prompt:
Chapter: The Other Side of the Wall

When one lives in a row of houses, it is interesting to think of the
things which are being done and said on the other side of the wall of
the very rooms one is living in.  Sara was fond of amusing herself by
trying to imagine the things hidden by the wall which divided the
Select Seminary from the Indian gentleman's house. She knew that the
schoolroom was next to the Indian gentleman's study, and she hoped that
the wall was thick so that the noise made sometimes after lesson hours
would not disturb him.

"I am growing quite fond of him," she said to Ermengarde; "I should not
like him to be disturbed.  I have adopted him for a friend. You can do
that with people you never speak to at all.  You can just watch them,
and think about them and be sorry for them, until they seem almost like
relations.  I'm quite anxious sometimes when I see the doctor call
twice a day."

"I have very few relations," said Ermengarde, reflectively, "and I'm
very glad of it.  I don't like those I have.  My two aunts are always
saying, 'Dear me, Ermengarde!  You are very fat.  You shouldn't eat
sweets,' and my uncle is always asking me things like, 'When did Edward
the Third ascend the throne?' and, 'Who died of a surfeit of lampreys?'"

Sara laughed.

"People you never speak to can't ask you questions like that," she
said; "and I'm sure the Indian gentleman wouldn't even if he was quite
intimate with you.  I am fond of him."

She had become fond of the Large Family because they looked happy; but
she had become fond of the Indian gentleman because he looked unhappy.
He had evidently not fully recovered from some very severe illness.  In
the kitchen--where, of course, the servants, through some mysterious
means, knew everything--there was much discussion of his case.  He was
not an Indian gentleman really, but an Englishman who had lived in
India.  He had met with great misfortunes which had for a time so
imperilled his whole fortune that he had thought himself ruined and
disgraced forever. The shock had been so great that he had almost died
of brain fever; and ever since he had been shattered in health, though
his fortunes had changed and all his possessions had been restored to
him. His trouble and peril had been connected with mines.

"And mines with diamonds in 'em!" said the cook.  "No savin's of mine
never goes into no mines--particular diamond ones"--with a side glance
at Sara.  "We all know somethin' of THEM."

"He felt as my papa felt," Sara thought.  "He was ill as my papa was;
but he did not die."

So her heart was more drawn to him than before.  When she was sent out
at night she used sometimes to feel quite glad, because there was
always a chance that the curtains of the house next door might not yet
be closed and she could look into the warm room and see her adopted
friend.  When no one was about she used sometimes to stop, and, holding
to the iron railings, wish him good night as if he could hear her.

"Perhaps you can FEEL if you can't hear," was her fancy.  "Perhaps kind
thoughts reach people somehow, even through windows and doors and
walls.  Perhaps you feel a little warm and comforted, and don't know
why, when I am standing here in the cold and hoping you will get well
and happy again.  I am so sorry for you," she would whisper in an
intense little voice.  "I wish you had a 'Little Missus' who could pet
you as I used to pet papa when he had a headache. I should like to be
your 'Little Missus' myself, poor dear! Good night--good night.  God
bless you!"

She would go away, feeling quite comforted and a little warmer herself.
Her sympathy was so strong that it seemed as if it MUST reach him
somehow as he sat alone in his armchair by the fire, nearly always in a
great dressing gown, and nearly always with his forehead resting in his
hand as he gazed hopelessly into the fire. He looked to Sara like a man
who had a trouble on his mind still, not merely like one whose troubles
lay all in the past.

"He always seems as if he were thinking of something that hurts him
NOW," she said to herself, "but he has got his money back and he will
get over his brain fever in time, so he ought not to look like that.  I
wonder if there is something else."

If there was something else--something even servants did not hear
of--she could not help believing that the father of the Large Family
knew it--the gentleman she called Mr. Montmorency.  Mr. Montmorency
went to see him often, and Mrs. Montmorency and all the little
Montmorencys went, too, though less often.  He seemed particularly fond
of the two elder little girls--the Janet and Nora who had been so
alarmed when their small brother Donald had given Sara his sixpence. He
had, in fact, a very tender place in his heart for all children, and
particularly for little girls.  Janet and Nora were as fond of him as
he was of them, and looked forward with the greatest pleasure to the
afternoons when they were allowed to cross the square and make their
well-behaved little visits to him. They were extremely decorous little
visits because he was an invalid.

"He is a poor thing," said Janet, "and he says we cheer him up.  We try
to cheer him up very quietly."

Janet was the head of the family, and kept the rest of it in order. It
was she who decided when it was discreet to ask the Indian gentleman to
tell stories about India, and it was she who saw when he was tired and
it was the time to steal quietly away and tell Ram Dass to go to him.
They were very fond of Ram Dass.  He could have told any number of
stories if he had been able to speak anything but Hindustani.  The
Indian gentleman's real name was Mr. Carrisford, and Janet told Mr.
Carrisford about the encounter with the
little-girl-who-was-not-a-beggar.  He was very much interested, and all
the more so when he heard from Ram Dass of the adventure of the monkey
on the roof.  Ram Dass made for him a very clear picture of the attic
and its desolateness--of the bare floor and broken plaster, the rusty,
empty grate, and the hard, narrow bed.

"Carmichael," he said to the father of the Large Family, after he had
heard this description, "I wonder how many of the attics in this square
are like that one, and how many wretched little servant girls sleep on
such beds, while I toss on my down pillows, loaded and harassed by
wealth that is, most of it--not mine."

"My dear fellow," Mr. Carmichael answered cheerily, "the sooner you
cease tormenting yourself the better it will be for you. If you
possessed all the wealth of all the Indies, you could not set right all
the discomforts in the world, and if you began to refurnish all the
attics in this square, there would still remain all the attics in all
the other squares and streets to put in order. And there you are!"

Mr. Carrisford sat and bit his nails as he looked into the glowing bed
of coals in the grate.

"Do you suppose," he said slowly, after a pause--"do you think it is
possible that the other child--the child I never cease thinking of, I
believe--could be--could POSSIBLY be reduced to any such condition as
the poor little soul next door?"

Mr. Carmichael looked at him uneasily.  He knew that the worst thing
the man could do for himself, for his reason and his health, was to
begin to think in the particular way of this particular subject.

"If the child at Madame Pascal's school in Paris was the one you are in
search of," he answered soothingly, "she would seem to be in the hands
of people who can afford to take care of her. They adopted her because
she had been the favorite companion of their little daughter who died.
They had no other children, and Madame Pascal said that they were
extremely well-to-do Russians."

"And the wretched woman actually did not know where they had taken
her!" exclaimed Mr. Carrisford.

Mr. Carmichael shrugged his shoulders.

"She was a shrewd, worldly Frenchwoman, and was evidently only too glad
to get the child so comfortably off her hands when the father's death
left her totally unprovided for.  Women of her type do not trouble
themselves about the futures of children who might prove burdens. The
adopted parents apparently disappeared and left no trace."

"But you say 'IF the child was the one I am in search of. You say 'if.'
We are not sure.  There was a difference in the name."

"Madame Pascal pronounced it as if it were Carew instead of Crewe--but
that might be merely a matter of pronunciation.  The circumstances were
curiously similar.  An English officer in India had placed his
motherless little girl at the school.  He had died suddenly after
losing his fortune."  Mr. Carmichael paused a moment, as if a new
thought had occurred to him.  "Are you SURE the child was left at a
school in Paris?  Are you sure it was Paris?"

"My dear fellow," broke forth Carrisford, with restless bitterness, "I
am SURE of nothing.  I never saw either the child or her mother. Ralph
Crewe and I loved each other as boys, but we had not met since our
school days, until we met in India.  I was absorbed in the magnificent
promise of the mines.  He became absorbed, too. The whole thing was so
huge and glittering that we half lost our heads.  When we met we
scarcely spoke of anything else. I only knew that the child had been
sent to school somewhere. I do not even remember, now, HOW I knew it."

He was beginning to be excited.  He always became excited when his
still weakened brain was stirred by memories of the catastrophes of the
past.

Mr. Carmichael watched him anxiously.  It was necessary to ask some
questions, but they must be put quietly and with caution.

"But you had reason to think the school WAS in Paris?"

"Yes," was the answer, "because her mother was a Frenchwoman, and I had
heard that she wished her child to be educated in Paris.  It seemed
only likely that she would be there."

"Yes," Mr. Carmichael said, "it seems more than probable."

The Indian gentleman leaned forward and struck the table with a long,
wasted hand.

"Carmichael," he said, "I MUST find her.  If she is alive, she is
somewhere.  If she is friendless and penniless, it is through my fault.
How is a man to get back his nerve with a thing like that on his mind?
This sudden change of luck at the mines has made realities of all our
most fantastic dreams, and poor Crewe's child may be begging in the
street!"

"No, no," said Carmichael.  "Try to be calm.  Console yourself with the
fact that when she is found you have a fortune to hand over to her."

"Why was I not man enough to stand my ground when things looked black?"
Carrisford groaned in petulant misery.  "I believe I should have stood
my ground if I had not been responsible for other people's money as
well as my own.  Poor Crewe had put into the scheme every penny that he
owned.  He trusted me--he LOVED me.  And he died thinking I had ruined
him--I--Tom Carrisford, who played cricket at Eton with him.  What a
villain he must have thought me!"

"Don't reproach yourself so bitterly."

"I don't reproach myself because the speculation threatened to fail--I
reproach myself for losing my courage.  I ran away like a swindler and
a thief, because I could not face my best friend and tell him I had
ruined him and his child."

The good-hearted father of the Large Family put his hand on his
shoulder comfortingly.

