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      Sara Crewe, by Frances Hodgson Burnett
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 137 ***</div>

    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      SARA CREWE <br /> OR <br /> WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;and nearly all the days were
      still&mdash;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,
    </p>
    <h3>
      MISS MINCHIN'S<br /> SELECT SEMINARY FOR YOUNG LADIES
    </h3>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Select,&rdquo; and in the second she was not a &ldquo;Young Lady.&rdquo; 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&mdash;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, &ldquo;Here is our very latest thing in
      hats, the plumes are exactly the same as those we sold to Lady Diana
      Sinclair yesterday,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A most beautiful and promising little girl, Captain Crewe. She will be a
      favorite pupil; quite a favorite pupil, I see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am the ugliest child in the school,&rdquo; she had said once, after staring
      at herself in the glass for some minutes.
    </p>
    <p>
      But there had been a clever, good-natured little French teacher who had
      said to the music-master:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Put your doll down!&rdquo; said Miss Minchin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said the child, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will have no time for dolls in future,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;you will have to
      work and improve yourself, and make yourself useful.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sara kept the big odd eyes fixed on her teacher and said nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Everything will be very different now,&rdquo; Miss Minchin went on. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The little pale olive face twitched nervously, but the green-gray eyes did
      not move from Miss Minchin's, and still Sara said nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you staring at?&rdquo; demanded Miss Minchin sharply. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now listen to me,&rdquo; she went on, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can speak French better than you, now,&rdquo; said Sara; &ldquo;I always spoke it
      with my papa in India.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't be impudent, or you will be punished,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sara turned away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay,&rdquo; commanded Miss Minchin, &ldquo;don't you intend to thank me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sara turned toward her. The nervous twitch was to be seen again in her
      face, and she seemed to be trying to control it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What for?&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For my kindness to you,&rdquo; replied Miss Minchin. &ldquo;For my kindness in giving
      you a home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are not kind,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You are not kind.&rdquo; And she turned again and
      went out of the room, leaving Miss Minchin staring after her strange,
      small figure in stony anger.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are not to go in there,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;That is not your room now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is my room?&rdquo; asked Sara.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are to sleep in the attic next to the cook.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She always looks as if she was finding you out,&rdquo; said one girl, who was
      sly and given to making mischief. &ldquo;I am,&rdquo; said Sara promptly, when she
      heard of it. &ldquo;That's what I look at them for. I like to know about people.
      I think them over afterward.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are the only friend I have in the world,&rdquo; she would say to her. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;pretends&rdquo; was that Emily was a kind of
      good witch and could protect her. Poor little Sara! everything was
      &ldquo;pretend&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As to answering,&rdquo; she used to say, &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall die presently!&rdquo; she said at first.
    </p>
    <p>
      Emily stared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't bear this!&rdquo; said the poor child, trembling. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are nothing but a doll!&rdquo; she cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can't help being a doll,&rdquo; she said, with a resigned sigh, &ldquo;any more
      than those girls downstairs can help not having any sense. We are not all
      alike. Perhaps you do your sawdust best.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter with you?&rdquo; she asked her, perhaps rather disdainfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter with you?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My papa has sent me some more books,&rdquo; answered Ermengarde woefully, &ldquo;and
      he expects me to read them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't you like reading?&rdquo; said Sara.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hate it!&rdquo; replied Miss Ermengarde St. John. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'd like it better than anything else in the world,&rdquo; said Sara.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ermengarde wiped her eyes to look at such a prodigy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, gracious!&rdquo; she exclaimed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sara returned the look with interest. A sudden plan formed itself in her
      sharp mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, goodness!&rdquo; said Ermengarde. &ldquo;Do you think you could?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know I could,&rdquo; answered Sara. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ermengarde put her handkerchief in her pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you'll do that,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and if you'll make me remember, I'll give
      you&mdash;I'll give you some money.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't want your money,&rdquo; said Sara. &ldquo;I want your books&mdash;I want
      them.&rdquo; And her eyes grew big and queer, and her chest heaved once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take them, then,&rdquo; said Ermengarde; &ldquo;I wish I wanted them, but I am not
      clever, and my father is, and he thinks I ought to be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sara picked up the books and marched off with them. But when she was at
      the door, she stopped and turned around.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you going to tell your father?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; said Ermengarde, &ldquo;he needn't know; he'll think I've read them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sara looked down at the books; her heart really began to beat fast.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I won't do it,&rdquo; she said rather slowly, &ldquo;if you are going to tell him
      lies about it&mdash;I don't like lies. Why can't you tell him I read them
      and then told you about them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he wants me to read them,&rdquo; said Ermengarde.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He wants you to know what is in them,&rdquo; said Sara; &ldquo;and if I can tell it
      to you in an easy way and make you remember, I should think he would like
      that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He would like it better if I read them myself,&rdquo; replied Ermengarde.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will like it, I dare say, if you learn anything in any way,&rdquo; said
