with draperies had been concealed and made to look +quite pretty. Some odd materials in rich colors had been fastened +against the walls with sharp, fine tacks--so sharp that they could be +pressed into the wood without hammering. Some brilliant fans were pinned +up, and there were several large cushions. A long, old wooden box was +covered with a rug, and some cushions lay on it, so that it wore quite +the air of a sofa. + +Sara simply sat down, and looked, and looked again. + +“It is exactly like something fairy come true,” she said; “there isn't +the least difference. I feel as if I might wish for anything--diamonds +and bags of gold--and they would appear! That couldn't be any stranger +than this. Is this my garret? Am I the same cold, ragged, damp Sara? +And to think how I used to pretend, and pretend, and wish there were +fairies! The one thing I always wanted was to see a fairy story come +true. I am living in a fairy story! I feel as if I might be a fairy +myself, and be able to turn things into anything else!” + +It was like a fairy story, and, what was best of all, it continued. +Almost every day something new was done to the garret. Some new comfort +or ornament appeared in it when Sara opened her door at night, until +actually, in a short time it was a bright little room, full of all sorts +of odd and luxurious things. And the magician had taken care that the +child should not be hungry, and that she should have as many books as +she could read. When she left the room in the morning, the remains of +her supper were on the table, and when she returned in the evening, the +magician had removed them, and left another nice little meal. Downstairs +Miss Minchin was as cruel and insulting as ever, Miss Amelia was as +peevish, and the servants were as vulgar. Sara was sent on errands, and +scolded, and driven hither and thither, but somehow it seemed as if she +could bear it all. The delightful sense of romance and mystery lifted +her above the cook's temper and malice. The comfort she enjoyed and +could always look forward to was making her stronger. If she came home +from her errands wet and tired, she knew she would soon be warm, after +she had climbed the stairs. In a few weeks she began to look less thin. +A little color came into her cheeks, and her eyes did not seem much too +big for her face. + +It was just when this was beginning to be so apparent that Miss Minchin +sometimes stared at her questioningly, that another wonderful thing +happened. A man came to the door and left several parcels. All were +addressed (in large letters) to “the little girl in the attic.” Sara +herself was sent to open the door, and she took them in. She laid +the two largest parcels down on the hall-table and was looking at the +address, when Miss Minchin came down the stairs. + +“Take the things upstairs to the young lady to whom they belong,” she +said. “Don't stand there staring at them.” + +“They belong to me,” answered Sara, quietly. + +“To you!” exclaimed Miss Minchin. “What do you mean?” + +“I don't know where they came from,” said Sara, “but they're addressed +to me.” + +Miss Minchin came to her side and looked at them with an excited +expression. + +“What is in them?” she demanded. + +“I don't know,” said Sara. + +“Open them!” she demanded, still more excitedly. + +Sara did as she was told. They contained pretty and comfortable +clothing,--clothing of different kinds; shoes and stockings and gloves, +a warm coat, and even an umbrella. On the pocket of the coat was pinned +a paper on which was written, “To be worn every day--will be replaced by +others when necessary.” + +Miss Minchin was quite agitated. This was an incident which suggested +strange things to her sordid mind. Could it be that she had made a +mistake after all, and that the child so neglected and so unkindly +treated by her had some powerful friend in the background? It would not +be very pleasant if there should be such a friend, and he or she should +learn all the truth about the thin, shabby clothes, the scant food, +the hard work. She felt queer indeed and uncertain, and she gave a +side-glance at Sara. + +“Well,” she said, in a voice such as she had never used since the day +the child lost her father--“well, some one is very kind to you. As you +have the things and are to have new ones when they are worn out, you +may as well go and put them on and look respectable; and after you +are dressed, you may come downstairs and learn your lessons in the +school-room.” + +So it happened that, about half an hour afterward, Sara struck the +entire school-room of pupils dumb with amazement, by making her +appearance