"You ran away because your brain had given way under the strain of
mental torture," he said.  "You were half delirious already.  If you
had not been you would have stayed and fought it out. You were in a
hospital, strapped down in bed, raving with brain fever, two days after
you left the place.  Remember that."

Carrisford dropped his forehead in his hands.

"Good God!  Yes," he said.  "I was driven mad with dread and horror. I
had not slept for weeks.  The night I staggered out of my house all the
air seemed full of hideous things mocking and mouthing at me."

"That is explanation enough in itself," said Mr. Carmichael.  "How
could a man on the verge of brain fever judge sanely!"

Carrisford shook his drooping head.

"And when I returned to consciousness poor Crewe was dead--and buried.
And I seemed to remember nothing.  I did not remember the child for
months and months.  Even when I began to recall her existence
everything seemed in a sort of haze."

He stopped a moment and rubbed his forehead.  "It sometimes seems so
now when I try to remember.  Surely I must sometime have heard Crewe
speak of the school she was sent to.  Don't you think so?"

"He might not have spoken of it definitely.  You never seem even to
have heard her real name."

"He used to call her by an odd pet name he had invented. He called her
his 'Little Missus.'  But the wretched mines drove everything else out
of our heads.  We talked of nothing else. If he spoke of the school, I
forgot--I forgot.  And now I shall never remember."

"Come, come," said Carmichael.  "We shall find her yet.  We will
continue to search for Madame Pascal's good-natured Russians.  She
seemed to have a vague idea that they lived in Moscow. We will take
that as a clue.  I will go to Moscow."

"If I were able to travel, I would go with you," said Carrisford; "but
I can only sit here wrapped in furs and stare at the fire. And when I
look into it I seem to see Crewe's gay young face gazing back at me.
He looks as if he were asking me a question. Sometimes I dream of him
at night, and he always stands before me and asks the same question in
words.  Can you guess what he says, Carmichael?"

Mr. Carmichael answered him in a rather low voice.

"Not exactly," he said.

"He always says, 'Tom, old man--Tom--where is the Little Missus?'" He
caught at Carmichael's hand and clung to it.  "I must be able to answer
him--I must!" he said.  "Help me to find her.  Help me."

On the other side of the wall Sara was sitting in her garret talking to
Melchisedec, who had come out for his evening meal.

"It has been hard to be a princess today, Melchisedec," she said. "It
has been harder than usual.  It gets harder as the weather grows colder
and the streets get more sloppy.  When Lavinia laughed at my muddy
skirt as I passed her in the hall, I thought of something to say all in
a flash--and I only just stopped myself in time. You can't sneer back
at people like that--if you are a princess. But you have to bite your
tongue to hold yourself in.  I bit mine. It was a cold afternoon,
Melchisedec.  And it's a cold night."

Quite suddenly she put her black head down in her arms, as she often
did when she was alone.

"Oh, papa," she whispered, "what a long time it seems since I was your
'Little Missus'!"

This was what happened that day on both sides of the wall.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Sara likes to imagine what's going on in the house next door with the Indian gentleman. She becomes fond of him even though she doesn't know him and figures out that he's actually an Englishman who had lived in India and went through a series of unfortunate events... having to do with some diamond mines. She tries to send good vibes his way because he seems so sick and unhappy. The Large Family goes to visit the Indian gentleman and they find that the man has been looking for a certain child. He's convinced that this child is in Paris because her mother was French and her father was... dun, dun, dun, the one and only Ralph Crewe. That's right, ladies and gentleman, he's looking for Sara Crewe! He wants to find Sara and give her a fortune when he finds her because he was Ralph Crewe's business partner. Carmichael assures Carrisford that they'll find the girl and that he himself will go to Paris to search for her. At the same time Sara is on the other side of the wall talking to Melchisedec, completely unaware that there's a freaking search party for her next door.


prompt:
Chapter: One of the Populace

The winter was a wretched one.  There were days on which Sara tramped
through snow when she went on her errands; there were worse days when
the snow melted and combined itself with mud to form slush; there were
others when the fog was so thick that the lamps in the street were
lighted all day and London looked as it had looked the afternoon,
several years ago, when the cab had driven through the thoroughfares
with Sara tucked up on its seat, leaning against her father's shoulder.
On such days the windows of the house of the Large Family always looked
delightfully cozy and alluring, and the study in which the Indian
gentleman sat glowed with warmth and rich color.  But the attic was
dismal beyond words.  There were no longer sunsets or sunrises to look
at, and scarcely ever any stars, it seemed to Sara.  The clouds hung
low over the skylight and were either gray or mud-color, or dropping
heavy rain.  At four o'clock in the afternoon, even when there was no
special fog, the daylight was at an end.  If it was necessary to go to
her attic for anything, Sara was obliged to light a candle.  The women
in the kitchen were depressed, and that made them more ill-tempered
than ever. Becky was driven like a little slave.

"'Twarn't for you, miss," she said hoarsely to Sara one night when she
had crept into the attic--"'twarn't for you, an' the Bastille, an'
bein' the prisoner in the next cell, I should die.  That there does
seem real now, doesn't it?  The missus is more like the head jailer
every day she lives.  I can jest see them big keys you say she carries.
The cook she's like one of the under-jailers.  Tell me some more,
please, miss--tell me about the subt'ranean passage we've dug under the
walls."

"I'll tell you something warmer," shivered Sara.  "Get your coverlet
and wrap it round you, and I'll get mine, and we will huddle close
together on the bed, and I'll tell you about the tropical forest where
the Indian gentleman's monkey used to live.  When I see him sitting on
the table near the window and looking out into the street with that
mournful expression, I always feel sure he is thinking about the
tropical forest where he used to swing by his tail from coconut trees.
I wonder who caught him, and if he left a family behind who had
depended on him for coconuts."

"That is warmer, miss," said Becky, gratefully; "but, someways, even
the Bastille is sort of heatin' when you gets to tellin' about it."

"That is because it makes you think of something else," said Sara,
wrapping the coverlet round her until only her small dark face was to
be seen looking out of it.  "I've noticed this.  What you have to do
with your mind, when your body is miserable, is to make it think of
something else."

"Can you do it, miss?" faltered Becky, regarding her with admiring eyes.

Sara knitted her brows a moment.

"Sometimes I can and sometimes I can't," she said stoutly. "But when I
CAN I'm all right.  And what I believe is that we always could--if we
practiced enough.  I've been practicing a good deal lately, and it's
beginning to be easier than it used to be. When things are
horrible--just horrible--I think as hard as ever I can of being a
princess.  I say to myself, 'I am a princess, and I am a fairy one, and
because I am a fairy nothing can hurt me or make me uncomfortable.'
You don't know how it makes you forget"--with a laugh.

She had many opportunities of making her mind think of something else,
and many opportunities of proving to herself whether or not she was a
princess.  But one of the strongest tests she was ever put to came on a
certain dreadful day which, she often thought afterward, would never
quite fade out of her memory even in the years to come.

For several days it had rained continuously; the streets were chilly
and sloppy and full of dreary, cold mist; there was mud
everywhere--sticky London mud--and over everything the pall of drizzle
and fog. Of course there were several long and tiresome errands to be
done--there always were on days like this--and Sara was sent out again
and again, until her shabby clothes were damp through.  The absurd old
feathers on her forlorn hat were more draggled and absurd than ever,
and her downtrodden shoes were so wet that they could not hold any more
water.  Added to this, she had been deprived of her dinner, because
Miss Minchin had chosen to punish her.  She was so cold and hungry and
tired that her face began to have a pinched look, and now and then some
kind-hearted person passing her in the street glanced at her with
sudden sympathy.  But she did not know that. She hurried on, trying to
make her mind think of something else. It was really very necessary.
Her way of doing it was to "pretend" and "suppose" with all the
strength that was left in her. 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, and as the muddy water squelched through her broken shoes
and the wind seemed trying to drag her thin jacket from her, she talked
to herself as she walked, though she did not speak aloud or even move
her lips.

"Suppose I had dry clothes on," she thought.  "Suppose I had good shoes
and a long, thick coat and merino stockings and a whole umbrella. And
suppose--suppose--just when I was near a baker's where they sold hot
buns, I should find sixpence--which belonged to nobody. SUPPOSE if I
did, I should go into the shop and buy six of the hottest buns and eat
them all without stopping."

Some very odd things happen in this world sometimes.

It certainly was an odd thing that happened to Sara.  She had to cross
the street just when she was saying this to herself. The mud was
dreadful--she almost had to wade.  She picked her way as carefully as
she could, but she could not save herself much; only, in picking her
way, she had to look down at her feet and the mud, and in looking
down--just as she reached the pavement--she saw something shining in
the gutter.  It was actually a piece of silver--a tiny piece trodden
upon by many feet, but still with spirit enough left to shine a little.
Not quite a sixpence, but the next thing to it--a fourpenny piece.

In one second it was in her cold little red-and-blue hand.

"Oh," she gasped, "it is true!  It is true!"

And then, if you will believe me, she looked straight at the shop
directly facing her.  And it was a baker's shop, and a cheerful, stout,
motherly woman with rosy cheeks was putting into the window a tray of
delicious newly baked hot buns, fresh from the oven--large, plump,
shiny buns, with currants in them.

It almost made Sara feel faint for a few seconds--the shock, and the
sight of the buns, and the delightful odors of warm bread floating up
through the baker's cellar window.

She knew 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 stream of passing people who crowded and jostled
each other all day long.

"But I'll go and ask the baker woman if she has lost anything," she
said to herself, rather faintly.  So she crossed the pavement and put
her wet foot on the step.  As she did so she saw something that made
her stop.