      Sara. &ldquo;I should, if I were your father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It sounds nicer than it seems in the book,&rdquo; she would say. &ldquo;I never cared
      about Mary, Queen of Scots, before, and I always hated the French
      Revolution, but you make it seem like a story.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a story,&rdquo; Sara would answer. &ldquo;They are all stories. Everything is a
      story&mdash;everything in this world. You are a story&mdash;I am a story&mdash;Miss
      Minchin is a story. You can make a story out of anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't,&rdquo; said Ermengarde.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sara stared at her a minute reflectively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she said at last. &ldquo;I suppose you couldn't. You are a little like
      Emily.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is Emily?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Emily is&mdash;a person&mdash;I know,&rdquo; she replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you like her?&rdquo; asked Ermengarde.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I do,&rdquo; said Sara.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you like me?&rdquo; said Ermengarde, finally, at the end of her scrutiny.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sara hesitated one second, then she answered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I like you because you are not ill-natured&mdash;I like you for letting
      me read your books&mdash;I like you because you don't make spiteful fun of
      me for what I can't help. It's not your fault that&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She pulled herself up quickly. She had been going to say, &ldquo;that you are
      stupid.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That what?&rdquo; asked Ermengarde.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That you can't learn things quickly. If you can't, you can't. If I can,
      why, I can&mdash;that's all.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stopped again and examined her companion's countenance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you remember about him?&rdquo; she demanded. &ldquo;I believe you've forgotten.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I don't remember all of it,&rdquo; admitted Ermengarde.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Sara, with courage and determination, &ldquo;I'll tell it to you
      over again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know they put her head on a pike and danced around it,&rdquo; Sara had
      said; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;suppose&rdquo;
       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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose there was a grate, wide steel grate here, and a great glowing
      fire&mdash;a glowing fire&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What large, downy pillows!&rdquo; she would whisper. &ldquo;What white sheets and
      fleecy blankets!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      At another time she would &ldquo;suppose&rdquo; 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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A princess must be polite,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am a princess in rags and tatters,&rdquo; she would think, &ldquo;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,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sara awakened from her dream, started a little, and then broke into a
      laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you laughing at, you bold, impudent child!&rdquo; exclaimed Miss
      Minchin.
    </p>
    <p>
      It took Sara a few seconds to remember she was a princess. Her cheeks were
      red and smarting from the blows she had received.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was thinking,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beg my pardon immediately,&rdquo; said Miss Minchin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will beg your pardon for laughing, if it was rude,&rdquo; said Sara; &ldquo;but I
      won't beg your pardon for thinking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What were you thinking?&rdquo; demanded Miss Minchin. &ldquo;How dare you think? What
      were you thinking?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was thinking,&rdquo; she answered gravely and quite politely, &ldquo;that you did
      not know what you were doing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I did not know what I was doing!&rdquo; Miss Minchin fairly gasped.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Sara, &ldquo;and I was thinking what would happen, if I were a
      princess and you boxed my ears&mdash;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&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;found out what?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I really was a princess,&rdquo; said Sara, &ldquo;and could do anything&mdash;anything
      I liked.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go to your room,&rdquo; cried Miss Minchin breathlessly, &ldquo;this instant. Leave
      the school-room. Attend to your lessons, young ladies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sara made a little bow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me for laughing, if it was impolite,&rdquo; she said, and walked out of
      the room, leaving Miss Minchin in a rage and the girls whispering over
      their books.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shouldn't be at all surprised if she did turn out to be something,&rdquo;
       said one of them. &ldquo;Suppose she should!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;sticky London mud&mdash;and over everything a
      pall of fog and drizzle. Of course there were several long and tiresome
      errands to be done,&mdash;there always were on days like this,&mdash;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
      &ldquo;supposing,&rdquo;&mdash;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. &ldquo;Suppose I had
      dry clothes on,&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;Suppose I had good shoes and a long, thick
      coat and merino stockings and a whole umbrella. And suppose&mdash;suppose,
      just when I was near a baker's where they sold hot buns, I should find
      sixpence&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;the mud was dreadful&mdash;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&mdash;just as she reached the
      pavement&mdash;she saw something shining in the gutter. A piece of silver&mdash;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&mdash;a
      four-penny piece! In one second it was in her cold, little red and blue
      hand. &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; she gasped. &ldquo;It is true!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;large, plump, shiny buns, with currants in
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      It almost made Sara feel faint for a few seconds&mdash;the shock and the
      sight of the buns and the delightful odors of warm bread floating up
      through the baker's cellar-window.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I'll go and ask the baker's woman if she has lost a piece of money,&rdquo;
       she said to herself, rather faintly.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a little figure more forlorn than her own&mdash;a little figure
      which was not much more than a bundle of rags, from which small, bare, red
      and muddy feet peeped out&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sara knew they were hungry eyes the moment she saw them, and she felt a
      sudden sympathy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This,&rdquo; she said to herself, with a little sigh, &ldquo;is one of the Populace&mdash;and
      she is hungrier than I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The child&mdash;this &ldquo;one of the Populace&rdquo;&mdash;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 &ldquo;move on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sara clutched her little four-penny piece, and hesitated a few seconds.
