prompt:
Chapter: The Visitor

Imagine, if you can, what the rest of the evening was like.  How they
crouched by the fire which blazed and leaped and made so much of itself
in the little grate.  How they removed the covers of the dishes, and
found rich, hot, savory soup, which was a meal in itself, and
sandwiches and toast and muffins enough for both of them. The mug from
the washstand was used as Becky's tea cup, and the tea was so delicious
that it was not necessary to pretend that it was anything but tea.
They were warm and full-fed and happy, and it was just like Sara that,
having found her strange good fortune real, she should give herself up
to the enjoyment of it to the utmost. She had lived such a life of
imaginings that she was quite equal to accepting any wonderful thing
that happened, and almost to cease, in a short time, to find it
bewildering.

"I don't know anyone in the world who could have done it," she said;
"but there has been someone.  And here we are sitting by their
fire--and--and--it's true!  And whoever it is--wherever they are--I
have a friend, Becky--someone is my friend."

It cannot be denied that as they sat before the blazing fire, and ate
the nourishing, comfortable food, they felt a kind of rapturous awe,
and looked into each other's eyes with something like doubt.

"Do you think," Becky faltered once, in a whisper, "do you think it
could melt away, miss?  Hadn't we better be quick?"  And she hastily
crammed her sandwich into her mouth.  If it was only a dream, kitchen
manners would be overlooked.

"No, it won't melt away," said Sara.  "I am EATING this muffin, and I
can taste it.  You never really eat things in dreams. You only think
you are going to eat them.  Besides, I keep giving myself pinches; and
I touched a hot piece of coal just now, on purpose."

The sleepy comfort which at length almost overpowered them was a
heavenly thing.  It was the drowsiness of happy, well-fed childhood,
and they sat in the fire glow and luxuriated in it until Sara found
herself turning to look at her transformed bed.

There were even blankets enough to share with Becky.  The narrow couch
in the next attic was more comfortable that night than its occupant had
ever dreamed that it could be.

As she went out of the room, Becky turned upon the threshold and looked
about her with devouring eyes.

"If it ain't here in the mornin', miss," she said, "it's been here
tonight, anyways, an' I shan't never forget it."  She looked at each
particular thing, as if to commit it to memory.  "The fire was THERE",
pointing with her finger, "an' the table was before it; an' the lamp
was there, an' the light looked rosy red; an' there was a satin cover
on your bed, an' a warm rug on the floor, an' everythin' looked
beautiful; an'"--she paused a second, and laid her hand on her stomach
tenderly--"there WAS soup an' sandwiches an' muffins--there WAS." And,
with this conviction a reality at least, she went away.

Through the mysterious agency which works in schools and among
servants, it was quite well known in the morning that Sara Crewe was in
horrible disgrace, that Ermengarde was under punishment, and that Becky
would have been packed out of the house before breakfast, but that a
scullery maid could not be dispensed with at once. The servants knew
that she was allowed to stay because Miss Minchin could not easily find
another creature helpless and humble enough to work like a bounden
slave for so few shillings a week. The elder girls in the schoolroom
knew that if Miss Minchin did not send Sara away it was for practical
reasons of her own.

"She's growing so fast and learning such a lot, somehow," said Jessie
to Lavinia, "that she will be given classes soon, and Miss Minchin
knows she will have to work for nothing.  It was rather nasty of you,
Lavvy, to tell about her having fun in the garret.  How did you find it
out?"

"I got it out of Lottie.  She's such a baby she didn't know she was
telling me.  There was nothing nasty at all in speaking to Miss
Minchin. I felt it my duty"--priggishly.  "She was being deceitful.
And it's ridiculous that she should look so grand, and be made so much
of, in her rags and tatters!"

"What were they doing when Miss Minchin caught them?"

"Pretending some silly thing.  Ermengarde had taken up her hamper to
share with Sara and Becky.  She never invites us to share things. Not
that I care, but it's rather vulgar of her to share with servant girls
in attics.  I wonder Miss Minchin didn't turn Sara out--even if she
does want her for a teacher."

"If she was turned out where would she go?" inquired Jessie, a trifle
anxiously.

"How do I know?" snapped Lavinia.  "She'll look rather queer when she
comes into the schoolroom this morning, I should think--after what's
happened.  She had no dinner yesterday, and she's not to have any
today."

Jessie was not as ill-natured as she was silly.  She picked up her book
with a little jerk.

"Well, I think it's horrid," she said.  "They've no right to starve her
to death."

When Sara went into the kitchen that morning the cook looked askance at
her, and so did the housemaids; but she passed them hurriedly. She had,
in fact, overslept herself a little, and as Becky had done the same,
neither had had time to see the other, and each had come downstairs in
haste.

Sara went into the scullery.  Becky was violently scrubbing a kettle,
and was actually gurgling a little song in her throat.  She looked up
with a wildly elated face.

"It was there when I wakened, miss--the blanket," she whispered
excitedly. "It was as real as it was last night."

"So was mine," said Sara.  "It is all there now--all of it.  While I
was dressing I ate some of the cold things we left."

"Oh, laws!  Oh, laws!"  Becky uttered the exclamation in a sort of
rapturous groan, and ducked her head over her kettle just in time, as
the cook came in from the kitchen.

Miss Minchin had expected to see in Sara, when she appeared in the
schoolroom, very much what Lavinia had expected to see. Sara had always
been an annoying puzzle to her, because severity never made her cry or
look frightened.  When she was scolded she stood still and listened
politely with a grave face; when she was punished she performed her
extra tasks or went without her meals, making no complaint or outward
sign of rebellion.  The very fact that she never made an impudent
answer seemed to Miss Minchin a kind of impudence in itself.  But after
yesterday's deprivation of meals, the violent scene of last night, the
prospect of hunger today, she must surely have broken down.  It would
be strange indeed if she did not come downstairs with pale cheeks and
red eyes and an unhappy, humbled face.

Miss Minchin saw her for the first time when she entered the schoolroom
to hear the little French class recite its lessons and superintend its
exercises.  And she came in with a springing step, color in her cheeks,
and a smile hovering about the corners of her mouth. It was the most
astonishing thing Miss Minchin had ever known. It gave her quite a
shock.  What was the child made of?  What could such a thing mean?  She
called her at once to her desk.

"You do not look as if you realize that you are in disgrace," she said.
"Are you absolutely hardened?"

The truth is that when one is still a child--or even if one is grown
up--and has been well fed, and has slept long and softly and warm; when
one has gone to sleep in the midst of a fairy story, and has wakened to
find it real, one cannot be unhappy or even look as if one were; and
one could not, if one tried, keep a glow of joy out of one's eyes. Miss
Minchin was almost struck dumb by the look of Sara's eyes when she made
her perfectly respectful answer.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Minchin," she said; "I know that I am in
disgrace."

"Be good enough not to forget it and look as if you had come into a
fortune.  It is an impertinence.  And remember you are to have no food
today."

"Yes, Miss Minchin," Sara answered; but as she turned away her heart
leaped with the memory of what yesterday had been. "If the Magic had
not saved me just in time," she thought, "how horrible it would have
been!"

"She can't be very hungry," whispered Lavinia.  "Just look at her.
Perhaps she is pretending she has had a good breakfast"--with a
spiteful laugh.

"She's different from other people," said Jessie, watching Sara with
her class.  "Sometimes I'm a bit frightened of her."

"Ridiculous thing!" ejaculated Lavinia.

All through the day the light was in Sara's face, and the color in her
cheek.  The servants cast puzzled glances at her, and whispered to each
other, and Miss Amelia's small blue eyes wore an expression of
bewilderment.  What such an audacious look of well-being, under august
displeasure could mean she could not understand. It was, however, just
like Sara's singular obstinate way. She was probably determined to
brave the matter out.