It was a little figure more forlorn even than herself--a little figure
which was not much more than a bundle of rags, from which small, bare,
red muddy feet peeped out, only because the rags with which their owner
was trying to cover them were not long enough.  Above the rags appeared
a shock head of tangled hair, and a dirty face with big, hollow, hungry
eyes.

Sara knew they were hungry eyes the moment she saw them, and she felt a
sudden sympathy.

"This," she said to herself, with a little sigh, "is one of the
populace--and she is hungrier than I am."

The child--this "one of the populace"--stared up at Sara, and shuffled
herself aside a little, so as to give her room to pass.  She was used
to being made to give room to everybody.  She knew that if a policeman
chanced to see her he would tell her to "move on."

Sara clutched her little fourpenny piece and hesitated for a few
seconds.  Then she spoke to her.

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

The child shuffled herself and her rags a little more.

"Ain't I jist?" she said in a hoarse voice.  "Jist ain't I?"

"Haven't you had any dinner?" said Sara.

"No dinner," more hoarsely still and with more shuffling. "Nor yet no
bre'fast--nor yet no supper.  No nothin'.

"Since when?" asked Sara.

"Dunno.  Never got nothin' today--nowhere.  I've axed an' axed."

Just to look at her made Sara more hungry and faint.  But those queer
little thoughts were at work in her brain, and she was talking to
herself, though she was sick at heart.

"If I'm a princess," she was saying, "if I'm a princess--when they were
poor and driven from their thrones--they always shared--with the
populace--if they met one poorer and hungrier than themselves. They
always shared.  Buns are a penny each.  If it had been sixpence I could
have eaten six.  It won't be enough for either of us. But it will be
better than nothing."

"Wait a minute," she said to the beggar child.

She went into the shop.  It was warm and smelled deliciously.  The
woman was just going to put some more hot buns into the window.

"If you please," said Sara, "have you lost fourpence--a silver
fourpence?"  And she held the forlorn little piece of money out to her.

The woman looked at it and then at her--at her intense little face and
draggled, once fine clothes.

"Bless us, no," she answered.  "Did you find it?"

"Yes," said Sara.  "In the gutter."

"Keep it, then," said the woman.  "It may have been there for a week,
and goodness knows who lost it.  YOU could never find out."

"I know that," said Sara, "but I thought I would ask you."

"Not many would," said the woman, looking puzzled and interested and
good-natured all at once.

"Do you want to buy something?" she added, as she saw Sara glance at
the buns.

"Four buns, if you please," said Sara.  "Those at a penny each."

The woman went to the window and put some in a paper bag.

Sara noticed that she put in six.

"I said four, if you please," she explained.  "I have only fourpence."

"I'll throw in two for makeweight," said the woman with her
good-natured look.  "I dare say you can eat them sometime. Aren't you
hungry?"

A mist rose before Sara's eyes.

"Yes," she answered.  "I am very hungry, and I am much obliged to you
for your kindness; and"--she was going to add--"there is a child
outside who is hungrier than I am."  But just at that moment two or
three customers came in at once, and each one seemed in a hurry, so she
could only thank the woman again and go out.

The beggar girl was still huddled up in the corner of the step.  She
looked frightful in her wet and dirty rags.  She was staring straight
before her with a stupid look of suffering, and Sara saw her suddenly
draw the back of her roughened black hand across her eyes to rub away
the tears which seemed to have surprised her by forcing their way from
under her lids.  She was muttering to herself.

Sara opened the paper bag and took out one of the hot buns, which had
already warmed her own cold hands a little.

"See," she said, putting the bun in the ragged lap, "this is nice and
hot.  Eat it, and you will not feel so hungry."

The child started and stared up at her, as if such sudden, amazing good
luck almost frightened her; then she snatched up the bun and began to
cram it into her mouth with great wolfish bites.

"Oh, my!  Oh, my!"  Sara heard her say hoarsely, in wild delight. "OH
my!"

Sara took out three more buns and put them down.

The sound in the hoarse, ravenous voice was awful.

"She is hungrier than I am," she said to herself.  "She's starving."
But her hand trembled when she put down the fourth bun. "I'm not
starving," she said--and she put down the fifth.

The little ravening London savage was still snatching and devouring
when she turned away.  She was too ravenous to give any thanks, even if
she had ever been taught politeness--which she had not. She was only a
poor little wild animal.

"Good-bye," said Sara.

When she reached the other side of the street she looked back.  The
child had a bun in each hand and had stopped in the middle of a bite to
watch her.  Sara gave her a little nod, and the child, after another
stare--a curious lingering stare--jerked her shaggy head in response,
and until Sara was out of sight she did not take another bite or even
finish the one she had begun.

At that moment the baker-woman looked out of her shop window.

"Well, I never!" she exclaimed.  "If that young un hasn't given her
buns to a beggar child!  It wasn't because she didn't want them,
either.  Well, well, she looked hungry enough. I'd give something to
know what she did it for."

She stood behind her window for a few moments and pondered. Then her
curiosity got the better of her.  She went to the door and spoke to the
beggar child.

"Who gave you those buns?" she asked her.  The child nodded her head
toward Sara's vanishing figure.

"What did she say?" inquired the woman.

"Axed me if I was 'ungry," replied the hoarse voice.

"What did you say?"

"Said I was jist."

"And then she came in and got the buns, and gave them to you, did she?"

The child nodded.

"How many?"

"Five."

The woman thought it over.

"Left just one for herself," she said in a low voice.  "And she could
have eaten the whole six--I saw it in her eyes."

She looked after the little draggled far-away figure and felt more
disturbed in her usually comfortable mind than she had felt for many a
day.

"I wish she hadn't gone so quick," she said.  "I'm blest if she
shouldn't have had a dozen."  Then she turned to the child.

"Are you hungry yet?" she said.

"I'm allus hungry," was the answer, "but 't ain't as bad as it was."

"Come in here," said the woman, and she held open the shop door.

The child got up and shuffled in.  To be invited into a warm place full
of bread seemed an incredible thing.  She did not know what was going
to happen.  She did not care, even.

"Get yourself warm," said the woman, pointing to a fire in the tiny
back room.  "And look here; when you are hard up for a bit of bread,
you can come in here and ask for it.  I'm blest if I won't give it to
you for that young one's sake."

     *    *    *

Sara found some comfort in her remaining bun.  At all events, it was
very hot, and it was better than nothing.  As she walked along she
broke off small pieces and ate them slowly to make them last longer.

"Suppose it was a magic bun," she said, "and a bite was as much as a
whole dinner.  I should be overeating myself if I went on like this."

It was dark when she reached the square where the Select Seminary was
situated.  The lights in the houses were all lighted. The blinds were
not yet drawn in the windows of the room where she nearly always caught
glimpses of members of the Large Family. Frequently at this hour she
could see the gentleman she called Mr. Montmorency sitting in a big
chair, with a small swarm round him, talking, laughing, perching on the
arms of his seat or on his knees or leaning against them.  This evening
the swarm was about him, but he was not seated.  On the contrary, there
was a good deal of excitement going on.  It was evident that a journey
was to be taken, and it was Mr. Montmorency who was to take it.  A
brougham stood before the door, and a big portmanteau had been strapped
upon it. The children were dancing about, chattering and hanging on to
their father.  The pretty rosy mother was standing near him, talking as
if she was asking final questions.  Sara paused a moment to see the
little ones lifted up and kissed and the bigger ones bent over and
kissed also.

"I wonder if he will stay away long," she thought.  "The portmanteau is
rather big.  Oh, dear, how they will miss him!  I shall miss him
myself--even though he doesn't know I am alive."

When the door opened she moved away--remembering the sixpence--but she
saw the traveler come out and stand against the background of the
warmly-lighted hall, the older children still hovering about him.

"Will Moscow be covered with snow?" said the little girl Janet.  "Will
there be ice everywhere?"

"Shall you drive in a drosky?" cried another.  "Shall you see the Czar?"

"I will write and tell you all about it," he answered, laughing.  "And
I will send you pictures of muzhiks and things.  Run into the house. It
is a hideous damp night.  I would rather stay with you than go to
Moscow.  Good night!  Good night, duckies!  God bless you!" And he ran
down the steps and jumped into the brougham.

"If you find the little girl, give her our love," shouted Guy Clarence,
jumping up and down on the door mat.

Then they went in and shut the door.

"Did you see," said Janet to Nora, as they went back to the room--"the
little-girl-who-is-not-a-beggar was passing?  She looked all cold and
wet, and I saw her turn her head over her shoulder and look at us.
Mamma says her clothes always look as if they had been given her by
someone who was quite rich--someone who only let her have them because
they were too shabby to wear.  The people at the school always send her
out on errands on the horridest days and nights there are."

Sara crossed the square to Miss Minchin's area steps, feeling faint and
shaky.

"I wonder who the little girl is," she thought--"the little girl he is
going to look for."

And she went down the area steps, lugging her basket and finding it
very heavy indeed, as the father of the Large Family drove quickly on
his way to the station to take the train which was to carry him to
Moscow, where he was to make his best efforts to search for the lost
little daughter of Captain Crewe.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Winter is coming--and it's no fun for Sara and Becky, who are hungry and cold all the time. Sara tries to keep them warm by telling stories of warm places, but, you know, it's just not the same as a nice toasty fire. While running an errand on a cold, wet day, Sara thinks how nice it would be to find some money, buy some hot buns, and eat them all without stopping. Lo and behold--she finds a fourpenny piece! She's off to find delicious food to stuff into her mouth, but before she gets to the bakery she sees a little street beggar who tells her that she hasn't had food in days. Sara goes inside to buy four buns with her fourpenny piece, but the woman gives her six because she looks so hungry. Outside, Sara gives the beggar child five of the buns, keeping only one for herself. The baker woman comes out and asks the beggar child how many buns Sara gave her, and she can't believe that Sara gave away so many. She tells the beggar child to come indoors and warm herself up, and that she'll give her food, too. That's our Sara, spreading the love. Sara eats tiny pieces of her last bun as she's walking back. As she walks back, the Large Family is saying goodbye to their father and they tell him to find the little girl. Sara wonders who they're looking for. Oh, the irony!


prompt:
Chapter: What Melchisedec Heard and Saw

On this very afternoon, while Sara was out, a strange thing happened in
the attic.  Only Melchisedec saw and heard it; and he was so much
alarmed and mystified that he scuttled back to his hole and hid there,
and really quaked and trembled as he peeped out furtively and with
great caution to watch what was going on.