in a costume such as she had never worn since the change of +fortune whereby she ceased to be a show-pupil and a parlor-boarder. She +scarcely seemed to be the same Sara. She was neatly dressed in a pretty +gown of warm browns and reds, and even her stockings and slippers were +nice and dainty. + +“Perhaps some one has left her a fortune,” one of the girls whispered. +“I always thought something would happen to her, she is so queer.” + +That night when Sara went to her room she carried out a plan she had +been devising for some time. She wrote a note to her unknown friend. It +ran as follows: + + +“I hope you will not think it is not polite that I should write this +note to you when you wish to keep yourself a secret, but I do not mean +to be impolite, or to try to find out at all, only I want to thank you +for being so kind to me--so beautiful kind, and making everything like a +fairy story. I am so grateful to you and I am so happy! I used to be so +lonely and cold and, hungry, and now, oh, just think what you have done +for me! Please let me say just these words. It seems as if I ought to +say them. Thank you--thank you--thank you! + +“THE LITTLE GIRL IN THE ATTIC.” + + +The next morning she left this on the little table, and it was taken +away with the other things; so she felt sure the magician had received +it, and she was happier for the thought. + +A few nights later a very odd thing happened. She found something in the +room which she certainly would never have expected. When she came in +as usual she saw something small and dark in her chair,--an odd, tiny +figure, which turned toward her a little, weird-looking, wistful face. + +“Why, it's the monkey!” she cried. “It is the Indian Gentleman's monkey! +Where can he have come from?” + +It was the monkey, sitting up and looking so like a mite of a child +that it really was quite pathetic; and very soon Sara found out how he +happened to be in her room. The skylight was open, and it was easy to +guess that he had crept out of his master's garret-window, which was +only a few feet away and perfectly easy to get in and out of, even for a +climber less agile than a monkey. He had probably climbed to the garret +on a tour of investigation, and getting out upon the roof, and being +attracted by the light in Sara's attic, had crept in. At all events this +seemed quite reasonable, and there he was; and when Sara went to him, he +actually put out his queer, elfish little hands, caught her dress, and +jumped into her arms. + +“Oh, you queer, poor, ugly, foreign little thing!” said Sara, caressing +him. “I can't help liking you. You look like a sort of baby, but I am +so glad you are not, because your mother could not be proud of you, and +nobody would dare to say you were like any of your relations. But I do +like you; you have such a forlorn little look in your face. Perhaps you +are sorry you are so ugly, and it's always on your mind. I wonder if you +have a mind?” + +The monkey sat and looked at her while she talked, and seemed much +interested in her remarks, if one could judge by his eyes and his +forehead, and the way he moved his head up and down, and held it +sideways and scratched it with his little hand. He examined Sara quite +seriously, and anxiously, too. He felt the stuff of her dress, touched +her hands, climbed up and examined her ears, and then sat on her +shoulder holding a lock of her hair, looking mournful but not at all +agitated. Upon the whole, he seemed pleased with Sara. + +“But I must take you back,” she said to him, “though I'm sorry to have +to do it. Oh, the company you would be to a person!” + +She lifted him from her shoulder, set him on her knee, and gave him a +bit of cake. He sat and nibbled it, and then put his head on one side, +looked at her, wrinkled his forehead, and then nibbled again, in the +most companionable manner. + +“But you must go home,” said Sara at last; and she took him in her arms +to carry him downstairs. Evidently he did not want to leave the room, +for as they reached the door he clung to her neck and gave a little +scream of anger. + +“You mustn't be an ungrateful monkey,” said Sara. “You ought to be +fondest of your own family. I am sure the Lascar is good to you.” + +Nobody saw her on her way out, and very soon she was standing on the +Indian Gentleman's front steps, and the Lascar had opened the door for +her. + +“I found your monkey in my room,” she said in Hindustani. “I think he +got in through the window.” + +The man began a rapid outpouring of thanks; but, just as he was in the +midst of them, a fretful, hollow voice was heard through the open door +of the nearest