One thing Sara had resolved upon, as she thought things over.  The
wonders which had happened must be kept a secret, if such a thing were
possible.  If Miss Minchin should choose to mount to the attic again,
of course all would be discovered.  But it did not seem likely that she
would do so for some time at least, unless she was led by suspicion.
Ermengarde and Lottie would be watched with such strictness that they
would not dare to steal out of their beds again. Ermengarde could be
told the story and trusted to keep it secret. If Lottie made any
discoveries, she could be bound to secrecy also. Perhaps the Magic
itself would help to hide its own marvels.

"But whatever happens," Sara kept saying to herself all day--"WHATEVER
happens, somewhere in the world there is a heavenly kind person who is
my friend--my friend.  If I never know who it is--if I never can even
thank him--I shall never feel quite so lonely.  Oh, the Magic was GOOD
to me!"

If it was possible for weather to be worse than it had been the day
before, it was worse this day--wetter, muddier, colder.  There were
more errands to be done, the cook was more irritable, and, knowing that
Sara was in disgrace, she was more savage. But what does anything
matter when one's Magic has just proved itself one's friend.  Sara's
supper of the night before had given her strength, she knew that she
should sleep well and warmly, and, even though she had naturally begun
to be hungry again before evening, she felt that she could bear it
until breakfast-time on the following day, when her meals would surely
be given to her again.  It was quite late when she was at last allowed
to go upstairs.  She had been told to go into the schoolroom and study
until ten o'clock, and she had become interested in her work, and
remained over her books later.

When she reached the top flight of stairs and stood before the attic
door, it must be confessed that her heart beat rather fast.

"Of course it MIGHT all have been taken away," she whispered, trying to
be brave.  "It might only have been lent to me for just that one awful
night.  But it WAS lent to me--I had it. It was real."

She pushed the door open and went in.  Once inside, she gasped
slightly, shut the door, and stood with her back against it looking
from side to side.

The Magic had been there again.  It actually had, and it had done even
more than before.  The fire was blazing, in lovely leaping flames, more
merrily than ever.  A number of new things had been brought into the
attic which so altered the look of it that if she had not been past
doubting she would have rubbed her eyes.  Upon the low table another
supper stood--this time with cups and plates for Becky as well as
herself; a piece of bright, heavy, strange embroidery 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 of rich
colors had been fastened against the wall with fine, sharp tacks--so
sharp that they could be pressed into the wood and plaster without
hammering.  Some brilliant fans were pinned up, and there were several
large cushions, big and substantial enough to use as seats.  A wooden
box was covered with a rug, and some cushions lay on it, so that it
wore quite the air of a sofa.

Sara slowly moved away from the door and simply sat down and looked and
looked again.

"It is exactly like something fairy come true," she said. "There isn't
the least difference.  I feel as if I might wish for anything--diamonds
or bags of gold--and they would appear! THAT wouldn't be any stranger
than this.  Is this my garret? Am I the same cold, ragged, damp Sara?
And to think 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
able to turn things into anything else."

She rose and knocked upon the wall for the prisoner in the next cell,
and the prisoner came.

When she entered she almost dropped in a heap upon the floor.  For a
few seconds she quite lost her breath.

"Oh, laws!" she gasped.  "Oh, laws, miss!"

"You see," said Sara.

On this night Becky sat on a cushion upon the hearth rug and had a cup
and saucer of her own.

When Sara went to bed she found that she had a new thick mattress and
big downy pillows.  Her old mattress and pillow had been removed to
Becky's bedstead, and, consequently, with these additions Becky had
been supplied with unheard-of comfort.

"Where does it all come from?"  Becky broke forth once. "Laws, who does
it, miss?"

"Don't let us even ASK," said Sara.  "If it were not that I want to
say, 'Oh, thank you,' I would rather not know.  It makes it more
beautiful."

From that time life became more wonderful day by day.  The fairy story
continued.  Almost every day something new was done. Some new comfort
or ornament appeared each time Sara opened the door at night, until in
a short time the attic was a beautiful little room full of all sorts of
odd and luxurious things.  The ugly walls were gradually entirely
covered with pictures and draperies, ingenious pieces of folding
furniture appeared, a bookshelf was hung up and filled with books, new
comforts and conveniences appeared one by one, until there seemed
nothing left to be desired. When Sara went downstairs in the morning,
the remains of the supper were on the table; and when she returned to
the attic in the evening, the magician had removed them and left
another nice little meal. Miss Minchin was as harsh and insulting as
ever, Miss Amelia as peevish, and the servants were as vulgar and rude.
Sara was sent on errands in all weathers, and scolded and driven hither
and thither; she was scarcely allowed to speak to Ermengarde and
Lottie; Lavinia sneered at the increasing shabbiness of her clothes;
and the other girls stared curiously at her when she appeared in the
schoolroom. But what did it all matter while she was living in this
wonderful mysterious story?  It was more romantic and delightful than
anything she had ever invented to comfort her starved young soul and
save herself from despair.  Sometimes, when she was scolded, she could
scarcely keep from smiling.

"If you only knew!" she was saying to herself.  "If you only knew!"

The comfort and happiness she enjoyed were making her stronger, and she
had them always to look forward to.  If she came home from her errands
wet and tired and hungry, she knew she would soon be warm and well fed
after she had climbed the stairs.  During the hardest day she could
occupy herself blissfully by thinking of what she should see when she
opened the attic door, and wondering what new delight had been prepared
for her.  In a very short time she began to look less thin.  Color came
into her cheeks, and her eyes did not seem so much too big for her face.

"Sara Crewe looks wonderfully well," Miss Minchin remarked
disapprovingly to her sister.

"Yes," answered poor, silly Miss Amelia.  "She is absolutely fattening.
She was beginning to look like a little starved crow."

"Starved!" exclaimed Miss Minchin, angrily.  "There was no reason why
she should look starved.  She always had plenty to eat!"

"Of--of course," agreed Miss Amelia, humbly, alarmed to find that she
had, as usual, said the wrong thing.

"There is something very disagreeable in seeing that sort of thing in a
child of her age," said Miss Minchin, with haughty vagueness.

"What--sort of thing?"  Miss Amelia ventured.

"It might almost be called defiance," answered Miss Minchin, feeling
annoyed because she knew the thing she resented was nothing like
defiance, and she did not know what other unpleasant term to use. "The
spirit and will of any other child would have been entirely humbled and
broken by--by the changes she has had to submit to. But, upon my word,
she seems as little subdued as if--as if she were a princess."

"Do you remember," put in the unwise Miss Amelia, "what she said to you
that day in the schoolroom about what you would do if you found out
that she was--"

"No, I don't," said Miss Minchin.  "Don't talk nonsense." But she
remembered very clearly indeed.

Very naturally, even Becky was beginning to look plumper and less
frightened.  She could not help it.  She had her share in the secret
fairy story, too.  She had two mattresses, two pillows, plenty of
bed-covering, and every night a hot supper and a seat on the cushions
by the fire.  The Bastille had melted away, the prisoners no longer
existed.  Two comforted children sat in the midst of delights.
Sometimes Sara read aloud from her books, sometimes she learned her own
lessons, sometimes she sat and looked into the fire and tried to
imagine who her friend could be, and wished she could say to him some
of the things in her heart.

Then it came about that another wonderful thing happened. A man came to
the door and left several parcels.  All were addressed in large
letters, "To the Little Girl in the right-hand attic."

Sara herself was sent to open the door and take them in. She laid the
two largest parcels on the hall table, and was looking at the address,
when Miss Minchin came down the stairs and saw her.

"Take the things to the young lady to whom they belong," she said
severely.  "Don't stand there staring at them.

"They belong to me," answered Sara, quietly.

"To you?" exclaimed Miss Minchin.  "What do you mean?"

"I don't know where they come from," said Sara, "but they are addressed
to me.  I sleep in the right-hand attic.  Becky has the other one."

Miss Minchin came to her side and looked at the parcels with an excited
expression.

"What is in them?" she demanded.

"I don't know," replied Sara.

"Open them," she ordered.