The attic had been very still all the day after Sara had left it in the
early morning.  The stillness had only been broken by the pattering of
the rain upon the slates and the skylight.  Melchisedec had, in fact,
found it rather dull; and when the rain ceased to patter and perfect
silence reigned, he decided to come out and reconnoiter, though
experience taught him that Sara would not return for some time.  He had
been rambling and sniffing about, and had just found a totally
unexpected and unexplained crumb left from his last meal, when his
attention was attracted by a sound on the roof.  He stopped to listen
with a palpitating heart. The sound suggested that something was moving
on the roof.  It was approaching the skylight; it reached the skylight.
The skylight was being mysteriously opened.  A dark face peered into
the attic; then another face appeared behind it, and both looked in
with signs of caution and interest.  Two men were outside on the roof,
and were making silent preparations to enter through the skylight
itself. One was Ram Dass and the other was a young man who was the
Indian gentleman's secretary; but of course Melchisedec did not know
this. He only knew that the men were invading the silence and privacy
of the attic; and as the one with the dark face let himself down
through the aperture with such lightness and dexterity that he did not
make the slightest sound, Melchisedec turned tail and fled
precipitately back to his hole.  He was frightened to death. He had
ceased to be timid with Sara, and knew she would never throw anything
but crumbs, and would never make any sound other than the soft, low,
coaxing whistling; but strange men were dangerous things to remain
near.  He lay close and flat near the entrance of his home, just
managing to peep through the crack with a bright, alarmed eye. How much
he understood of the talk he heard I am not in the least able to say;
but, even if he had understood it all, he would probably have remained
greatly mystified.

The secretary, who was light and young, slipped through the skylight as
noiselessly as Ram Dass had done; and he caught a last glimpse of
Melchisedec's vanishing tail.

"Was that a rat?" he asked Ram Dass in a whisper.

"Yes; a rat, Sahib," answered Ram Dass, also whispering. "There are
many in the walls."

"Ugh!" exclaimed the young man.  "It is a wonder the child is not
terrified of them."

Ram Dass made a gesture with his hands.  He also smiled respectfully.
He was in this place as the intimate exponent of Sara, though she had
only spoken to him once.

"The child is the little friend of all things, Sahib," he answered.
"She is not as other children.  I see her when she does not see me. I
slip across the slates and look at her many nights to see that she is
safe.  I watch her from my window when she does not know I am near. She
stands on the table there and looks out at the sky as if it spoke to
her.  The sparrows come at her call.  The rat she has fed and tamed in
her loneliness.  The poor slave of the house comes to her for comfort.
There is a little child who comes to her in secret; there is one older
who worships her and would listen to her forever if she might.  This I
have seen when I have crept across the roof. By the mistress of the
house--who is an evil woman--she is treated like a pariah; but she has
the bearing of a child who is of the blood of kings!"

"You seem to know a great deal about her," the secretary said.

"All her life each day I know," answered Ram Dass.  "Her going out I
know, and her coming in; her sadness and her poor joys; her coldness
and her hunger.  I know when she is alone until midnight, learning from
her books; I know when her secret friends steal to her and she is
happier--as children can be, even in the midst of poverty--because they
come and she may laugh and talk with them in whispers. If she were ill
I should know, and I would come and serve her if it might be done."

"You are sure no one comes near this place but herself, and that she
will not return and surprise us.  She would be frightened if she found
us here, and the Sahib Carrisford's plan would be spoiled."

Ram Dass crossed noiselessly to the door and stood close to it.

"None mount here but herself, Sahib," he said.  "She has gone out with
her basket and may be gone for hours.  If I stand here I can hear any
step before it reaches the last flight of the stairs."

The secretary took a pencil and a tablet from his breast pocket.

"Keep your ears open," he said; and he began to walk slowly and softly
round the miserable little room, making rapid notes on his tablet as he
looked at things.

First he went to the narrow bed.  He pressed his hand upon the mattress
and uttered an exclamation.

"As hard as a stone," he said.  "That will have to be altered some day
when she is out.  A special journey can be made to bring it across. It
cannot be done tonight."  He lifted the covering and examined the one
thin pillow.

"Coverlet dingy and worn, blanket thin, sheets patched and ragged," he
said.  "What a bed for a child to sleep in--and in a house which calls
itself respectable!  There has not been a fire in that grate for many a
day," glancing at the rusty fireplace.

"Never since I have seen it," said Ram Dass.  "The mistress of the
house is not one who remembers that another than herself may be cold."

The secretary was writing quickly on his tablet.  He looked up from it
as he tore off a leaf and slipped it into his breast pocket.

"It is a strange way of doing the thing," he said.  "Who planned it?"

Ram Dass made a modestly apologetic obeisance.

"It is true that the first thought was mine, Sahib," he said; "though
it was naught but a fancy.  I am fond of this child; we are both
lonely.  It is her way to relate her visions to her secret friends.
Being sad one night, I lay close to the open skylight and listened. The
vision she related told what this miserable room might be if it had
comforts in it.  She seemed to see it as she talked, and she grew
cheered and warmed as she spoke.  Then she came to this fancy; and the
next day, the Sahib being ill and wretched, I told him of the thing to
amuse him.  It seemed then but a dream, but it pleased the Sahib.  To
hear of the child's doings gave him entertainment. He became interested
in her and asked questions.  At last he began to please himself with
the thought of making her visions real things."

"You think that it can be done while she sleeps?  Suppose she
awakened," suggested the secretary; and it was evident that whatsoever
the plan referred to was, it had caught and pleased his fancy as well
as the Sahib Carrisford's.

"I can move as if my feet were of velvet," Ram Dass replied; "and
children sleep soundly--even the unhappy ones.  I could have entered
this room in the night many times, and without causing her to turn upon
her pillow.  If the other bearer passes to me the things through the
window, I can do all and she will not stir. When she awakens she will
think a magician has been here."

He smiled as if his heart warmed under his white robe, and the
secretary smiled back at him.

"It will be like a story from the Arabian Nights," he said.  "Only an
Oriental could have planned it.  It does not belong to London fogs."

They did not remain very long, to the great relief of Melchisedec, who,
as he probably did not comprehend their conversation, felt their
movements and whispers ominous.  The young secretary seemed interested
in everything.  He wrote down things about the floor, the fireplace,
the broken footstool, the old table, the walls--which last he touched
with his hand again and again, seeming much pleased when he found that
a number of old nails had been driven in various places.

"You can hang things on them," he said.

Ram Dass smiled mysteriously.

"Yesterday, when she was out," he said, "I entered, bringing with me
small, sharp nails which can be pressed into the wall without blows
from a hammer.  I placed many in the plaster where I may need them.
They are ready."

The Indian gentleman's secretary stood still and looked round him as he
thrust his tablets back into his pocket.

"I think I have made notes enough; we can go now," he said. "The Sahib
Carrisford has a warm heart.  It is a thousand pities that he has not
found the lost child."

"If he should find her his strength would be restored to him," said Ram
Dass.  "His God may lead her to him yet."

Then they slipped through the skylight as noiselessly as they had
entered it.  And, after he was quite sure they had gone, Melchisedec
was greatly relieved, and in the course of a few minutes felt it safe
to emerge from his hole again and scuffle about in the hope that even
such alarming human beings as these might have chanced to carry crumbs
in their pockets and drop one or two of them.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: While Sara is out and about for the day, an odd thing happens--and only Melchisedec is there to witness it. Melchisedec is chilling, just minding his own business when the skylight opens and two people crawl through. Oh no! Could it be thieves?! No, it's just Ram Dass and a young man, the Indian gentleman's secretary. They take a look around at her bed , all her sheets , and the fireplace . Meanwhile, the secretary is furiously scribbling things down. It appears that Ram Dass and the Indian gentleman have decided to bring lots of nice things into Sara's room and redecorate it while she is asleep one night. Well, that seems a little bit ambitious. And creepy.


prompt:
Chapter: The Magic

When Sara had passed the house next door she had seen Ram Dass closing
the shutters, and caught her glimpse of this room also.

"It is a long time since I saw a nice place from the inside," was the
thought which crossed her mind.

There was the usual bright fire glowing in the grate, and the Indian
gentleman was sitting before it.  His head was resting in his hand, and
he looked as lonely and unhappy as ever.

"Poor man!" said Sara.  "I wonder what you are supposing."

And this was what he was "supposing" at that very moment.

"Suppose," he was thinking, "suppose--even if Carmichael traces the
people to Moscow--the little girl they took from Madame Pascal's school
in Paris is NOT the one we are in search of.  Suppose she proves to be
quite a different child.  What steps shall I take next?"

When Sara went into the house she met Miss Minchin, who had come
downstairs to scold the cook.

"Where have you wasted your time?" she demanded.  "You have been out
for hours."

"It was so wet and muddy," Sara answered, "it was hard to walk, because
my shoes were so bad and slipped about."