      Then she spoke to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you hungry?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child shuffled herself and her rags a little more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ain't I jist!&rdquo; she said, in a hoarse voice. &ldquo;Jist ain't I!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Haven't you had any dinner?&rdquo; said Sara.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No dinner,&rdquo; more hoarsely still and with more shuffling, &ldquo;nor yet no
      bre'fast&mdash;nor yet no supper&mdash;nor nothin'.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Since when?&rdquo; asked Sara.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dun'no. Never got nothin' to-day&mdash;nowhere. I've axed and axed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I'm a princess,&rdquo; she was saying&mdash;&ldquo;if I'm a princess&mdash;! When
      they were poor and driven from their thrones&mdash;they always shared&mdash;with
      the Populace&mdash;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&mdash;but it will be better than
      nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait a minute,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you please,&rdquo; said Sara, &ldquo;have you lost fourpence&mdash;a silver
      fourpence?&rdquo; And she held the forlorn little piece of money out to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      The woman looked at it and at her&mdash;at her intense little face and
      draggled, once-fine clothes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bless us&mdash;no,&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;Did you find it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the gutter,&rdquo; said Sara.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep it, then,&rdquo; said the woman. &ldquo;It may have been there a week, and
      goodness knows who lost it. You could never find out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know that,&rdquo; said Sara, &ldquo;but I thought I'd ask you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not many would,&rdquo; said the woman, looking puzzled and interested and
      good-natured all at once. &ldquo;Do you want to buy something?&rdquo; she added, as
      she saw Sara glance toward the buns.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Four buns, if you please,&rdquo; said Sara; &ldquo;those at a penny each.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The woman went to the window and put some in a paper bag. Sara noticed
      that she put in six.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I said four, if you please,&rdquo; she explained. &ldquo;I have only the fourpence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll throw in two for make-weight,&rdquo; said the woman, with her good-natured
      look. &ldquo;I dare say you can eat them some time. Aren't you hungry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A mist rose before Sara's eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;I am very hungry, and I am much obliged to you for
      your kindness, and,&rdquo; she was going to add, &ldquo;there is a child outside who
      is hungrier than I am.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sara opened the paper bag and took out one of the hot buns, which had
      already warmed her cold hands a little.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See,&rdquo; she said, putting the bun on the ragged lap, &ldquo;that is nice and hot.