Sara did as she was told.  When the packages were unfolded Miss
Minchin's countenance wore suddenly a singular expression.  What she
saw was pretty and comfortable clothing--clothing of different kinds:
shoes, stockings, and gloves, and a warm and beautiful coat. There were
even a nice hat and an umbrella.  They were all good and expensive
things, and on the pocket of the coat was pinned a paper, on which were
written these words:  "To be worn every day. Will be replaced by others
when necessary."

Miss Minchin was quite agitated.  This was an incident which suggested
strange things to her sordid mind.  Could it be that she had made a
mistake, after all, and that the neglected child had some powerful
though eccentric friend in the background--perhaps some previously
unknown relation, who had suddenly traced her whereabouts, and chose to
provide for her in this mysterious and fantastic way? Relations were
sometimes very odd--particularly rich old bachelor uncles, who did not
care for having children near them. A man of that sort might prefer to
overlook his young relation's welfare at a distance.  Such a person,
however, would be sure to be crotchety and hot-tempered enough to be
easily offended. It would not be very pleasant if there were such a
one, and he should learn all the truth about the thin, shabby clothes,
the scant food, and the hard work.  She felt very queer indeed, and
very uncertain, and she gave a side glance at Sara.

"Well," she said, in a voice such as she had never used since the
little girl lost her father, "someone is very kind to you. As the
things have been sent, and you are to have new ones when they are worn
out, you may as well go and put them on and look respectable. After you
are dressed you may come downstairs and learn your lessons in the
schoolroom.  You need not go out on any more errands today."

About half an hour afterward, when the schoolroom door opened and Sara
walked in, the entire seminary was struck dumb.

"My word!" ejaculated Jessie, jogging Lavinia's elbow.  "Look at the
Princess Sara!"

Everybody was looking, and when Lavinia looked she turned quite red.

It was the Princess Sara indeed.  At least, since the days when she had
been a princess, Sara had never looked as she did now.  She did not
seem the Sara they had seen come down the back stairs a few hours ago.
She was dressed in the kind of frock Lavinia had been used to envying
her the possession of.  It was deep and warm in color, and beautifully
made.  Her slender feet looked as they had done when Jessie had admired
them, and the hair, whose heavy locks had made her look rather like a
Shetland pony when it fell loose about her small, odd face, was tied
back with a ribbon.

"Perhaps someone has left her a fortune," Jessie whispered. "I always
thought something would happen to her.  She's so queer."

"Perhaps the diamond mines have suddenly appeared again," said Lavinia,
scathingly.  "Don't please her by staring at her in that way, you silly
thing."

"Sara," broke in Miss Minchin's deep voice, "come and sit here."

And while the whole schoolroom stared and pushed with elbows, and
scarcely made any effort to conceal its excited curiosity, Sara went to
her old seat of honor, and bent her head over her books.

That night, when she went to her room, after she and Becky had eaten
their supper she sat and looked at the fire seriously for a long time.

"Are you making something up in your head, miss?"  Becky inquired with
respectful softness.  When Sara sat in silence and looked into the
coals with dreaming eyes it generally meant that she was making a new
story.  But this time she was not, and she shook her head.

"No," she answered.  "I am wondering what I ought to do."

Becky stared--still respectfully.  She was filled with something
approaching reverence for everything Sara did and said.

"I can't help thinking about my friend," Sara explained.  "If he wants
to keep himself a secret, it would be rude to try and find out who he
is.  But I do so want him to know how thankful I am to him--and how
happy he has made me.  Anyone who is kind wants to know when people
have been made happy.  They care for that more than for being thanked.
I wish--I do wish--"

She stopped short because her eyes at that instant fell upon something
standing on a table in a corner.  It was something she had found in the
room when she came up to it only two days before. It was a little
writing-case fitted with paper and envelopes and pens and ink.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "why did I not think of that before?"

She rose and went to the corner and brought the case back to the fire.

"I can write to him," she said joyfully, "and leave it on the table.
Then perhaps the person who takes the things away will take it, too. I
won't ask him anything.  He won't mind my thanking him, I feel sure."

So she wrote a note.  This is what she said:

I hope you will not think it is impolite that I should write this note
to you when you wish to keep yourself a secret.  Please believe I do
not mean to be impolite or try to find out anything at all; only I want
to thank you for being so kind to me--so heavenly kind--and making
everything like a fairy story.  I am so grateful to you, and I am so
happy--and so is Becky.  Becky feels just as thankful as I do--it is
all just as beautiful and wonderful to her as it is to me. We used to
be so lonely and cold and hungry, and now--oh, just think what you have
done for us!  Please let me say just these words.  It seems as if I
OUGHT to say them.  THANK you--THANK you--THANK you!

THE LITTLE GIRL IN THE ATTIC.

The next morning she left this on the little table, and in the evening
it had been taken away with the other things; so she knew the Magician
had received it, and she was happier for the thought. She was reading
one of her new books to Becky just before they went to their respective
beds, when her attention was attracted by a sound at the skylight.
When she looked up from her page she saw that Becky had heard the sound
also, as she had turned her head to look and was listening rather
nervously.

"Something's there, miss," she whispered.

"Yes," said Sara, slowly.  "It sounds--rather like a cat--trying to get
in."

She left her chair and went to the skylight.  It was a queer little
sound she heard--like a soft scratching.  She suddenly remembered
something and laughed.  She remembered a quaint little intruder who had
made his way into the attic once before.  She had seen him that very
afternoon, sitting disconsolately on a table before a window in the
Indian gentleman's house.

"Suppose," she whispered in pleased excitement--"just suppose it was
the monkey who got away again.  Oh, I wish it was!"

She climbed on a chair, very cautiously raised the skylight, and peeped
out.  It had been snowing all day, and on the snow, quite near her,
crouched a tiny, shivering figure, whose small black face wrinkled
itself piteously at sight of her.

"It is the monkey," she cried out.  "He has crept out of the Lascar's
attic, and he saw the light."

Becky ran to her side.

"Are you going to let him in, miss?" she said.

"Yes," Sara answered joyfully.  "It's too cold for monkeys to be out.
They're delicate.  I'll coax him in."

She put a hand out delicately, speaking in a coaxing voice--as she
spoke to the sparrows and to Melchisedec--as if she were some friendly
little animal herself.

"Come along, monkey darling," she said.  "I won't hurt you."

He knew she would not hurt him.  He knew it before she laid her soft,
caressing little paw on him and drew him towards her. He had felt human
love in the slim brown hands of Ram Dass, and he felt it in hers.  He
let her lift him through the skylight, and when he found himself in her
arms he cuddled up to her breast and looked up into her face.

"Nice monkey!  Nice monkey!" she crooned, kissing his funny head. "Oh,
I do love little animal things."

He was evidently glad to get to the fire, and when she sat down and
held him on her knee he looked from her to Becky with mingled interest
and appreciation.

"He IS plain-looking, miss, ain't he?" said Becky.

"He looks like a very ugly baby," laughed Sara.  "I beg your pardon,
monkey; but I'm glad you are not a baby.  Your mother COULDN'T be proud
of you, and no one would dare to say you looked like any of your
relations.  Oh, I do like you!"

She leaned back in her chair and reflected.

"Perhaps he's sorry he's so ugly," she said, "and it's always on his
mind.  I wonder if he HAS a mind.  Monkey, my love, have you a mind?"

But the monkey only put up a tiny paw and scratched his head.

"What shall you do with him?"  Becky asked.

"I shall let him sleep with me tonight, and then take him back to the
Indian gentleman tomorrow.  I am sorry to take you back, monkey; but
you must go.  You ought to be fondest of your own family; and I'm not a
REAL relation."

And when she went to bed she made him a nest at her feet, and he curled
up and slept there as if he were a baby and much pleased with his
quarters.