"Make no excuses," said Miss Minchin, "and tell no falsehoods."

Sara went in to the cook.  The cook had received a severe lecture and
was in a fearful temper as a result.  She was only too rejoiced to have
someone to vent her rage on, and Sara was a convenience, as usual.

"Why didn't you stay all night?" she snapped.

Sara laid her purchases on the table.

"Here are the things," she said.

The cook looked them over, grumbling.  She was in a very savage humor
indeed.

"May I have something to eat?"  Sara asked rather faintly.

"Tea's over and done with," was the answer.  "Did you expect me to keep
it hot for you?"

Sara stood silent for a second.

"I had no dinner," she said next, and her voice was quite low.  She
made it low because she was afraid it would tremble.

"There's some bread in the pantry," said the cook.  "That's all you'll
get at this time of day."

Sara went and found the bread.  It was old and hard and dry. The cook
was in too vicious a humor to give her anything to eat with it.  It was
always safe and easy to vent her spite on Sara.  Really, it was hard
for the child to climb the three long flights of stairs leading to her
attic.  She often found them long and steep when she was tired; but
tonight it seemed as if she would never reach the top.  Several times
she was obliged to stop to rest.  When she reached the top landing she
was glad to see the glimmer of a light coming from under her door.
That meant that Ermengarde had managed to creep up to pay her a visit.
There was some comfort in that. It was better than to go into the room
alone and find it empty and desolate.  The mere presence of plump,
comfortable Ermengarde, wrapped in her red shawl, would warm it a
little.

Yes; there Ermengarde was when she opened the door.  She was sitting in
the middle of the bed, with her feet tucked safely under her. She had
never become intimate with Melchisedec and his family, though they
rather fascinated her.  When she found herself alone in the attic she
always preferred to sit on the bed until Sara arrived. She had, in
fact, on this occasion had time to become rather nervous, because
Melchisedec had appeared and sniffed about a good deal, and once had
made her utter a repressed squeal by sitting up on his hind legs and,
while he looked at her, sniffing pointedly in her direction.

"Oh, Sara," she cried out, "I am glad you have come.  Melchy WOULD
sniff about so.  I tried to coax him to go back, but he wouldn't for
such a long time.  I like him, you know; but it does frighten me when
he sniffs right at me.  Do you think he ever WOULD jump?"

"No," answered Sara.

Ermengarde crawled forward on the bed to look at her.

"You DO look tired, Sara," she said; "you are quite pale."

"I AM tired," said Sara, dropping on to the lopsided footstool.  "Oh,
there's Melchisedec, poor thing.  He's come to ask for his supper."

Melchisedec had come out of his hole as if he had been listening for
her footstep.  Sara was quite sure he knew it.  He came forward with an
affectionate, expectant expression as Sara put her hand in her pocket
and turned it inside out, shaking her head.

"I'm very sorry," she said.  "I haven't one crumb left.  Go home,
Melchisedec, and tell your wife there was nothing in my pocket. I'm
afraid I forgot because the cook and Miss Minchin were so cross."

Melchisedec seemed to understand.  He shuffled resignedly, if not
contentedly, back to his home.

"I did not expect to see you tonight, Ermie," Sara said.  Ermengarde
hugged herself in the red shawl.

"Miss Amelia has gone out to spend the night with her old aunt," she
explained.  "No one else ever comes and looks into the bedrooms after
we are in bed.  I could stay here until morning if I wanted to."

She pointed toward the table under the skylight.  Sara had not looked
toward it as she came in.  A number of books were piled upon it.
Ermengarde's gesture was a dejected one.

"Papa has sent me some more books, Sara," she said.  "There they are."

Sara looked round and got up at once.  She ran to the table, and
picking up the top volume, turned over its leaves quickly. For the
moment she forgot her discomforts.

"Ah," she cried out, "how beautiful!  Carlyle's French Revolution. I
have SO wanted to read that!"

"I haven't," said Ermengarde.  "And papa will be so cross if I don't.
He'll expect me to know all about it when I go home for the holidays.
What SHALL I do?"

Sara stopped turning over the leaves and looked at her with an excited
flush on her cheeks.

"Look here," she cried, "if you'll lend me these books, _I'll_ read
them--and tell you everything that's in them afterward--and I'll tell
it so that you will remember it, too."

"Oh, goodness!" exclaimed Ermengarde.  "Do you think you can?"

"I know I can," Sara answered.  "The little ones always remember what I
tell them."

"Sara," said Ermengarde, hope gleaming in her round face, "if you'll do
that, and make me remember, I'll--I'll give you anything."

"I don't want you to give me anything," said Sara.  "I want your
books--I want them!"  And her eyes grew big, and her chest heaved.

"Take them, then," said Ermengarde.  "I wish I wanted them--but I
don't. I'm not clever, and my father is, and he thinks I ought to be."

Sara was opening one book after the other.  "What are you going to tell
your father?" she asked, a slight doubt dawning in her mind.

"Oh, he needn't know," answered Ermengarde.  "He'll think I've read
them."

Sara put down her book and shook her head slowly.  "That's almost like
telling lies," she said.  "And lies--well, you see, they are not only
wicked--they're VULGAR. Sometimes"--reflectively--"I've thought perhaps
I might do something wicked--I might suddenly fly into a rage and kill
Miss Minchin, you know, when she was ill-treating me--but I COULDN'T be
vulgar.  Why can't you tell your father _I_ read them?"

"He wants me to read them," said Ermengarde, a little discouraged by
this unexpected turn of affairs.

"He wants you to know what is in them," said Sara.  "And if I can tell
it to you in an easy way and make you remember it, I should think he
would like that."

"He'll like it if I learn anything in ANY way," said rueful Ermengarde.
"You would if you were my father."

"It's not your fault that--" began Sara.  She pulled herself up and
stopped rather suddenly.  She had been going to say, "It's not your
fault that you are stupid."

"That what?"  Ermengarde asked.

"That you can't learn things quickly," amended Sara.  "If you can't,
you can't. If I can--why, I can; that's all."

She always felt very tender of Ermengarde, and tried not to let her
feel too strongly the difference between being able to learn anything
at once, and not being able to learn anything at all.  As she looked at
her plump face, one of her wise, old-fashioned thoughts came to her.

"Perhaps," she said, "to be able to learn things quickly isn't
everything.  To be kind is worth a great deal to other people.  If Miss
Minchin knew everything on earth and 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 have been wicked. Look at
Robespierre--"

She stopped and examined Ermengarde's countenance, which was beginning
to look bewildered.  "Don't you remember?" she demanded. "I told you
about him not long ago.  I believe you've forgotten."

"Well, I don't remember ALL of it," admitted Ermengarde.

"Well, you wait a minute," said Sara, "and I'll take off my wet things
and wrap myself in the coverlet and tell you over again."

She took off her hat and coat and hung them on a nail against the wall,
and she changed her wet shoes for an old pair of slippers.  Then she
jumped on the bed, and drawing the coverlet about her shoulders, sat
with her arms round her knees.  "Now, listen," she said.

She plunged into the gory records of the French Revolution, and told
such stories of it that Ermengarde's eyes grew round with alarm and she
held her breath.  But though she was rather terrified, there was a
delightful thrill in listening, and she was not likely to forget
Robespierre again, or to have any doubts about the Princesse de
Lamballe.

"You know they put her head on a pike and danced round it," Sara
explained.  "And she had beautiful floating 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."

It was agreed that Mr. St. John was to be told the plan they had made,
and for the present the books were to be left in the attic.

"Now let's tell each other things," said Sara.  "How are you getting on
with your French lessons?"

"Ever so much better since the last time I came up here and you
explained the conjugations.  Miss Minchin could not understand why I
did my exercises so well that first morning."

Sara laughed a little and hugged her knees.

"She doesn't understand why Lottie is doing her sums so well," she
said; "but it is because she creeps up here, too, and I help her." She
glanced round the room.  "The attic would be rather nice--if it wasn't
so dreadful," she said, laughing again.  "It's a good place to pretend
in."

The truth was that Ermengarde did not know anything of the sometimes
almost unbearable side of life in the attic and she had not a
sufficiently vivid imagination to depict it for herself. On the rare
occasions that she could reach Sara's room she only saw the side of it
which was made exciting by things which were "pretended" and stories
which were told.  Her visits partook of the character of adventures;
and though sometimes Sara looked rather pale, and it was not to be
denied that she had grown very thin, her proud little spirit would not
admit of complaints. She had never confessed that at times she was
almost ravenous with hunger, as she was tonight.  She was growing
rapidly, and her constant walking and running about would have given
her a keen appetite even if she had had abundant and regular meals of a
much more nourishing nature than the unappetizing, inferior food
snatched at such odd times as suited the kitchen convenience. She was
growing used to a certain gnawing feeling in her young stomach.

"I suppose soldiers feel like this when they are on a long and weary
march," she often said to herself.  She liked the sound of the phrase,
"long and weary march."  It made her feel rather like a soldier. She
had also a quaint sense of being a hostess in the attic.

"If I lived in a castle," she argued, "and Ermengarde was the lady of
another castle, and came to see me, with knights and squires and
vassals riding with her, and pennons flying, when I heard the clarions
sounding outside the drawbridge I should go down to receive her, and I
should spread feasts in the banquet hall and call in minstrels to sing
and play and relate romances.  When she comes into the attic I can't
spread feasts, but I can tell stories, and not let her know
disagreeable things.  I dare say poor chatelaines had to do that in
time of famine, when their lands had been pillaged." She was a proud,
brave little chatelaine, and dispensed generously the one hospitality
she could offer--the dreams she dreamed--the visions she saw--the
imaginings which were her joy and comfort.