room. The instant he heard it the Lascar disappeared, and +left Sara still holding the monkey. + +It was not many moments, however, before he came back bringing a +message. His master had told him to bring Missy into the library. The +Sahib was very ill, but he wished to see Missy. + +Sara thought this odd, but she remembered reading stories of Indian +gentlemen who, having no constitutions, were extremely cross and full of +whims, and who must have their own way. So she followed the Lascar. + +When she entered the room the Indian Gentleman was lying on an easy +chair, propped up with pillows. He looked frightfully ill. His yellow +face was thin, and his eyes were hollow. He gave Sara a rather curious +look--it was as if she wakened in him some anxious interest. + +“You live next door?” he said. + +“Yes,” answered Sara. “I live at Miss Minchin's.” + +“She keeps a boarding-school?” + +“Yes,” said Sara. + +“And you are one of her pupils?” + +Sara hesitated a moment. + +“I don't know exactly what I am,” she replied. + +“Why not?” asked the Indian Gentleman. + +The monkey gave a tiny squeak, and Sara stroked him. + +“At first,” she said, “I was a pupil and a parlor boarder; but now--” + +“What do you mean by `at first'?” asked the Indian Gentleman. + +“When I was first taken there by my papa.” + +“Well, what has happened since then?” said the invalid, staring at her +and knitting his brows with a puzzled expression. + +“My papa died,” said Sara. “He lost all his money, and there was +none left for me--and there was no one to take care of me or pay Miss +Minchin, so--” + +“So you were sent up into the garret and neglected, and made into a +half-starved little drudge!” put in the Indian Gentleman. “That is about +it, isn't it?” + +The color deepened on Sara's cheeks. + +“There was no one to take care of me, and no money,” she said. “I belong +to nobody.” + +“What did your father mean by losing his money?” said the gentleman, +fretfully. + +The red in Sara's cheeks grew deeper, and she fixed her odd eyes on the +yellow face. + +“He did not lose it himself,” she said. “He had a friend he was fond +of, and it was his friend, who took his money. I don't know how. I don't +understand. He trusted his friend too much.” + +She saw the invalid start--the strangest start--as if he had been +suddenly frightened. Then he spoke nervously and excitedly: + +“That's an old story,” he said. “It happens every day; but sometimes +those who are blamed--those who do the wrong--don't intend it, and are +not so bad. It may happen through a mistake--a miscalculation; they may +not be so bad.” + +“No,” said Sara, “but the suffering is just as bad for the others. It +killed my papa.” + +The Indian Gentleman pushed aside some of the gorgeous wraps that +covered him. + +“Come a little nearer, and let me look at you,” he said. + +His voice sounded very strange; it had a more nervous and excited tone +than before. Sara had an odd fancy that he was half afraid to look at +her. She came and stood nearer, the monkey clinging to her and watching +his master anxiously over his shoulder. + +The Indian Gentleman's hollow, restless eyes fixed themselves on her. + +“Yes,” he said at last. “Yes; I can see it. Tell me your father's name.” + +“His name was Ralph Crewe,” said Sara. “Captain Crewe. Perhaps,”--a +sudden thought flashing upon her,--“perhaps you may have heard of him? +He died in India.” + +The Indian Gentleman sank back upon his pillows. He looked very weak, +and seemed out of breath. + +“Yes,” he said, “I knew him. I was his friend. I meant no harm. If he +had only lived he would have known. It turned out well after all. He was +a fine young fellow. I was fond of him. I will make it right. Call--call +the man.” + +Sara thought he was going to die. But there was no need to call the +Lascar. He must have been waiting at the door. He was in the room and by +his master's side in an instant. He seemed to know what to do. He lifted +the drooping head, and gave the invalid something in a small glass. The +Indian Gentleman lay panting for a few minutes, and then he spoke in an +exhausted but eager voice, addressing the Lascar in Hindustani: + +“Go for Carmichael,” he said. “Tell him to come here at once. Tell him I +have found the child!” + +When Mr. Carmichael arrived (which occurred in a very few minutes, for +it turned out that he was no other than the father of the Large Family +across the street), Sara went home, and was allowed to take the monkey +with her. She certainly did not sleep very much that night, though the +monkey behaved beautifully, and did not disturb her in the least. It was +not the monkey that