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

completion: For the rest of the evening, Becky and Sara drink tea and eat good food and basically have a jolly good time. Lavinia and Jessie gossip about what's happened at school, and everyone expects that Sara will look very ill and unhappy when she comes downstairs the next morning. But in fact, Sara trots down all happy and healthy, which just makes the grumpy Miss Minchin even nastier and more mean-spirited, because she is literally the worst person in the world. The weather is even worse today, and everyone is just awful to Sara. But she has the Magic--and it doesn't let her down. When she gets back to her room at night, it's even more magically outfitted than before--with a blazing fire, and a bunch of new things like cups and plates. Becky comes over again and they sit around and talk and really have a rather pleasant evening. Day after day, the magic adds pretty things to Sara's room. One day, Sara receives some large parcels that are filled with beautiful and fancy clothes. Oh, and there's a note that says she has to wear them all the time. This doesn't sit well with Miss Minchin, who is pretty paranoid that someone is looking out for Sara and would be pretty peeved if they found that Sara was being mistreated, overworked, and practically starved. She lets Sara go into the schoolroom in her nice new clothes to learn her lessons with the other students again. You know who else doesn't like this one bit? Yep, Lavinia. When Sara returns to the room, she writes a thank you note and leaves it so that the person who's doing magical things for her will know just how much she appreciates it. And then hears a scratching on the skylight: it's the monkey from next door. He's escaped again! Sara brings him inside. He can sleep there tonight, but she'll take him back to the Indian gentleman tomorrow.


prompt:
Chapter: "It Is the Child!"

The next afternoon three members of the Large Family sat in the Indian
gentleman's library, doing their best to cheer him up.  They had been
allowed to come in to perform this office because he had specially
invited them.  He had been living in a state of suspense for some time,
and today he was waiting for a certain event very anxiously.  This
event was the return of Mr. Carmichael from Moscow.  His stay there had
been prolonged from week to week. On his first arrival there, he had
not been able satisfactorily to trace the family he had gone in search
of.  When he felt at last sure that he had found them and had gone to
their house, he had been told that they were absent on a journey.  His
efforts to reach them had been unavailing, so he had decided to remain
in Moscow until their return.  Mr. Carrisford sat in his reclining
chair, and Janet sat on the floor beside him.  He was very fond of
Janet. Nora had found a footstool, and Donald was astride the tiger's
head which ornamented the rug made of the animal's skin.  It must be
owned that he was riding it rather violently.

"Don't chirrup so loud, Donald," Janet said.  "When you come to cheer
an ill person up you don't cheer him up at the top of your voice.
Perhaps cheering up is too loud, Mr. Carrisford?" turning to the Indian
gentleman.

But he only patted her shoulder.

"No, it isn't," he answered.  "And it keeps me from thinking too much."

"I'm going to be quiet," Donald shouted.  "We'll all be as quiet as
mice."

"Mice don't make a noise like that," said Janet.

Donald made a bridle of his handkerchief and bounced up and down on the
tiger's head.

"A whole lot of mice might," he said cheerfully.  "A thousand mice
might."

"I don't believe fifty thousand mice would," said Janet, severely; "and
we have to be as quiet as one mouse."

Mr. Carrisford laughed and patted her shoulder again.

"Papa won't be very long now," she said.  "May we talk about the lost
little girl?"

"I don't think I could talk much about anything else just now," the
Indian gentleman answered, knitting his forehead with a tired look.

"We like her so much," said Nora.  "We call her the little un-fairy
princess."

"Why?" the Indian gentleman inquired, because the fancies of the Large
Family always made him forget things a little.

It was Janet who answered.

"It is because, though she is not exactly a fairy, she will be so rich
when she is found that she will be like a princess in a fairy tale. We
called her the fairy princess at first, but it didn't quite suit."

"Is it true," said Nora, "that her papa gave all his money to a friend
to put in a mine that had diamonds in it, and then the friend thought
he had lost it all and ran away because he felt as if he was a robber?"

"But he wasn't really, you know," put in Janet, hastily.

The Indian gentleman took hold of her hand quickly.

"No, he wasn't really," he said.

"I am sorry for the friend," Janet said; "I can't help it. He didn't
mean to do it, and it would break his heart.  I am sure it would break
his heart."

"You are an understanding little woman, Janet," the Indian gentleman
said, and he held her hand close.

"Did you tell Mr. Carrisford," Donald shouted again, "about the
little-girl-who-isn't-a-beggar?  Did you tell him she has new nice
clothes?  P'r'aps she's been found by somebody when she was lost."

"There's a cab!" exclaimed Janet.  "It's stopping before the door. It
is papa!"

They all ran to the windows to look out.

"Yes, it's papa," Donald proclaimed.  "But there is no little girl."

All three of them incontinently fled from the room and tumbled into the
hall.  It was in this way they always welcomed their father. They were
to be heard jumping up and down, clapping their hands, and being caught
up and kissed.

Mr. Carrisford made an effort to rise and sank back again.

"It is no use," he said.  "What a wreck I am!"

Mr. Carmichael's voice approached the door.

"No, children," he was saying; "you may come in after I have talked to
Mr. Carrisford.  Go and play with Ram Dass."

Then the door opened and he came in.  He looked rosier than ever, and
brought an atmosphere of freshness and health with him; but his eyes
were disappointed and anxious as they met the invalid's look of eager
question even as they grasped each other's hands.

"What news?"  Mr. Carrisford asked.  "The child the Russian people
adopted?"

"She is not the child we are looking for," was Mr. Carmichael's answer.
"She is much younger than Captain Crewe's little girl.  Her name is
Emily Carew.  I have seen and talked to her.  The Russians were able to
give me every detail."

How wearied and miserable the Indian gentleman looked!  His hand
dropped from Mr. Carmichael's.

"Then the search has to be begun over again," he said.  "That is all.
Please sit down."

Mr. Carmichael took a seat.  Somehow, he had gradually grown fond of
this unhappy man.  He was himself so well and happy, and so surrounded
by cheerfulness and love, that desolation and broken health seemed
pitifully unbearable things.  If there had been the sound of just one
gay little high-pitched voice in the house, it would have been so much
less forlorn.  And that a man should be compelled to carry about in his
breast the thought that he had seemed to wrong and desert a child was
not a thing one could face.

"Come, come," he said in his cheery voice; "we'll find her yet."

"We must begin at once.  No time must be lost," Mr. Carrisford fretted.
"Have you any new suggestion to make--any whatsoever?"

Mr. Carmichael felt rather restless, and he rose and began to pace the
room with a thoughtful, though uncertain face.

"Well, perhaps," he said.  "I don't know what it may be worth.  The
fact is, an idea occurred to me as I was thinking the thing over in the
train on the journey from Dover."

"What was it?  If she is alive, she is somewhere."

"Yes; she is SOMEWHERE. We have searched the schools in Paris.  Let us
give up Paris and begin in London.  That was my idea--to search London."

"There are schools enough in London," said Mr. Carrisford. Then he
slightly started, roused by a recollection.  "By the way, there is one
next door."

"Then we will begin there.  We cannot begin nearer than next door."

"No," said Carrisford.  "There is a child there who interests me; but
she is not a pupil.  And she is a little dark, forlorn creature, as
unlike poor Crewe as a child could be."

Perhaps the Magic was at work again at that very moment--the beautiful
Magic.  It really seemed as if it might be so. What was it that brought
Ram Dass into the room--even as his master spoke--salaaming
respectfully, but with a scarcely concealed touch of excitement in his
dark, flashing eyes?

"Sahib," he said, "the child herself has come--the child the sahib felt
pity for.  She brings back the monkey who had again run away to her
attic under the roof.  I have asked that she remain. It was my thought
that it would please the sahib to see and speak with her."

"Who is she?" inquired Mr. Carmichael.

"God knows," Mr. Carrrisford answered.  "She is the child I spoke of. A
little drudge at the school."  He waved his hand to Ram Dass, and
addressed him.  "Yes, I should like to see her.  Go and bring her in."
Then he turned to Mr. Carmichael.  "While you have been away," he
explained, "I have been desperate.  The days were so dark and long. Ram
Dass told me of this child's miseries, and together we invented a
romantic plan to help her.  I suppose it was a childish thing to do;
but it gave me something to plan and think of.  Without the help of an
agile, soft-footed Oriental like Ram Dass, however, it could not have
been done."