So, as they sat together, Ermengarde did not know that she was faint as
well as ravenous, and that while she talked she now and then wondered
if her hunger would let her sleep when she was left alone. She felt as
if she had never been quite so hungry before.

"I wish I was as thin as you, Sara," Ermengarde said suddenly.  "I
believe you are thinner than you used to be.  Your eyes look so big,
and look at the sharp little bones sticking out of your elbow!"

Sara pulled down her sleeve, which had pushed itself up.

"I always was a thin child," she said bravely, "and I always had big
green eyes."

"I love your queer eyes," said Ermengarde, looking into them with
affectionate admiration.  "They always look as if they saw such a long
way.  I love them--and I love them to be green--though they look black
generally."

"They are cat's eyes," laughed Sara; "but I can't see in the dark with
them--because I have tried, and I couldn't--I wish I could."

It was just at this minute that something happened at the skylight
which neither of them saw.  If either of them had chanced to turn and
look, she would have been startled by the sight of a dark face which
peered cautiously into the room and disappeared as quickly and almost
as silently as it had appeared.  Not QUITE as silently, however.  Sara,
who had keen ears, suddenly turned a little and looked up at the roof.

"That didn't sound like Melchisedec," she said.  "It wasn't scratchy
enough."

"What?" said Ermengarde, a little startled.

"Didn't you think you heard something?" asked Sara.

"N-no," Ermengarde faltered.  "Did you?" {another ed. has "No-no,"}

"Perhaps I didn't," said Sara; "but I thought I did.  It sounded as if
something was on the slates--something that dragged softly."

"What could it be?" said Ermengarde.  "Could it be--robbers?"

"No," Sara began cheerfully.  "There is nothing to steal--"

She broke off in the middle of her words.  They both heard the sound
that checked her.  It was not on the slates, but on the stairs below,
and it was Miss Minchin's angry voice.  Sara sprang off the bed, and
put out the candle.

"She is scolding Becky," she whispered, as she stood in the darkness.
"She is making her cry."

"Will she come in here?"  Ermengarde whispered back, panic-stricken.

"No. She will think I am in bed.  Don't stir."

It was very seldom that Miss Minchin mounted the last flight of stairs.
Sara could only remember that she had done it once before. But now she
was angry enough to be coming at least part of the way up, and it
sounded as if she was driving Becky before her.

"You impudent, dishonest child!" they heard her say.  "Cook tells me
she has missed things repeatedly."

"'T warn't me, mum," said Becky sobbing.  "I was 'ungry enough, but 't
warn't me--never!"

"You deserve to be sent to prison," said Miss Minchin's voice.
"Picking and stealing!  Half a meat pie, indeed!"

"'T warn't me," wept Becky.  "I could 'ave eat a whole un--but I never
laid a finger on it."

Miss Minchin was out of breath between temper and mounting the stairs.
The meat pie had been intended for her special late supper. It became
apparent that she boxed Becky's ears.

"Don't tell falsehoods," she said.  "Go to your room this instant."

Both Sara and Ermengarde heard the slap, and then heard Becky run in
her slipshod shoes up the stairs and into her attic. They heard her
door shut, and knew that she threw herself upon her bed.

"I could 'ave e't two of 'em," they heard her cry into her pillow. "An'
I never took a bite.  'Twas cook give it to her policeman."

Sara stood in the middle of the room in the darkness.  She was
clenching her little teeth and opening and shutting fiercely her
outstretched hands.  She could scarcely stand still, but she dared not
move until Miss Minchin had gone down the stairs and all was still.

"The wicked, cruel thing!" she burst forth.  "The cook takes things
herself and then says Becky steals them.  She DOESN'T!  She DOESN'T!
She's so hungry sometimes that she eats crusts out of the ash barrel!"
She pressed her hands hard against her face and burst into passionate
little sobs, and Ermengarde, hearing this unusual thing, was overawed
by it.  Sara was crying!  The unconquerable Sara! It seemed to denote
something new--some mood she had never known. Suppose--suppose--a new
dread possibility presented itself to her kind, slow, little mind all
at once.  She crept off the bed in the dark and found her way to the
table where the candle stood. She struck a match and lit the candle.
When she had lighted it, she bent forward and looked at Sara, with her
new thought growing to definite fear in her eyes.

"Sara," she said in a timid, almost awe-stricken voice, "are--are--you
never told me--I don't want to be rude, but--are YOU ever hungry?"

It was too much just at that moment.  The barrier broke down.  Sara
lifted her face from her hands.

"Yes," she said in a new passionate way.  "Yes, I am.  I'm so hungry
now that I could almost eat you.  And it makes it worse to hear poor
Becky.  She's hungrier than I am."

Ermengarde gasped.

"Oh, oh!" she cried woefully.  "And I never knew!"

"I didn't want you to know," Sara said.  "It would have made me feel
like a street beggar.  I know I look like a street beggar."

"No, you don't--you don't!" Ermengarde broke in.  "Your clothes are a
little queer--but you couldn't look like a street beggar.  You haven't
a street-beggar face."

"A little boy once gave me a sixpence for charity," said Sara, with a
short little laugh in spite of herself.  "Here it is." And she pulled
out the thin ribbon from her neck.  "He wouldn't have given me his
Christmas sixpence if I hadn't looked as if I needed it."

Somehow the sight of the dear little sixpence was good for both of
them.  It made them laugh a little, though they both had tears in their
eyes.

"Who was he?" asked Ermengarde, looking at it quite as if it had not
been a mere ordinary silver sixpence.

"He was a darling little thing going to a party," said Sara. "He was
one of the Large Family, the little one with the round legs--the one I
call Guy Clarence.  I suppose his nursery was crammed with Christmas
presents and hampers full of cakes and things, and he could see I had
nothing."

Ermengarde gave a little jump backward.  The last sentences had
recalled something to her troubled mind and given her a sudden
inspiration.

"Oh, Sara!" she cried.  "What a silly thing I am not to have thought of
it!"

"Of what?"

"Something splendid!" said Ermengarde, in an excited hurry.  "This very
afternoon my nicest aunt sent me a box.  It is full of good things.  I
never touched it, I had so much pudding at dinner, and I was so
bothered about papa's books."  Her words began to tumble over each
other.  "It's got cake in it, and little meat pies, and jam tarts and
buns, and oranges and red-currant wine, and figs and chocolate.  I'll
creep back to my room and get it this minute, and we'll eat it now."

Sara almost reeled.  When one is faint with hunger the mention of food
has sometimes a curious effect.  She clutched Ermengarde's arm.

"Do you think--you COULD?" she ejaculated.

"I know I could," answered Ermengarde, and she ran to the door--opened
it softly--put her head out into the darkness, and listened. Then she
went back to Sara.  "The lights are out.  Everybody's in bed. I can
creep--and creep--and no one will hear."

It was so delightful that they caught each other's hands and a sudden
light sprang into Sara's eyes.

"Ermie!" she said.  "Let us PRETEND! Let us pretend it's a party! And
oh, won't you invite the prisoner in the next cell?"

"Yes!  Yes!  Let us knock on the wall now.  The jailer won't hear."

Sara went to the wall.  Through it she could hear poor Becky crying
more softly.  She knocked four times.

"That means, 'Come to me through the secret passage under the wall,'
she explained.  'I have something to communicate.'"

Five quick knocks answered her.

"She is coming," she said.

Almost immediately the door of the attic opened and Becky appeared. Her
eyes were red and her cap was sliding off, and when she caught sight of
Ermengarde she began to rub her face nervously with her apron.

"Don't mind me a bit, Becky!" cried Ermengarde.

"Miss Ermengarde has asked you to come in," said Sara, "because she is
going to bring a box of good things up here to us."

Becky's cap almost fell off entirely, she broke in with such excitement.

"To eat, miss?" she said.  "Things that's good to eat?"

"Yes," answered Sara, "and we are going to pretend a party."

"And you shall have as much as you WANT to eat," put in Ermengarde.
"I'll go this minute!"

She was in such haste that as she tiptoed out of the attic she dropped
her red shawl and did not know it had fallen.  No one saw it for a
minute or so.  Becky was too much overpowered by the good luck which
had befallen her.

"Oh, miss! oh, miss!" she gasped; "I know it was you that asked her to
let me come.  It--it makes me cry to think of it."  And she went to
Sara's side and stood and looked at her worshipingly.

But in Sara's hungry eyes the old light had begun to glow and transform
her world for her.  Here in the attic--with the cold night
outside--with the afternoon in the sloppy streets barely passed--with
the memory of the awful unfed look in the beggar child's eyes not yet
faded--this simple, cheerful thing had happened like a thing of magic.

She caught her breath.

"Somehow, something always happens," she cried, "just before things get
to the very worst.  It is as if the Magic did it.  If I could only just
remember that always.  The worst thing never QUITE comes."

She gave Becky a little cheerful shake.

"No, no!  You mustn't cry!" she said.  "We must make haste and set the
table."

"Set the table, miss?" said Becky, gazing round the room.  "What'll we
set it with?"

Sara looked round the attic, too.

"There doesn't seem to be much," she answered, half laughing.

That moment she saw something and pounced upon it.  It was Ermengarde's
red shawl which lay upon the floor.

"Here's the shawl," she cried.  "I know she won't mind it. It will make
such a nice red tablecloth."

They pulled the old table forward, and threw the shawl over it.  Red is
a wonderfully kind and comfortable color.  It began to make the room
look furnished directly.

"How nice a red rug would look on the floor!" exclaimed Sara.  "We must
pretend there is one!"

Her eye swept the bare boards with a swift glance of admiration.  The
rug was laid down already.