      Eat it, and you will not be so hungry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, my! Oh, my!&rdquo; Sara heard her say hoarsely, in wild delight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, my!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sara took out three more buns and put them down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is hungrier than I am,&rdquo; she said to herself. &ldquo;She's starving.&rdquo; But
      her hand trembled when she put down the fourth bun. &ldquo;I'm not starving,&rdquo;
       she said&mdash;and she put down the fifth.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;which she had not. She was only a poor little
      wild animal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-bye,&rdquo; said Sara.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;a
      curious, longing stare,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      At that moment the baker-woman glanced out of her shop-window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I never!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;If that young'un hasn't given her buns to
      a beggar-child! It wasn't because she didn't want them, either&mdash;well,
      well, she looked hungry enough. I'd give something to know what she did it
      for.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who gave you those buns?&rdquo; she asked her.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child nodded her head toward Sara's vanishing figure.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did she say?&rdquo; inquired the woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Axed me if I was 'ungry,&rdquo; replied the hoarse voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did you say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Said I was jist!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And then she came in and got buns and came out and gave them to you, did
      she?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The child nodded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How many?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Five.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The woman thought it over. &ldquo;Left just one for herself,&rdquo; she said, in a low
      voice. &ldquo;And she could have eaten the whole six&mdash;I saw it in her
      eyes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish she hadn't gone so quick,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I'm blest if she shouldn't
      have had a dozen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then she turned to the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you hungry, yet?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm allus 'ungry,&rdquo; was the answer; &ldquo;but 'tain't so bad as it was.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come in here,&rdquo; said the woman, and she held open the shop-door.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get yourself warm,&rdquo; said the woman, pointing to a fire in a tiny back
      room. &ldquo;And, look here,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose it was a magic bun,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and a bite was as much as a whole
      dinner. I should be over-eating myself if I went on like this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;not because they
      were large, for indeed most of them were little,&mdash;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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dare say,&rdquo; she used sometimes to remark to herself, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The native servant, whom she called the Lascar, looked mournful too, but
      he was evidently very faithful to his master.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps he saved his master's life in the Sepoy rebellion,&rdquo; she thought.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;that he was
      ill&mdash;and also that he had no wife nor children, and that England did
      not agree with the monkey.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He must be as lonely as I am,&rdquo; thought Sara. &ldquo;Being rich does not seem to
      make him happy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor man!&rdquo; said Sara; &ldquo;I wonder what you are `supposing'?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When she went into the house she met Miss Minchin in the hall.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where have you wasted your time?&rdquo; said Miss Minchin. &ldquo;You have been out
      for hours!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was so wet and muddy,&rdquo; Sara answered. &ldquo;It was hard to walk, because my
      shoes were so bad and slipped about so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Make no excuses,&rdquo; said Miss Minchin, &ldquo;and tell no falsehoods.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sara went downstairs to the kitchen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why didn't you stay all night?&rdquo; said the cook.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here are the things,&rdquo; said Sara, and laid her purchases on the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cook looked over them, grumbling. She was in a very bad temper indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I have something to eat?&rdquo; Sara asked rather faintly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tea's over and done with,&rdquo; was the answer. &ldquo;Did you expect me to keep it
      hot for you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sara was silent a second.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had no dinner,&rdquo; she said, and her voice was quite low. She made it low,
      because she was afraid it would tremble.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's some bread in the pantry,&rdquo; said the cook. &ldquo;That's all you'll get
      at this time of day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't pretend anything more to-night,&rdquo; she said wearily to herself.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Yes, when she reached the top landing there were tears in her eyes, and
      she did not feel like a princess&mdash;only like a tired, hungry, lonely,
      lonely child.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If my papa had lived,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;they would not have treated me like
      this. If my papa had lived, he would have taken care of me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then she turned the handle and opened the garret-door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Can you imagine it&mdash;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&mdash;to her mind&mdash;that
      the dream had come before she had had time to fall asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; she exclaimed breathlessly. &ldquo;Oh! it isn't true! I know, I know it
      isn't true!&rdquo; And she slipped into the room and closed the door and locked
      it, and stood with her back against it, staring straight before her.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is bewitched!&rdquo; said Sara. &ldquo;Or I am bewitched. I only think I see it
      all; but if I can only keep on thinking it, I don't care&mdash;I don't
      care&mdash;if I can only keep it up!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A fire that I only thought I saw surely wouldn't feel warm,&rdquo; she said.
      &ldquo;It feels real&mdash;real.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is real,&rdquo; said Sara. &ldquo;The fire is real enough to warm me; I can sit in
      the chair; the things are real enough to eat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was like a fairy story come true&mdash;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, &ldquo;The little
      girl in the attic.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly&mdash;was it a strange thing for her to do?&mdash;Sara put her
      face down on the queer, foreign looking quilted robe and burst into tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know who it is,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;but somebody cares about me a little&mdash;somebody
      is my friend.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;so far away as to be only
      like dreams&mdash;during these last years at Miss Minchin's.
    </p>
    <p>
      She really cried more at this strange thought of having a friend&mdash;even
      though an unknown one&mdash;than she had cried over many of her worst
      troubles.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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!