kept her awake--it was her thoughts, and her wonders +as to what the Indian Gentleman had meant when he said, “Tell him I have +found the child.” “What child?” Sara kept asking herself. + +“I was the only child there; but how had he found me, and why did he +want to find me? And what is he going to do, now I am found? Is it +something about my papa? Do I belong to somebody? Is he one of my +relations? Is something going to happen?” + +But she found out the very next day, in the morning; and it seemed that +she had been living in a story even more than she had imagined. First, +Mr. Carmichael came and had an interview with Miss Minchin. And it +appeared that Mr. Carmichael, besides occupying the important situation +of father to the Large Family was a lawyer, and had charge of the +affairs of Mr. Carrisford--which was the real name of the Indian +Gentleman--and, as Mr. Carrisford's lawyer, Mr. Carmichael had come to +explain something curious to Miss Minchin regarding Sara. But, being the +father of the Large Family, he had a very kind and fatherly feeling for +children; and so, after seeing Miss Minchin alone, what did he do but +go and bring across the square his rosy, motherly, warm-hearted wife, +so that she herself might talk to the little lonely girl, and tell her +everything in the best and most motherly way. + +And then Sara learned that she was to be a poor little drudge and +outcast no more, and that a great change had come in her fortunes; for +all the lost fortune had come back to her, and a great deal had even +been added to it. It was Mr. Carrisford who had been her father's +friend, and who had made the investments which had caused him the +apparent loss of his money; but it had so happened that after poor young +Captain Crewe's death one of the investments which had seemed at the +time the very worst had taken a sudden turn, and proved to be such a +success that it had been a mine of wealth, and had more than doubled the +Captain's lost fortune, as well as making a fortune for Mr. Carrisford +himself. But Mr. Carrisford had been very unhappy. He had truly loved +his poor, handsome, generous young friend, and the knowledge that he had +caused his death had weighed upon him always, and broken both his health +and spirit. The worst of it had been that, when first he thought himself +and Captain Crewe ruined, he had lost courage and gone away because he +was not brave enough to face the consequences of what he had done, and +so he had not even known where the young soldier's little girl had +been placed. When he wanted to find her, and make restitution, he +could discover no trace of her; and the certainty that she was poor and +friendless somewhere had made him more miserable than ever. When he had +taken the house next to Miss Minchin's he had been so ill and wretched +that he had for the time given up the search. His troubles and the +Indian climate had brought him almost to death's door--indeed, he had +not expected to live more than a few months. And then one day the Lascar +had told him about Sara's speaking Hindustani, and gradually he had +begun to take a sort of interest in the forlorn child, though he had +only caught a glimpse of her once or twice and he had not connected +her with the child of his friend, perhaps because he was too languid +to think much about anything. But the Lascar had found out something +of Sara's unhappy little life, and about the garret. One evening he had +actually crept out of his own garret-window and looked into hers, which +was a very easy matter, because, as I have said, it was only a few feet +away--and he had told his master what he had seen, and in a moment of +compassion the Indian Gentleman had told him to take into the wretched +little room such comforts as he could carry from the one window to the +other. And the Lascar, who had developed an interest in, and an odd +fondness for, the child who had spoken to him in his own tongue, had +been pleased with the work; and, having the silent swiftness and agile +movements of many of his race, he had made his evening journeys across +the few feet of roof from garret-window to garret-window, without any +trouble at all. He had watched Sara's movements until he knew exactly +when she was absent from her room and when she returned to it, and so he +had been able to calculate the best times for his work. Generally he +had made them in the dusk of the evening; but once or twice, when he +had seen her go out on errands, he had dared to go over in the daytime, +being quite sure that the garret was never entered by any one but +herself. His pleasure in the work and his reports of