Then Sara came into the room.  She carried the monkey in her arms, and
he evidently did not intend to part from her, if it could be helped.
He was clinging to her and chattering, and the interesting excitement
of finding herself in the Indian gentleman's room had brought a flush
to Sara's cheeks.

"Your monkey ran away again," she said, in her pretty voice. "He came
to my garret window last night, and I took him in because it was so
cold.  I would have brought him back if it had not been so late. I knew
you were ill and might not like to be disturbed."

The Indian gentleman's hollow eyes dwelt on her with curious interest.

"That was very thoughtful of you," he said.

Sara looked toward Ram Dass, who stood near the door.

"Shall I give him to the Lascar?" she asked.

"How do you know he is a Lascar?" said the Indian gentleman, smiling a
little.

"Oh, I know Lascars," Sara said, handing over the reluctant monkey. "I
was born in India."

The Indian gentleman sat upright so suddenly, and with such a change of
expression, that she was for a moment quite startled.

"You were born in India," he exclaimed, "were you?  Come here." And he
held out his hand.

Sara went to him and laid her hand in his, as he seemed to want to take
it.  She stood still, and her green-gray eyes met his wonderingly.
Something seemed to be the matter with him.

"You live next door?" he demanded.

"Yes; I live at Miss Minchin's seminary."

"But you are not one of her pupils?"

A strange little smile hovered about Sara's mouth.  She hesitated a
moment.

"I don't think I know exactly WHAT I am," she replied.

"Why not?"

"At first I was a pupil, and a parlor boarder; but now--"

"You were a pupil!  What are you now?"

The queer little sad smile was on Sara's lips again.

"I sleep in the attic, next to the scullery maid," she said. "I run
errands for the cook--I do anything she tells me; and I teach the
little ones their lessons."

"Question her, Carmichael," said Mr. Carrisford, sinking back as if he
had lost his strength.  "Question her; I cannot."

The big, kind father of the Large Family knew how to question little
girls.  Sara realized how much practice he had had when he spoke to her
in his nice, encouraging voice.

"What do you mean by 'At first,' my child?" he inquired.

"When I was first taken there by my papa."

"Where is your papa?"

"He died," said Sara, very quietly.  "He lost all his money and there
was none left for me.  There was no one to take care of me or to pay
Miss Minchin."

"Carmichael!" the Indian gentleman cried out loudly.  "Carmichael!"

"We must not frighten her," Mr. Carmichael said aside to him in a
quick, low voice.  And he added aloud to Sara, "So you were sent up
into the attic, and made into a little drudge.  That was about it,
wasn't it?"

"There was no one to take care of me," said Sara.  "There was no money;
I belong to nobody."

"How did your father lose his money?" the Indian gentleman broke in
breathlessly.

"He did not lose it himself," Sara answered, wondering still more each
moment.  "He had a friend he was very fond of--he was very fond of him.
It was his friend who took his money. He trusted his friend too much."

The Indian gentleman's breath came more quickly.

"The friend might have MEANT to do no harm," he said.  "It might have
happened through a mistake."

Sara did not know how unrelenting her quiet young voice sounded as she
answered.  If she had known, she would surely have tried to soften it
for the Indian gentleman's sake.

"The suffering was just as bad for my papa," she said.  "It killed him."

"What was your father's name?" the Indian gentleman said. "Tell me."

"His name was Ralph Crewe," Sara answered, feeling startled.  "Captain
Crewe.  He died in India."

The haggard face contracted, and Ram Dass sprang to his master's side.

"Carmichael," the invalid gasped, "it is the child--the child!"

For a moment Sara thought he was going to die.  Ram Dass poured out
drops from a bottle, and held them to his lips.  Sara stood near,
trembling a little.  She looked in a bewildered way at Mr. Carmichael.

"What child am I?" she faltered.

"He was your father's friend," Mr. Carmichael answered her.  "Don't be
frightened.  We have been looking for you for two years."

Sara put her hand up to her forehead, and her mouth trembled.  She
spoke as if she were in a dream.

"And I was at Miss Minchin's all the while," she half whispered.  "Just
on the other side of the wall."

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

completion: The next day, the Large Family is at Mr. Carrisford's house trying to cheer him up because Mr. Carmichael still hasn't found Ralph Crewe's child. Ooh, ooh! Pick us! We know where she is! Anyway, Mr. Carrisford is really bummed out and just about ready to give up. At that very moment, Ram Dass comes in and says that the child from next door has come in to deliver the monkey. Mr. Carrisford says that he'd like to see her--since he's been providing all these nice things for her, after all--and tells her to come in. Sara comes in and says that she will hand it over to the Lascar. When Mr. Carrisford asks how she knows about Lascars, she says she was born in India What a coincidence! Mr. Carrisford suddenly seems extremely interested in Sara's circumstances. He has Mr. Carmichael ask her about how she came to be a scullery maid at Miss Minchin's. Sara says that at first she was a pupil, but then her father lost all his money and died. She says that her father's friend took all his money and that her father's name is Ralph Crewe and he died in India. Everyone freaks out for a moment, and Sara doesn't really know why. Finally they tell her that they've been looking for her this whole time--all two years--and that Mr. Carrisford is her father's friend.


prompt:
Chapter: "I Tried Not to Be"

It was pretty, comfortable Mrs. Carmichael who explained everything.
She was sent for at once, and came across the square to take Sara into
her warm arms and make clear to her all that had happened. The
excitement of the totally unexpected discovery had been temporarily
almost overpowering to Mr. Carrisford in his weak condition.

"Upon my word," he said faintly to Mr. Carmichael, when it was
suggested that the little girl should go into another room. "I feel as
if I do not want to lose sight of her."

"I will take care of her," Janet said, "and mamma will come in a few
minutes."  And it was Janet who led her away.

"We're so glad you are found," she said.  "You don't know how glad we
are that you are found."

Donald stood with his hands in his pockets, and gazed at Sara with
reflecting and self-reproachful eyes.

"If I'd just asked what your name was when I gave you my sixpence," he
said, "you would have told me it was Sara Crewe, and then you would
have been found in a minute."  Then Mrs. Carmichael came in. She looked
very much moved, and suddenly took Sara in her arms and kissed her.

"You look bewildered, poor child," she said.  "And it is not to be
wondered at."

Sara could only think of one thing.

"Was he," she said, with a glance toward the closed door of the
library--"was HE the wicked friend?  Oh, do tell me!"

Mrs. Carmichael was crying as she kissed her again.  She felt as if she
ought to be kissed very often because she had not been kissed for so
long.

"He was not wicked, my dear," she answered.  "He did not really lose
your papa's money.  He only thought he had lost it; and because he
loved him so much his grief made him so ill that for a time he was not
in his right mind.  He almost died of brain fever, and long before he
began to recover your poor papa was dead."

"And he did not know where to find me," murmured Sara.  "And I was so
near."  Somehow, she could not forget that she had been so near.

"He believed you were in school in France," Mrs. Carmichael explained.
"And he was continually misled by false clues.  He has looked for you
everywhere.  When he saw you pass by, looking so sad and neglected, he
did not dream that you were his friend's poor child; but because you
were a little girl, too, he was sorry for you, and wanted to make you
happier.  And he told Ram Dass to climb into your attic window and try
to make you comfortable."

Sara gave a start of joy; her whole look changed.

"Did Ram Dass bring the things?" she cried out.  "Did he tell Ram Dass
to do it?  Did he make the dream that came true?"

"Yes, my dear--yes!  He is kind and good, and he was sorry for you, for
little lost Sara Crewe's sake."

The library door opened and Mr. Carmichael appeared, calling Sara to
him with a gesture.

"Mr. Carrisford is better already," he said.  "He wants you to come to
him."

Sara did not wait.  When the Indian gentleman looked at her as she
entered, he saw that her face was all alight.

She went and stood before his chair, with her hands clasped together
against her breast.

"You sent the things to me," she said, in a joyful emotional little
voice, "the beautiful, beautiful things?  YOU sent them!"