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is nobody,&rdquo; she said to herself, &ldquo;nobody.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But we have a friend, Emily,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;we have a friend.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon one thing she was determined. She would not speak to any one of her
      good fortune&mdash;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, &ldquo;I have a
      friend!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was a friend who evidently meant to continue to be kind, for when she
      went to her garret the next night&mdash;and she opened the door, it must
      be confessed, with rather an excited feeling&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sara simply sat down, and looked, and looked again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is exactly like something fairy come true,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;there isn't the
      least difference. I feel as if I might wish for anything&mdash;diamonds
      and bags of gold&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;the little girl in the attic.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take the things upstairs to the young lady to whom they belong,&rdquo; she
      said. &ldquo;Don't stand there staring at them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They belong to me,&rdquo; answered Sara, quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To you!&rdquo; exclaimed Miss Minchin. &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know where they came from,&rdquo; said Sara, &ldquo;but they're addressed to
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Minchin came to her side and looked at them with an excited
      expression.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is in them?&rdquo; she demanded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; said Sara.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Open them!&rdquo; she demanded, still more excitedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sara did as she was told. They contained pretty and comfortable clothing,&mdash;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, &ldquo;To be worn every day&mdash;will be replaced by others when
      necessary.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; she said, in a voice such as she had never used since the day the
      child lost her father&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps some one has left her a fortune,&rdquo; one of the girls whispered. &ldquo;I
      always thought something would happen to her, she is so queer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;thank you&mdash;thank you!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;THE LITTLE GIRL IN THE ATTIC.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;an odd, tiny
      figure, which turned toward her a little, weird-looking, wistful face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, it's the monkey!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;It is the Indian Gentleman's monkey!
      Where can he have come from?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you queer, poor, ugly, foreign little thing!&rdquo; said Sara, caressing
      him. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I must take you back,&rdquo; she said to him, &ldquo;though I'm sorry to have to
      do it. Oh, the company you would be to a person!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you must go home,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mustn't be an ungrateful monkey,&rdquo; said Sara. &ldquo;You ought to be fondest
      of your own family. I am sure the Lascar is good to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I found your monkey in my room,&rdquo; she said in Hindustani. &ldquo;I think he got
      in through the window.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;it
      was as if she wakened in him some anxious interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You live next door?&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; answered Sara. &ldquo;I live at Miss Minchin's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She keeps a boarding-school?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Sara.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you are one of her pupils?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sara hesitated a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know exactly what I am,&rdquo; she replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; asked the Indian Gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      The monkey gave a tiny squeak, and Sara stroked him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At first,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I was a pupil and a parlor boarder; but now&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean by `at first'?&rdquo; asked the Indian Gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I was first taken there by my papa.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what has happened since then?&rdquo; said the invalid, staring at her and
      knitting his brows with a puzzled expression.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My papa died,&rdquo; said Sara. &ldquo;He lost all his money, and there was none left
      for me&mdash;and there was no one to take care of me or pay Miss Minchin,
      so&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So you were sent up into the garret and neglected, and made into a
      half-starved little drudge!&rdquo; put in the Indian Gentleman. &ldquo;That is about
      it, isn't it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The color deepened on Sara's cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was no one to take care of me, and no money,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I belong
      to nobody.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did your father mean by losing his money?&rdquo; said the gentleman,
      fretfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      The red in Sara's cheeks grew deeper, and she fixed her odd eyes on the
      yellow face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He did not lose it himself,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She saw the invalid start&mdash;the strangest start&mdash;as if he had
      been suddenly frightened. Then he spoke nervously and excitedly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's an old story,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;It happens every day; but sometimes those
      who are blamed&mdash;those who do the wrong&mdash;don't intend it, and are
      not so bad. It may happen through a mistake&mdash;a miscalculation; they
      may not be so bad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Sara, &ldquo;but the suffering is just as bad for the others. It
      killed my papa.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Indian Gentleman pushed aside some of the gorgeous wraps that covered
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come a little nearer, and let me look at you,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Indian Gentleman's hollow, restless eyes fixed themselves on her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said at last. &ldquo;Yes; I can see it. Tell me your father's name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His name was Ralph Crewe,&rdquo; said Sara. &ldquo;Captain Crewe. Perhaps,&rdquo;&mdash;a
      sudden thought flashing upon her,&mdash;&ldquo;perhaps you may have heard of
      him? He died in India.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Indian Gentleman sank back upon his pillows. He looked very weak, and
      seemed out of breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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&mdash;call
      the man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go for Carmichael,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Tell him to come here at once. Tell him I
      have found the child!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;it was her thoughts, and her wonders as
      to what the Indian Gentleman had meant when he said, &ldquo;Tell him I have
      found the child.&rdquo; &ldquo;What child?&rdquo; Sara kept asking herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;which was the real name of the Indian Gentleman&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now, my dear,&rdquo; said good Mrs. Carmichael, patting Sara's hand, &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As your little girls do?&rdquo; said Sara. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, my love, yes!&mdash;yes!&rdquo; said Mrs. Carmichael; &ldquo;dear me, yes!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall certainly wake up presently,&rdquo; Sara kept saying to herself. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And oh, Charles, dear,&rdquo; Mrs. Carmichael said to her husband, when she
      went downstairs to him, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you happy, Sara?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And then she would answer:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I feel like a real princess, Uncle Tom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had told her to call him Uncle Tom.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There doesn't seem to be anything left to `suppose,'&rdquo; she added.