the results had +added to the invalid's interest in it, and sometimes the master had +found the planning gave him something to think of, which made him almost +forget his weariness and pain. And at last, when Sara brought home the +truant monkey, he had felt a wish to see her, and then her likeness to +her father had done the rest. + +“And now, my dear,” said good Mrs. Carmichael, patting Sara's hand, “all +your troubles are over, I am sure, and you are to come home with me and +be taken care of as if you were one of my own little girls; and we are +so pleased to think of having you with us until everything is settled, +and Mr. Carrisford is better. The excitement of last night has made him +very weak, but we really think he will get well, now that such a load +is taken from his mind. And when he is stronger, I am sure he will be as +kind to you as your own papa would have been. He has a very good heart, +and he is fond of children--and he has no family at all. But we must +make you happy and rosy, and you must learn to play and run about, as my +little girls do--” + +“As your little girls do?” said Sara. “I wonder if I could. I used to +watch them and wonder what it was like. Shall I feel as if I belonged to +somebody?” + +“Ah, my love, yes!--yes!” said Mrs. Carmichael; “dear me, yes!” And her +motherly blue eyes grew quite moist, and she suddenly took Sara in her +arms and kissed her. That very night, before she went to sleep, Sara had +made the acquaintance of the entire Large Family, and such excitement +as she and the monkey had caused in that joyous circle could hardly be +described. There was not a child in the nursery, from the Eton boy who +was the eldest, to the baby who was the youngest, who had not laid +some offering on her shrine. All the older ones knew something of her +wonderful story. She had been born in India; she had been poor and +lonely and unhappy, and had lived in a garret and been treated unkindly; +and now she was to be rich and happy, and be taken care of. They were so +sorry for her, and so delighted and curious about her, all at once. The +girls wished to be with her constantly, and the little boys wished to be +told about India; the second baby, with the short round legs, simply +sat and stared at her and the monkey, possibly wondering why she had not +brought a hand-organ with her. + +“I shall certainly wake up presently,” Sara kept saying to herself. +“This one must be a dream. The other one turned out to be real; but this +couldn't be. But, oh! how happy it is!” + +And even when she went to bed, in the bright, pretty room not far from +Mrs. Carmichael's own, and Mrs. Carmichael came and kissed her and +patted her and tucked her in cozily, she was not sure that she would not +wake up in the garret in the morning. + +“And oh, Charles, dear,” Mrs. Carmichael said to her husband, when she +went downstairs to him, “We must get that lonely look out of her eyes! +It isn't a child's look at all. I couldn't bear to see it in one of my +own children. What the poor little love must have had to bear in that +dreadful woman's house! But, surely, she will forget it in time.” + + +But though the lonely look passed away from Sara's face, she never quite +forgot the garret at Miss Minchin's; and, indeed, she always liked to +remember the wonderful night when the tired princess crept upstairs, +cold and wet, and opening the door found fairy-land waiting for her. And +there was no one of the many stories she was always being called upon to +tell in the nursery of the Large Family which was more popular than that +particular one; and there was no one of whom the Large Family were so +fond as of Sara. Mr. Carrisford did not die, but recovered, and Sara +went to live with him; and no real princess could have been better taken +care of than she was. It seemed that the Indian Gentleman could not do +enough to make her happy, and to repay her for the past; and the Lascar +was her devoted slave. As her odd little face grew brighter, it grew so +pretty and interesting that Mr. Carrisford used to sit and watch it many +an evening, as they sat by the fire together. + +They became great friends, and they used to spend hours reading and +talking together; and, in a very short time, there was no pleasanter +sight to the Indian Gentleman than Sara sitting in her big chair on the +opposite side of the hearth, with a book on her knee and her soft, dark +hair tumbling over her warm cheeks. She had a pretty habit of looking +up at him suddenly, with a bright smile, and then he would often say to +her: + +“Are you happy, Sara?” + +And then she would answer: + +“I feel like a real