"Yes, poor, dear child, I did," he answered her.  He was weak and
broken with long illness and trouble, but he looked at her with the
look she remembered in her father's eyes--that look of loving her and
wanting to take her in his arms.  It made her kneel down by him, just
as she used to kneel by her father when they were the dearest friends
and lovers in the world.

"Then it is you who are my friend," she said; "it is you who are my
friend!"  And she dropped her face on his thin hand and kissed it again
and again.

"The man will be himself again in three weeks," Mr. Carmichael said
aside to his wife.  "Look at his face already."

In fact, he did look changed.  Here was the "Little Missus," and he had
new things to think of and plan for already.  In the first place, there
was Miss Minchin.  She must be interviewed and told of the change which
had taken place in the fortunes of her pupil.

Sara was not to return to the seminary at all.  The Indian gentleman
was very determined upon that point.  She must remain where she was,
and Mr. Carmichael should go and see Miss Minchin himself.

"I am glad I need not go back," said Sara.  "She will be very angry.
She does not like me; though perhaps it is my fault, because I do not
like her."

But, oddly enough, Miss Minchin made it unnecessary for Mr. Carmichael
to go to her, by actually coming in search of her pupil herself. She
had wanted Sara for something, and on inquiry had heard an astonishing
thing.  One of the housemaids had seen her steal out of the area with
something hidden under her cloak, and had also seen her go up the steps
of the next door and enter the house.

"What does she mean!" cried Miss Minchin to Miss Amelia.

"I don't know, I'm sure, sister," answered Miss Amelia.  "Unless she
has made friends with him because he has lived in India."

"It would be just like her to thrust herself upon him and try to gain
his sympathies in some such impertinent fashion," said Miss Minchin.
"She must have been in the house for two hours.  I will not allow such
presumption.  I shall go and inquire into the matter, and apologize for
her intrusion."

Sara was sitting on a footstool close to Mr. Carrisford's knee, and
listening to some of the many things he felt it necessary to try to
explain to her, when Ram Dass announced the visitor's arrival.

Sara rose involuntarily, and became rather pale; but Mr. Carrisford saw
that she stood quietly, and showed none of the ordinary signs of child
terror.

Miss Minchin entered the room with a sternly dignified manner.  She was
correctly and well dressed, and rigidly polite.

"I am sorry to disturb Mr. Carrisford," she said; "but I have
explanations to make.  I am Miss Minchin, the proprietress of the Young
Ladies' Seminary next door."

The Indian gentleman looked at her for a moment in silent scrutiny. He
was a man who had naturally a rather hot temper, and he did not wish it
to get too much the better of him.

"So you are Miss Minchin?" he said.

"I am, sir."

"In that case," the Indian gentleman replied, "you have arrived at the
right time.  My solicitor, Mr. Carmichael, was just on the point of
going to see you."

Mr. Carmichael bowed slightly, and Miss Minchin looked from him to Mr.
Carrisford in amazement.

"Your solicitor!" she said.  "I do not understand.  I have come here as
a matter of duty.  I have just discovered that you have been intruded
upon through the forwardness of one of my pupils--a charity pupil. I
came to explain that she intruded without my knowledge." She turned
upon Sara.  "Go home at once," she commanded indignantly. "You shall be
severely punished.  Go home at once."

The Indian gentleman drew Sara to his side and patted her hand.

"She is not going."

Miss Minchin felt rather as if she must be losing her senses.

"Not going!" she repeated.

"No," said Mr. Carrisford.  "She is not going home--if you give your
house that name.  Her home for the future will be with me."

Miss Minchin fell back in amazed indignation.

"With YOU! With YOU sir!  What does this mean?"

"Kindly explain the matter, Carmichael," said the Indian gentleman;
"and get it over as quickly as possible."  And he made Sara sit down
again, and held her hands in his--which was another trick of her papa's.

Then Mr. Carmichael explained--in the quiet, level-toned, steady manner
of a man who knew his subject, and all its legal significance, which
was a thing Miss Minchin understood as a business woman, and did not
enjoy.

"Mr. Carrisford, madam," he said, "was an intimate friend of the late
Captain Crewe.  He was his partner in certain large investments. The
fortune which Captain Crewe supposed he had lost has been recovered,
and is now in Mr. Carrisford's hands."

"The fortune!" cried Miss Minchin; and she really lost color as she
uttered the exclamation.  "Sara's fortune!"

"It WILL be Sara's fortune," replied Mr. Carmichael, rather coldly. "It
is Sara's fortune now, in fact.  Certain events have increased it
enormously.  The diamond mines have retrieved themselves."

"The diamond mines!"  Miss Minchin gasped out.  If this was true,
nothing so horrible, she felt, had ever happened to her since she was
born.

"The diamond mines," Mr. Carmichael repeated, and he could not help
adding, with a rather sly, unlawyer-like smile, "There are not many
princesses, Miss Minchin, who are richer than your little charity
pupil, Sara Crewe, will be.  Mr. Carrisford has been searching for her
for nearly two years; he has found her at last, and he will keep her."

After which he asked Miss Minchin to sit down while he explained
matters to her fully, and went into such detail as was necessary to
make it quite clear to her that Sara's future was an assured one, and
that what had seemed to be lost was to be restored to her tenfold;
also, that she had in Mr. Carrisford a guardian as well as a friend.

Miss Minchin was not a clever woman, and in her excitement she was
silly enough to make one desperate effort to regain what she could not
help seeing she had lost through her worldly folly.

"He found her under my care," she protested.  "I have done everything
for her.  But for me she should have starved in the streets."

Here the Indian gentleman lost his temper.

"As to starving in the streets," he said, "she might have starved more
comfortably there than in your attic."

"Captain Crewe left her in my charge," Miss Minchin argued. "She must
return to it until she is of age.  She can be a parlor boarder again.
She must finish her education.  The law will interfere in my behalf."

"Come, come, Miss Minchin," Mr. Carmichael interposed, "the law will do
nothing of the sort.  If Sara herself wishes to return to you, I dare
say Mr. Carrisford might not refuse to allow it. But that rests with
Sara."

"Then," said Miss Minchin, "I appeal to Sara.  I have not spoiled you,
perhaps," she said awkwardly to the little girl; "but you know that
your papa was pleased with your progress. And--ahem--I have always been
fond of you."

Sara's green-gray eyes fixed themselves on her with the quiet, clear
look Miss Minchin particularly disliked.

"Have YOU, Miss Minchin?" she said.  "I did not know that."

Miss Minchin reddened and drew herself up.

"You ought to have known it," said she; "but children, unfortunately,
never know what is best for them.  Amelia and I always said you were
the cleverest child in the school. Will you not do your duty to your
poor papa and come home with me?"

Sara took a step toward her and stood still.  She was thinking of the
day when she had been told that she belonged to nobody, and was in
danger of being turned into the street; she was thinking of the cold,
hungry hours she had spent alone with Emily and Melchisedec in the
attic.  She looked Miss Minchin steadily in the face.

"You know why I will not go home with you, Miss Minchin," she said;
"you know quite well."

A hot flush showed itself on Miss Minchin's hard, angry face.

"You will never see your companions again," she began.  "I will see
that Ermengarde and Lottie are kept away--"

Mr. Carmichael stopped her with polite firmness.

"Excuse me," he said; "she will see anyone she wishes to see.  The
parents of Miss Crewe's fellow-pupils are not likely to refuse her
invitations to visit her at her guardian's house.  Mr. Carrisford will
attend to that."

It must be confessed that even Miss Minchin flinched.  This was worse
than the eccentric bachelor uncle who might have a peppery temper and
be easily offended at the treatment of his niece. A woman of sordid
mind could easily believe that most people would not refuse to allow
their children to remain friends with a little heiress of diamond
mines.  And if Mr. Carrisford chose to tell certain of her patrons how
unhappy Sara Crewe had been made, many unpleasant things might happen.