    </p>
    <p>
      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;&mdash;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&mdash;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: &ldquo;I am Boris; I serve the Princess Sara.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have always been very fond of you,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then Sara fixed her eyes upon her and gave her one of her odd looks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you?&rdquo; she answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Miss Minchin. &ldquo;Amelia and I have always said you were the
      cleverest child we had with us, and I am sure we could make you happy&mdash;as
      a parlor boarder.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sara thought of the garret and the day her ears were boxed,&mdash;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,&mdash;and she
      kept her eyes fixed on Miss Minchin's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know why I would not stay with you,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you `supposing,' Sara?&rdquo; he asked. Sara looked up with a bright
      color on her cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was `supposing,'&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;I was remembering that hungry day, and a
      child I saw.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But there were a great many hungry days,&rdquo; said the Indian Gentleman, with
      a rather sad tone in his voice. &ldquo;Which hungry day was it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I forgot you didn't know,&rdquo; said Sara. &ldquo;It was the day I found the things
      in my garret.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I was `supposing' a kind of plan,&rdquo; said Sara, when she had finished;
      &ldquo;I was thinking I would like to do something.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; said her guardian in a low tone. &ldquo;You may do anything you
      like to do, Princess.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was wondering,&rdquo; said Sara,&mdash;&ldquo;you know you say I have a great deal
      of money&mdash;and I was wondering if I could go and see the bun-woman and
      tell her that if, when hungry children&mdash;particularly on those
      dreadful days&mdash;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&mdash;could I do that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You shall do it to-morrow morning,&rdquo; said the Indian Gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; said Sara; &ldquo;you see I know what it is to be hungry, and it is
      very hard when one can't even pretend it away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes, my dear,&rdquo; said the Indian Gentleman. &ldquo;Yes, it must be. Try to
      forget it. Come and sit on this footstool near my knee, and only remember
      you are a princess.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Sara, &ldquo;and I can give buns and bread to the Populace.&rdquo; And she
      went and sat on the stool, and the Indian Gentleman (he used to like her
      to call him that, too, sometimes,&mdash;in fact very often) drew her
      small, dark head down upon his knee and stroked her hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next morning a carriage drew up before the door of the baker's shop,
      and a gentleman and a little girl got out,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm that sure I remember you, miss,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;And yet&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Sara, &ldquo;once you gave me six buns for fourpence, and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you gave five of 'em to a beggar-child,&rdquo; said the woman. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am better, thank you,&rdquo; said Sara, &ldquo;and&mdash;and I am happier, and I
      have come to ask you to do something for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me, miss!&rdquo; exclaimed the woman, &ldquo;why, bless you, yes, miss! What can I
      do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And then Sara made her little proposal, and the woman listened to it with
      an astonished face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, bless me!&rdquo; she said, when she had heard it all. &ldquo;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,&mdash;an' yet you give away your hot
      buns as if you was a princess.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Indian Gentleman smiled involuntarily, and Sara smiled a little too.
      &ldquo;She looked so hungry,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;She was hungrier than I was.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She was starving,&rdquo; said the woman. &ldquo;Many's the time she's told me of it
      since&mdash;how she sat there in the wet, and felt as if a wolf was
      a-tearing at her poor young insides.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, have you seen her since then?&rdquo; exclaimed Sara. &ldquo;Do you know where she
      is?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know!&rdquo; said the woman. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see,&rdquo; said the woman, &ldquo;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&mdash;she has no other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The two children stood and looked at each other a few moments. In Sara's
      eyes a new thought was growing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm glad you have such a good home,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Perhaps Mrs. Brown will
      let you give the buns and bread to the children&mdash;perhaps you would
      like to do it&mdash;because you know what it is to be hungry, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, miss,&rdquo; said the girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
  <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 137 ***</div>
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