"How soft and thick it is!" she said, with the little laugh which Becky
knew the meaning of; and she raised and set her foot down again
delicately, as if she felt something under it.

"Yes, miss," answered Becky, watching her with serious rapture.  She
was always quite serious.

"What next, now?" said Sara, and she stood still and put her hands over
her eyes.  "Something will come if I think and wait a little"--in a
soft, expectant voice.  "The Magic will tell me."

One of her favorite fancies was that on "the outside," as she called
it, thoughts were waiting for people to call them. Becky had seen her
stand and wait many a time before, and knew that in a few seconds she
would uncover an enlightened, laughing face.

In a moment she did.

"There!" she cried.  "It has come!  I know now!  I must look among the
things in the old trunk I had when I was a princess."

She flew to its corner and kneeled down.  It had not been put in the
attic for her benefit, but because there was no room for it elsewhere.
Nothing had been left in it but rubbish. But she knew she should find
something.  The Magic always arranged that kind of thing in one way or
another.

In a corner lay a package so insignificant-looking that it had been
overlooked, and when she herself had found it she had kept it as a
relic.  It contained a dozen small white handkerchiefs.  She seized
them joyfully and ran to the table.  She began to arrange them upon the
red table-cover, patting and coaxing them into shape with the narrow
lace edge curling outward, her Magic working its spells for her as she
did it.

"These are the plates," she said.  "They are golden plates.  These are
the richly embroidered napkins.  Nuns worked them in convents in Spain."

"Did they, miss?" breathed Becky, her very soul uplifted by the
information.

"You must pretend it," said Sara.  "If you pretend it enough, you will
see them."

"Yes, miss," said Becky; and as Sara returned to the trunk she devoted
herself to the effort of accomplishing an end so much to be desired.

Sara turned suddenly to find her standing by the table, looking very
queer indeed.  She had shut her eyes, and was twisting her face in
strange convulsive contortions, her hands hanging stiffly clenched at
her sides.  She looked as if she was trying to lift some enormous
weight.

"What is the matter, Becky?"  Sara cried.  "What are you doing?"

Becky opened her eyes with a start.

"I was a-'pretendin',' miss," she answered a little sheepishly; "I was
tryin' to see it like you do.  I almost did," with a hopeful grin. "But
it takes a lot o' stren'th."

"Perhaps it does if you are not used to it," said Sara, with friendly
sympathy; "but you don't know how easy it is when you've done it often.
I wouldn't try so hard just at first.  It will come to you after a
while.  I'll just tell you what things are.  Look at these."

She held an old summer hat in her hand which she had fished out of the
bottom of the trunk.  There was a wreath of flowers on it. She pulled
the wreath off.

"These are garlands for the feast," she said grandly.  "They fill all
the air with perfume.  There's a mug on the wash-stand, Becky. Oh--and
bring the soap dish for a centerpiece."

Becky handed them to her reverently.

"What are they now, miss?" she inquired.  "You'd think they was made of
crockery--but I know they ain't."

"This is a carven flagon," said Sara, arranging tendrils of the wreath
about the mug.  "And this"--bending tenderly over the soap dish and
heaping it with roses--"is purest alabaster encrusted with gems."

She touched the things gently, a happy smile hovering about her lips
which made her look as if she were a creature in a dream.

"My, ain't it lovely!" whispered Becky.

"If we just had something for bonbon dishes," Sara murmured.
"There!"--darting to the trunk again.  "I remember I saw something this
minute."

It was only a bundle of wool wrapped in red and white tissue paper, but
the tissue paper was soon twisted into the form of little dishes, and
was combined with the remaining flowers to ornament the candlestick
which was to light the feast.  Only the Magic could have made it more
than an old table covered with a red shawl and set with rubbish from a
long-unopened trunk.  But Sara drew back and gazed at it, seeing
wonders; and Becky, after staring in delight, spoke with bated breath.

"This 'ere," she suggested, with a glance round the attic--"is it the
Bastille now--or has it turned into somethin' different?"

"Oh, yes, yes!" said Sara.  "Quite different.  It is a banquet hall!"

"My eye, miss!" ejaculated Becky.  "A blanket 'all!" and she turned to
view the splendors about her with awed bewilderment.

"A banquet hall," said Sara.  "A vast chamber where feasts are given.
It has a vaulted roof, and a minstrels' gallery, and a huge chimney
filled with blazing oaken logs, and it is brilliant with waxen tapers
twinkling on every side."

"My eye, Miss Sara!" gasped Becky again.

Then the door opened, and Ermengarde came in, rather staggering under
the weight of her hamper.  She started back with an exclamation of joy.
To enter from the chill darkness outside, and find one's self
confronted by a totally unanticipated festal board, draped with red,
adorned with white napery, and wreathed with flowers, was to feel that
the preparations were brilliant indeed.

"Oh, Sara!" she cried out.  "You are the cleverest girl I ever saw!"

"Isn't it nice?" said Sara.  "They are things out of my old trunk. I
asked my Magic, and it told me to go and look."

"But oh, miss," cried Becky, "wait till she's told you what they are!
They ain't just--oh, miss, please tell her," appealing to Sara.

So Sara told her, and because her Magic helped her she made her ALMOST
see it all:  the golden platters--the vaulted spaces--the blazing
logs--the twinkling waxen tapers.  As the things were taken out of the
hamper--the frosted cakes--the fruits--the bonbons and the wine--the
feast became a splendid thing.

"It's like a real party!" cried Ermengarde.

"It's like a queen's table," sighed Becky.

Then Ermengarde had a sudden brilliant thought.

"I'll tell you what, Sara," she said.  "Pretend you are a princess now
and this is a royal feast."

"But it's your feast," said Sara; "you must be the princess, and we
will be your maids of honor."

"Oh, I can't," said Ermengarde.  "I'm too fat, and I don't know how.
YOU be her."

"Well, if you want me to," said Sara.

But suddenly she thought of something else and ran to the rusty grate.

"There is a lot of paper and rubbish stuffed in here!" she exclaimed.
"If we light it, there will be a bright blaze for a few minutes, and we
shall feel as if it was a real fire."  She struck a match and lighted
it up with a great specious glow which illuminated the room.

"By the time it stops blazing," Sara said, "we shall forget about its
not being real."

She stood in the dancing glow and smiled.

"Doesn't it LOOK real?" she said.  "Now we will begin the party."

She led the way to the table.  She waved her hand graciously to
Ermengarde and Becky.  She was in the midst of her dream.

"Advance, fair damsels," she said in her happy dream-voice, "and be
seated at the banquet table.  My noble father, the king, who is absent
on a long journey, has commanded me to feast you." She turned her head
slightly toward the corner of the room. "What, ho, there, minstrels!
Strike up with your viols and bassoons.  Princesses," she explained
rapidly to Ermengarde and Becky, "always had minstrels to play at their
feasts.  Pretend there is a minstrel gallery up there in the corner.
Now we will begin."

They had barely had time to take their pieces of cake into their
hands--not one of them had time to do more, when--they all three sprang
to their feet and turned pale faces toward the
door--listening--listening.

Someone was coming up the stairs.  There was no mistake about it. Each
of them recognized the angry, mounting tread and knew that the end of
all things had come.

"It's--the missus!" choked Becky, and dropped her piece of cake upon
the floor.

"Yes," said Sara, her eyes growing shocked and large in her small white
face.  "Miss Minchin has found us out."

Miss Minchin struck the door open with a blow of her hand. She was pale
herself, but it was with rage.  She looked from the frightened faces to
the banquet table, and from the banquet table to the last flicker of
the burnt paper in the grate.

"I have been suspecting something of this sort," she exclaimed; "but I
did not dream of such audacity.  Lavinia was telling the truth."

So they knew that it was Lavinia who had somehow guessed their secret
and had betrayed them.  Miss Minchin strode over to Becky and boxed her
ears for a second time.

"You impudent creature!" she said.  "You leave the house in the
morning!"

Sara stood quite still, her eyes growing larger, her face paler.
Ermengarde burst into tears.

"Oh, don't send her away," she sobbed.  "My aunt sent me the hamper.
We're--only--having a party."

"So I see," said Miss Minchin, witheringly.  "With the Princess Sara at
the head of the table."  She turned fiercely on Sara.  "It is your
doing, I know," she cried.  "Ermengarde would never have thought of
such a thing.  You decorated the table, I suppose--with this rubbish."
She stamped her foot at Becky.  "Go to your attic!" she commanded, and
Becky stole away, her face hidden in her apron, her shoulders shaking.

Then it was Sara's turn again.

"I will attend to you tomorrow.  You shall have neither breakfast,
dinner, nor supper!"

"I have not had either dinner or supper today, Miss Minchin," said
Sara, rather faintly.

"Then all the better.  You will have something to remember.  Don't
stand there.  Put those things into the hamper again."

She began to sweep them off the table into the hamper herself, and
caught sight of Ermengarde's new books.

"And you"--to Ermengarde--"have brought your beautiful new books into
this dirty attic.  Take them up and go back to bed.  You will stay
there all day tomorrow, and I shall write to your papa.  What would HE
say if he knew where you are tonight?"

Something she saw in Sara's grave, fixed gaze at this moment made her
turn on her fiercely.

"What are you thinking of?" she demanded.  "Why do you look at me like
that?"

"I was wondering," answered Sara, as she had answered that notable day
in the schoolroom.

"What were you wondering?"

It was very like the scene in the schoolroom.  There was no pertness in
Sara's manner.  It was only sad and quiet.

"I was wondering," she said in a low voice, "what MY papa would say if
he knew where I am tonight."

Miss Minchin was infuriated just as she had been before and her anger
expressed itself, as before, in an intemperate fashion.  She flew at
her and shook her.