"You have not undertaken an easy charge," she said to the Indian
gentleman, as she turned to leave the room; "you will discover that
very soon.  The child is neither truthful nor grateful. I suppose"--to
Sara--"that you feel now that you are a princess again."

Sara looked down and flushed a little, because she thought her pet
fancy might not be easy for strangers--even nice ones--to understand at
first.

"I--TRIED not to be anything else," she answered in a low voice--"even
when I was coldest and hungriest--I tried not to be."

"Now it will not be necessary to try," said Miss Minchin, acidly, as
Ram Dass salaamed her out of the room.

She returned home and, going to her sitting room, sent at once for Miss
Amelia.  She sat closeted with her all the rest of the afternoon, and
it must be admitted that poor Miss Amelia passed through more than one
bad quarter of an hour.  She shed a good many tears, and mopped her
eyes a good deal.  One of her unfortunate remarks almost caused her
sister to snap her head entirely off, but it resulted in an unusual
manner.

"I'm not as clever as you, sister," she said, "and I am always afraid
to say things to you for fear of making you angry.  Perhaps if I were
not so timid it would be better for the school and for both of us.  I
must say I've often thought it would have been better if you had been
less severe on Sara Crewe, and had seen that she was decently dressed
and more comfortable. I KNOW she was worked too hard for a child of her
age, and I know she was only half fed--"

"How dare you say such a thing!" exclaimed Miss Minchin.

"I don't know how I dare," Miss Amelia answered, with a kind of
reckless courage; "but now I've begun I may as well finish, whatever
happens to me.  The child was a clever child and a good child--and she
would have paid you for any kindness you had shown her. But you didn't
show her any.  The fact was, she was too clever for you, and you always
disliked her for that reason.  She used to see through us both--"

"Amelia!" gasped her infuriated elder, looking as if she would box her
ears and knock her cap off, as she had often done to Becky.

But Miss Amelia's disappointment had made her hysterical enough not to
care what occurred next.

"She did!  She did!" she cried.  "She saw through us both. She saw that
you were a hard-hearted, worldly woman, and that I was a weak fool, and
that we were both of us vulgar and mean enough to grovel on our knees
for her money, and behave ill to her because it was taken from
her--though she behaved herself like a little princess even when she
was a beggar.  She did--she did--like a little princess!"  And her
hysterics got the better of the poor woman, and she began to laugh and
cry both at once, and rock herself backward and forward.

"And now you've lost her," she cried wildly; "and some other school
will get her and her money; and if she were like any other child she'd
tell how she's been treated, and all our pupils would be taken away and
we should be ruined.  And it serves us right; but it serves you right
more than it does me, for you are a hard woman, Maria Minchin, you're a
hard, selfish, worldly woman!"

And she was in danger of making so much noise with her hysterical
chokes and gurgles that her sister was obliged to go to her and apply
salts and sal volatile to quiet her, instead of pouring forth her
indignation at her audacity.

And from that time forward, it may be mentioned, the elder Miss Minchin
actually began to stand a little in awe of a sister who, while she
looked so foolish, was evidently not quite so foolish as she looked,
and might, consequently, break out and speak truths people did not want
to hear.

That evening, when the pupils were gathered together before the fire in
the schoolroom, as was their custom before going to bed, Ermengarde
came in with a letter in her hand and a queer expression on her round
face.  It was queer because, while it was an expression of delighted
excitement, it was combined with such amazement as seemed to belong to
a kind of shock just received.

"What IS the matter?" cried two or three voices at once.

"Is it anything to do with the row that has been going on?" said
Lavinia, eagerly.  "There has been such a row in Miss Minchin's room,
Miss Amelia has had something like hysterics and has had to go to bed."

Ermengarde answered them slowly as if she were half stunned.

"I have just had this letter from Sara," she said, holding it out to
let them see what a long letter it was.

"From Sara!"  Every voice joined in that exclamation.

"Where is she?" almost shrieked Jessie.

"Next door," said Ermengarde, "with the Indian gentleman."

"Where?  Where?  Has she been sent away?  Does Miss Minchin know? Was
the row about that?  Why did she write?  Tell us!  Tell us!"

There was a perfect babel, and Lottie began to cry plaintively.

Ermengarde answered them slowly as if she were half plunged out into
what, at the moment, seemed the most important and self-explaining
thing.

"There WERE diamond mines," she said stoutly; "there WERE!" Open mouths
and open eyes confronted her.

"They were real," she hurried on.  "It was all a mistake about them.
Something happened for a time, and Mr. Carrisford thought they were
ruined--"

"Who is Mr. Carrisford?" shouted Jessie.

"The Indian gentleman.  And Captain Crewe thought so, too--and he died;
and Mr. Carrisford had brain fever and ran away, and HE almost died.
And he did not know where Sara was.  And it turned out that there were
millions and millions of diamonds in the mines; and half of them belong
to Sara; and they belonged to her when she was living in the attic with
no one but Melchisedec for a friend, and the cook ordering her about.
And Mr. Carrisford found her this afternoon, and he has got her in his
home--and she will never come back--and she will be more a princess
than she ever was--a hundred and fifty thousand times more.  And I am
going to see her tomorrow afternoon.  There!"

Even Miss Minchin herself could scarcely have controlled the uproar
after this; and though she heard the noise, she did not try. She was
not in the mood to face anything more than she was facing in her room,
while Miss Amelia was weeping in bed.  She knew that the news had
penetrated the walls in some mysterious manner, and that every servant
and every child would go to bed talking about it.

So until almost midnight the entire seminary, realizing somehow that
all rules were laid aside, crowded round Ermengarde in the schoolroom
and heard read and re-read the letter containing a story which was
quite as wonderful as any Sara herself had ever invented, and which had
the amazing charm of having happened to Sara herself and the mystic
Indian gentleman in the very next house.

Becky, who had heard it also, managed to creep up stairs earlier than
usual.  She wanted to get away from people and go and look at the
little magic room once more.  She did not know what would happen to it.
It was not likely that it would be left to Miss Minchin. It would be
taken away, and the attic would be bare and empty again. Glad as she
was for Sara's sake, she went up the last flight of stairs with a lump
in her throat and tears blurring her sight. There would be no fire
tonight, and no rosy lamp; no supper, and no princess sitting in the
glow reading or telling stories--no princess!

She choked down a sob as she pushed the attic door open, and then she
broke into a low cry.

The lamp was flushing the room, the fire was blazing, the supper was
waiting; and Ram Dass was standing smiling into her startled face.

"Missee sahib remembered," he said.  "She told the sahib all.  She
wished you to know the good fortune which has befallen her.  Behold a
letter on the tray.  She has written.  She did not wish that you should
go to sleep unhappy.  The sahib commands you to come to him tomorrow.
You are to be the attendant of missee sahib. Tonight I take these
things back over the roof."

And having said this with a beaming face, he made a little salaam and
slipped through the skylight with an agile silentness of movement which
showed Becky how easily he had done it before.

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

completion: Mrs. Carmichael explains everything, since, you know, men can't explain anything, right???? Sara asks if Mr. Carrisford was her father's wicked friend. Well, kind of, only he's not actually wicked. He only thought he had lost her father's money and that he was so sad about her father that he too almost died. They also tell her that Ram Dass made all those magical things happen in her attic room. Sara and Mr. Carrisford spend some getting-to-know-you time together. They decide that Sara won't be returning to the seminary , but before they can tell Miss Minchin she goes over to the house looking for Sara herself. When Miss Minchin arrives, Carrisford informs her that Sara won't be returning. Remember the diamond mines? Yeah, they're real. And Sara has a fortune now. Miss Minchin backpedals faster than Lance Armstrong's supporters, saying that Sara would have starved if it wasn't for her. She tries to appeal to Sara and says that she's always been fond of her, but Sara sees through that trick right quick. Second tactic: Miss Minchin says that Sara will never see her friends again, but Mr. Carmichael steps forward in a totally lawyer-ly way and begs to differ. Finally, Miss Minchin heads home to complain to Miss Amelia, who is oddly unsympathetic and pretty much tells Miss Minchin that she had it coming all along. Ermengarde receives a letter from Sara that explains about the diamond mines and how she's now living with Mr. Carrisford. Becky is very happy for Sara, is sad that she's gone. But when she comes up to her room, Ram Dass is waiting for her and says that she's going to be Sara's servant from now on! Woohoo!! Well, at least it's a step up.


prompt:
Chapter: Anne

Never had such joy reigned in the nursery of the Large Family.  Never
had they dreamed of such delights as resulted from an intimate
acquaintance with the little-girl-who-was-not-a-beggar.  The mere fact
of her sufferings and adventures made her a priceless possession.
Everybody wanted to be told over and over again the things which had
happened to her.  When one was sitting by a warm fire in a big, glowing
room, it was quite delightful to hear how cold it could be in an attic.
It must be admitted that the attic was rather delighted in, and that
its coldness and bareness quite sank into insignificance when
Melchisedec was remembered, and one heard about the sparrows and things
one could see if one climbed on the table and stuck one's head and
shoulders out of the skylight.