princess, Uncle Tom.” + +He had told her to call him Uncle Tom. + +“There doesn't seem to be anything left to `suppose,'” she added. + +There was a little joke between them that he was a magician, and so +could do anything he liked; and it was one of his pleasures to invent +plans to surprise her with enjoyments she had not thought of. Scarcely +a day passed in which he did not do something new for her. Sometimes she +found new flowers in her room; sometimes a fanciful little gift tucked +into some odd corner, sometimes a new book on her pillow;--once as they +sat together in the evening they heard the scratch of a heavy paw on +the door of the room, and when Sara went to find out what it was, there +stood a great dog--a splendid Russian boar-hound with a grand silver and +gold collar. Stooping to read the inscription upon the collar, Sara was +delighted to read the words: “I am Boris; I serve the Princess Sara.” + +Then there was a sort of fairy nursery arranged for the entertainment of +the juvenile members of the Large Family, who were always coming to see +Sara and the Lascar and the monkey. Sara was as fond of the Large Family +as they were of her. She soon felt as if she were a member of it, and +the companionship of the healthy, happy children was very good for +her. All the children rather looked up to her and regarded her as the +cleverest and most brilliant of creatures--particularly after it was +discovered that she not only knew stories of every kind, and could +invent new ones at a moment's notice, but that she could help with +lessons, and speak French and German, and discourse with the Lascar in +Hindustani. + +It was rather a painful experience for Miss Minchin to watch her +ex-pupil's fortunes, as she had the daily opportunity to do, and to feel +that she had made a serious mistake, from a business point of view. She +had even tried to retrieve it by suggesting that Sara's education should +be continued under her care, and had gone to the length of making an +appeal to the child herself. + +“I have always been very fond of you,” she said. + +Then Sara fixed her eyes upon her and gave her one of her odd looks. + +“Have you?” she answered. + +“Yes,” said Miss Minchin. “Amelia and I have always said you were +the cleverest child we had with us, and I am sure we could make you +happy--as a parlor boarder.” + +Sara thought of the garret and the day her ears were boxed,--and of that +other day, that dreadful, desolate day when she had been told that she +belonged to nobody; that she had no home and no friends,--and she kept +her eyes fixed on Miss Minchin's face. + +“You know why I would not stay with you,” she said. + +And it seems probable that Miss Minchin did, for after that simple +answer she had not the boldness to pursue the subject. She merely sent +in a bill for the expense of Sara's education and support, and she made +it quite large enough. And because Mr. Carrisford thought Sara would +wish it paid, it was paid. When Mr. Carmichael paid it he had a brief +interview with Miss Minchin in which he expressed his opinion with much +clearness and force; and it is quite certain that Miss Minchin did not +enjoy the conversation. + +Sara had been about a month with Mr. Carrisford, and had begun to +realize that her happiness was not a dream, when one night the Indian +Gentleman saw that she sat a long time with her cheek on her hand +looking at the fire. + +“What are you `supposing,' Sara?” he asked. Sara looked up with a bright +color on her cheeks. + +“I was `supposing,'” she said; “I was remembering that hungry day, and a +child I saw.” + +“But there were a great many hungry days,” said the Indian Gentleman, +with a rather sad tone in his voice. “Which hungry day was it?” + +“I forgot you didn't know,” said Sara. “It was the day I found the +things in my garret.” + +And then she told him the story of the bun-shop, and the fourpence, and +the child who was hungrier than herself; and somehow as she told it, +though she told it very simply indeed, the Indian Gentleman found it +necessary to shade his eyes with his hand and look down at the floor. + +“And I was `supposing' a kind of plan,” said Sara, when she had +finished; “I was thinking I would like to do something.” + +“What is it?” said her guardian in a low tone. “You may do anything you +like to do, Princess.” + +“I was wondering,” said Sara,--“you know you say I have a great deal of +money--and I was wondering if I could go and see the bun-woman and +tell her that if, when hungry children--particularly on those dreadful +days--come and sit on the steps or look in at the window, she would just +call them