"You insolent, unmanageable child!" she cried.  "How dare you!  How
dare you!"

She picked up the books, swept the rest of the feast back into the
hamper in a jumbled heap, thrust it into Ermengarde's arms, and pushed
her before her toward the door.

"I will leave you to wonder," she said.  "Go to bed this instant." And
she shut the door behind herself and poor stumbling Ermengarde, and
left Sara standing quite alone.

The dream was quite at an end.  The last spark had died out of the
paper in the grate and left only black tinder; the table was left bare,
the golden plates and richly embroidered napkins, and the garlands were
transformed again into old handkerchiefs, scraps of red and white
paper, and discarded artificial flowers all scattered on the floor; the
minstrels in the minstrel gallery had stolen away, and the viols and
bassoons were still. Emily was sitting with her back against the wall,
staring very hard.  Sara saw her, and went and picked her up with
trembling hands.

"There isn't any banquet left, Emily," she said.  "And there isn't any
princess.  There is nothing left but the prisoners in the Bastille."
And she sat down and hid her face.

What would have happened if she had not hidden it just then, and if she
had chanced to look up at the skylight at the wrong moment, I do not
know--perhaps the end of this chapter might have been quite
different--because if she had glanced at the skylight she would
certainly have been startled by what she would have seen. She would
have seen exactly the same face pressed against the glass and peering
in at her as it had peered in earlier in the evening when she had been
talking to Ermengarde.

But she did not look up.  She sat with her little black head in her
arms for some time.  She always sat like that when she was trying to
bear something in silence.  Then she got up and went slowly to the bed.

"I can't pretend anything else--while I am awake," she said.  "There
wouldn't be any use in trying.  If I go to sleep, perhaps a dream will
come and pretend for me."

She suddenly felt so tired--perhaps through want of food--that she sat
down on the edge of the bed quite weakly.

"Suppose there was a bright fire in the grate, with lots of little
dancing flames," she murmured.  "Suppose there was a comfortable chair
before it--and suppose there was a small table near, with a little
hot--hot supper on it.  And suppose"--as she drew the thin coverings
over her--"suppose this was a beautiful soft bed, with fleecy blankets
and large downy pillows.  Suppose--suppose--" And her very weariness
was good to her, for her eyes closed and she fell fast asleep.

She did not know how long she slept.  But she had been tired enough to
sleep deeply and profoundly--too deeply and soundly to be disturbed by
anything, even by the squeaks and scamperings of Melchisedec's entire
family, if all his sons and daughters had chosen to come out of their
hole to fight and tumble and play.

When she awakened it was rather suddenly, and she did not know that any
particular thing had called her out of her sleep. The truth was,
however, that it was a sound which had called her back--a real
sound--the click of the skylight as it fell in closing after a lithe
white figure which slipped through it and crouched down close by upon
the slates of the roof--just near enough to see what happened in the
attic, but not near enough to be seen.

At first she did not open her eyes.  She felt too sleepy and--curiously
enough--too warm and comfortable.  She was so warm and comfortable,
indeed, that she did not believe she was really awake. She never was as
warm and cozy as this except in some lovely vision.

"What a nice dream!" she murmured.  "I feel quite warm.
I--don't--want--to--wake--up."

Of course it was a dream.  She felt as if warm, delightful bedclothes
were heaped upon her.  She could actually FEEL blankets, and when she
put out her hand it touched something exactly like a satin-covered
eider-down quilt.  She must not awaken from this delight--she must be
quite still and make it last.

But she could not--even though she kept her eyes closed tightly, she
could not.  Something was forcing her to awaken--something in the room.
It was a sense of light, and a sound--the sound of a crackling, roaring
little fire.

"Oh, I am awakening," she said mournfully.  "I can't help it--I can't."

Her eyes opened in spite of herself.  And then she actually smiled--for
what she saw she had never seen in the attic before, and knew she never
should see.

"Oh, I HAVEN'T awakened," she whispered, daring to rise on her elbow
and look all about her.  "I am dreaming yet."  She knew it MUST be a
dream, for if she were awake such things could not--could not be.

Do you wonder that she felt sure she had not come back to earth?  This
is what she saw.  In the grate there was a glowing, blazing fire; on
the hob was a little brass kettle hissing and boiling; spread upon the
floor was a thick, warm crimson rug; before the fire a folding-chair,
unfolded, and with cushions on it; by the chair a small folding-table,
unfolded, covered with a white cloth, and upon it spread small covered
dishes, a cup, a saucer, a teapot; on the bed were new warm coverings
and a satin-covered down quilt; at the foot a curious wadded silk robe,
a pair of quilted slippers, and some books.  The room of her dream
seemed changed into fairyland--and it was flooded with warm light, for
a bright lamp stood on the table covered with a rosy shade.

She sat up, resting on her elbow, and her breathing came short and fast.

"It does not--melt away," she panted.  "Oh, I never had such a dream
before."  She scarcely dared to stir; but at last she pushed the
bedclothes aside, and put her feet on the floor with a rapturous smile.

"I am dreaming--I am getting out of bed," she heard her own voice say;
and then, as she stood up in the midst of it all, turning slowly from
side to side--"I am dreaming it stays--real! I'm dreaming it FEELS
real.  It's bewitched--or I'm bewitched. I only THINK I see it all."
Her words began to hurry themselves.  "If I can only keep on thinking
it," she cried, "I don't care! I don't care!"

She stood panting a moment longer, and then cried out again.

"Oh, it isn't true!" she said.  "It CAN'T be true!  But oh, how true it
seems!"

The blazing fire drew her to it, and she knelt down and held out her
hands close to it--so close that the heat made her start back.

"A fire I only dreamed wouldn't be HOT," she cried.

She sprang up, touched the table, the dishes, the rug; she went to the
bed and touched the blankets.  She took up the soft wadded
dressing-gown, and suddenly clutched it to her breast and held it to
her cheek.

"It's warm.  It's soft!" she almost sobbed.  "It's real. It must be!"

She threw it over her shoulders, and put her feet into the slippers.

"They are real, too.  It's all real!" she cried.  "I am NOT--I am NOT
dreaming!"

She almost staggered to the books and opened the one which lay upon the
top.  Something was written on the flyleaf--just a few words, and they
were these:

"To the little girl in the attic.  From a friend."

When she saw that--wasn't it a strange thing for her to do--she put her
face down upon the page and burst into tears.

"I don't know who it is," she said; "but somebody cares for me a
little.  I have a friend."

She took her candle and stole out of her own room and into Becky's, and
stood by her bedside.

"Becky, Becky!" she whispered as loudly as she dared.  "Wake up!"

When Becky wakened, and she sat upright staring aghast, her face still
smudged with traces of tears, beside her stood a little figure in a
luxurious wadded robe of crimson silk.  The face she saw was a shining,
wonderful thing.  The Princess Sara--as she remembered her--stood at
her very bedside, holding a candle in her hand.

"Come," she said.  "Oh, Becky, come!"

Becky was too frightened to speak.  She simply got up and followed her,
with her mouth and eyes open, and without a word.

And when they crossed the threshold, Sara shut the door gently and drew
her into the warm, glowing midst of things which made her brain reel
and her hungry senses faint.  "It's true!  It's true!" she cried.
"I've touched them all.  They are as real as we are. The Magic has come
and done it, Becky, while we were asleep--the Magic that won't let
those worst things EVER quite happen."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Sara passes by the Indian gentleman's house and sees him looking lonely and unhappy. What's he thinking? About little Ralph Crewe's daughter, of course. When she returns, the cook tells her that she's not allowed to have anything to eat but some bread, even though she had no dinner. Sara gets the old, hard bread and climbs all the way up to the attic, where she sees that Ermengarde has paid her a visit. Ermengarde, who isn't much of a reader, has brought Sara some books that her papa sent her. Sara says she'll read them and tell Ermengarde all about them. They talk about the French Revolution. At one moment, Sara thinks she hears something on the roof and Ermengarde is spooked. Downstairs, they can hear Miss Minchin scolding Becky for eating half a meat pie--even though Sara knows that the cook was the one who took it. Ermengarde is perturbed and asks Sara if she's ever hungry, and Sara answers that why yes, she is in fact often very hungry. Oh, what a horrifying thought! Obviously Ermie's a little broken up that she never realized this before, but Sara assures her that she didn't want her to think that she was a street beggar. Thankfully, Ermengarde's aunt has sent her a box full of good food and treats, and she decides to sneak it upstairs and have a party with Sara and Becky! The girls are stoked, and Ermengarde trots off to get it while Sara puts a shawl on the table as a tablecloth and sets the table with her small white handkerchiefs. She takes all sorts of knick-knacks and lays them out so that the table and room look fancier. They pretend that they are having a royal feast in Sara's honor. Its just time for cake when they hear a noise that is definitely not good--the sound of angry stomping footsteps coming up the stairs. Uh-oh, spaghetti-o. It is, of course, the dreaded Miss Minchin. Lavinia snitched. Miss Minchin says that she's going to kick Becky out, and that Sara will have neither breakfast, dinner, nor supper the next day . Sara spits out that she wonders what her papa would say if he knew where she was tonight. Miss Minchin storms out, and Sara finally goes to sleep. As she's sleeping, the manservant next door sneaks into her room and turns it into a magical cozy place! When she wakes up, her room is cozy with a crackling fire and lots of fancy things like silk quilts and robes and books, and there's even delicious food for her. Seriously, we want this to be our bedroom. A note says, "to the little girl in the attic. From a friend." Sara starts crying, obviously, and calls Becky over to join her in the room. (Note that Becky doesn't get the nice stuff. We'll talk more about this in "Themes: Society and Class."