in and give them something to eat, she might send the bills to +me and I would pay them--could I do that?” + +“You shall do it to-morrow morning,” said the Indian Gentleman. + +“Thank you,” said Sara; “you see I know what it is to be hungry, and it +is very hard when one can't even pretend it away.” + +“Yes, yes, my dear,” said the Indian Gentleman. “Yes, it must be. Try +to forget it. Come and sit on this footstool near my knee, and only +remember you are a princess.” + +“Yes,” said Sara, “and I can give buns and bread to the Populace.” And +she went and sat on the stool, and the Indian Gentleman (he used to +like her to call him that, too, sometimes,--in fact very often) drew her +small, dark head down upon his knee and stroked her hair. + +The next morning a carriage drew up before the door of the baker's shop, +and a gentleman and a little girl got out,--oddly enough, just as the +bun-woman was putting a tray of smoking hotbuns into the window. When +Sara entered the shop the woman turned and looked at her and, leaving +the buns, came and stood behind the counter. For a moment she looked at +Sara very hard indeed, and then her good-natured face lighted up. + +“I'm that sure I remember you, miss,” she said. “And yet--” + +“Yes,” said Sara, “once you gave me six buns for fourpence, and--” + +“And you gave five of 'em to a beggar-child,” said the woman. “I've +always remembered it. I couldn't make it out at first. I beg pardon, +sir, but there's not many young people that notices a hungry face in +that way, and I've thought of it many a time. Excuse the liberty, miss, +but you look rosier and better than you did that day.” + +“I am better, thank you,” said Sara, “and--and I am happier, and I have +come to ask you to do something for me.” + +“Me, miss!” exclaimed the woman, “why, bless you, yes, miss! What can I +do?” + +And then Sara made her little proposal, and the woman listened to it +with an astonished face. + +“Why, bless me!” she said, when she had heard it all. “Yes, miss, it'll +be a pleasure to me to do it. I am a working woman, myself, and can't +afford to do much on my own account, and there's sights of trouble on +every side; but if you'll excuse me, I'm bound to say I've given many +a bit of bread away since that wet afternoon, just along o' thinkin' of +you. An' how wet an' cold you was, an' how you looked,--an' yet you give +away your hot buns as if you was a princess.” + +The Indian Gentleman smiled involuntarily, and Sara smiled a little too. +“She looked so hungry,” she said. “She was hungrier than I was.” + +“She was starving,” said the woman. “Many's the time she's told me of it +since--how she sat there in the wet, and felt as if a wolf was a-tearing +at her poor young insides.” + +“Oh, have you seen her since then?” exclaimed Sara. “Do you know where +she is?” + +“I know!” said the woman. “Why, she's in that there back room now, miss, +an' has been for a month, an' a decent, well-meaning girl she's going to +turn out, an' such a help to me in the day shop, an' in the kitchen, as +you'd scarce believe, knowing how she's lived.” + +She stepped to the door of the little back parlor and spoke; and the +next minute a girl came out and followed her behind the counter. And +actually it was the beggar-child, clean and neatly clothed, and looking +as if she had not been hungry for a long time. She looked shy, but she +had a nice face, now that she was no longer a savage; and the wild look +had gone from her eyes. And she knew Sara in an instant, and stood and +looked at her as if she could never look enough. + +“You see,” said the woman, “I told her to come here when she was hungry, +and when she'd come I'd give her odd jobs to do, an' I found she was +willing, an' somehow I got to like her; an' the end of it was I've given +her a place an' a home, an' she helps me, an' behaves as well, an' is as +thankful as a girl can be. Her name's Anne--she has no other.” + +The two children stood and looked at each other a few moments. In Sara's +eyes a new thought was growing. + +“I'm glad you have such a good home,” she said. “Perhaps Mrs. Brown will +let you give the buns and bread to the children--perhaps you would like +to do it--because you know what it is to be hungry, too.” + +“Yes, miss,” said the girl. + +And somehow Sara felt as if she understood her, though the girl said +nothing more, and only stood still and looked, and looked after her as +she went out of the shop and got into the carriage and drove away. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Sara Crewe, by Frances Hodgson Burnett + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 137 *** |