Of course the thing loved best was the story of the banquet and the
dream which was true.  Sara told it for the first time the day after
she had been found.  Several members of the Large Family came to take
tea with her, and as they sat or curled up on the hearth-rug she told
the story in her own way, and the Indian gentleman listened and watched
her. When she had finished she looked up at him and put her hand on his
knee.

"That is my part," she said.  "Now won't you tell your part of it,
Uncle Tom?"  He had asked her to call him always "Uncle Tom." "I don't
know your part yet, and it must be beautiful."

So he told them how, when he sat alone, ill and dull and irritable, Ram
Dass had tried to distract him by describing the passers by, and there
was one child who passed oftener than any one else; he had begun to be
interested in her--partly perhaps because he was thinking a great deal
of a little girl, and partly because Ram Dass had been able to relate
the incident of his visit to the attic in chase of the monkey.  He had
described its cheerless look, and the bearing of the child, who seemed
as if she was not of the class of those who were treated as drudges and
servants.  Bit by bit, Ram Dass had made discoveries concerning the
wretchedness of her life. He had found out how easy a matter it was to
climb across the few yards of roof to the skylight, and this fact had
been the beginning of all that followed.

"Sahib," he had said one day, "I could cross the slates and make the
child a fire when she is out on some errand.  When she returned, wet
and cold, to find it blazing, she would think a magician had done it."

The idea had been so fanciful that Mr. Carrisford's sad face had
lighted with a smile, and Ram Dass had been so filled with rapture that
he had enlarged upon it and explained to his master how simple it would
be to accomplish numbers of other things.  He had shown a childlike
pleasure and invention, and the preparations for the carrying out of
the plan had filled many a day with interest which would otherwise have
dragged wearily.  On the night of the frustrated banquet Ram Dass had
kept watch, all his packages being in readiness in the attic which was
his own; and the person who was to help him had waited with him, as
interested as himself in the odd adventure. Ram Dass had been lying
flat upon the slates, looking in at the skylight, when the banquet had
come to its disastrous conclusion; he had been sure of the profoundness
of Sara's wearied sleep; and then, with a dark lantern, he had crept
into the room, while his companion remained outside and handed the
things to him. When Sara had stirred ever so faintly, Ram Dass had
closed the lantern-slide and lain flat upon the floor.  These and many
other exciting things the children found out by asking a thousand
questions.

"I am so glad," Sara said. "I am so GLAD it was you who were my friend!"

There never were such friends as these two became.  Somehow, they
seemed to suit each other in a wonderful way.  The Indian gentleman had
never had a companion he liked quite as much as he liked Sara. In a
month's time he was, as Mr. Carmichael had prophesied he would be, a
new man.  He was always amused and interested, and he began to find an
actual pleasure in the possession of the wealth he had imagined that he
loathed the burden of.  There were so many charming things to plan for
Sara.  There was a little joke between them that he was a magician, and
it was one of his pleasures to invent things to surprise her.  She
found beautiful new flowers growing in her room, whimsical little gifts
tucked under pillows, and once, as they sat together in the evening,
they heard the scratch of a heavy paw on the door, and when Sara went
to find out what it was, there stood a great dog--a splendid Russian
boarhound--with a grand silver and gold collar bearing an inscription.
"I am Boris," it read; "I serve the Princess Sara."

There was nothing the Indian gentleman loved more than the recollection
of the little princess in rags and tatters.  The afternoons in which
the Large Family, or Ermengarde and Lottie, gathered to rejoice
together were very delightful.  But the hours when Sara and the Indian
gentleman sat alone and read or talked had a special charm of their
own.  During their passing many interesting things occurred.

One evening, Mr. Carrisford, looking up from his book, noticed that his
companion had not stirred for some time, but sat gazing into the fire.

"What are you 'supposing,' Sara?" he asked.

Sara looked up, with a bright color on her cheek.

"I WAS supposing," she said; "I was remembering that hungry day, and a
child I saw."

"But there were a great many hungry days," said the Indian gentleman,
with rather a sad tone in his voice.  "Which hungry day was it?"

"I forgot you didn't know," said Sara.  "It was the day the dream came
true."

Then she told him the story of the bun shop, and the fourpence she
picked up out of the sloppy mud, and the child who was hungrier than
herself.  She told it quite simply, and in as few words as possible;
but somehow the Indian gentleman found it necessary to shade his eyes
with his hand and look down at the carpet.

"And I was supposing a kind of plan," she said, when she had finished.
"I was thinking I should like to do something."

"What was it?" said Mr. Carrisford, in a low tone.  "You may do
anything you like to do, princess."

"I was wondering," rather hesitated Sara--"you know, you say I have so
much money--I was wondering if I could go to see the bun-woman, and
tell her that if, when hungry children--particularly on those dreadful
days--come and sit on the steps, or look in at the window, she would
just call them in and give them something to eat, she might send the
bills to me.  Could I do that?"

"You shall do it tomorrow morning," said the Indian gentleman.

"Thank you," said Sara.  "You see, I know what it is to be hungry, and
it is very hard when one cannot even PRETEND it away."

"Yes, yes, my dear," said the Indian gentleman.  "Yes, yes, it must be.
Try to forget it.  Come and sit on this footstool near my knee, and
only remember you are a princess."

"Yes," said Sara, smiling; "and I can give buns and bread to the
populace."  And she went and sat on the stool, and the Indian gentleman
(he used to like her to call him that, too, sometimes) drew her small
dark head down on his knee and stroked her hair.

The next morning, Miss Minchin, in looking out of her window, saw the
things she perhaps least enjoyed seeing.  The Indian gentleman's
carriage, with its tall horses, drew up before the door of the next
house, and its owner and a little figure, warm with soft, rich furs,
descended the steps to get into it. The little figure was a familiar
one, and reminded Miss Minchin of days in the past.  It was followed by
another as familiar--the sight of which she found very irritating.  It
was Becky, who, in the character of delighted attendant, always
accompanied her young mistress to her carriage, carrying wraps and
belongings.  Already Becky had a pink, round face.

A little later the carriage drew up before the door of the baker's
shop, and its occupants got out, oddly enough, just as the bun-woman
was putting a tray of smoking-hot buns into the window.

When Sara entered the shop the woman turned and looked at her, and,
leaving the buns, came and stood behind the counter. For a moment she
looked at Sara very hard indeed, and then her good-natured face lighted
up.

"I'm sure that I remember you, miss," she said.  "And yet--"

"Yes," said Sara; "once you gave me six buns for fourpence, and--"

"And you gave five of 'em to a beggar child," the woman broke in on
her. "I've always remembered it.  I couldn't make it out at first." She
turned round to the Indian gentleman and spoke her next words to him.
"I beg your 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,"--to Sara--"but you look rosier and--well, better
than you did that--that--"

"I am better, thank you," said Sara.  "And--I am much happier--and I
have come to ask you to do something for me."

"Me, miss!" exclaimed the bun-woman, smiling cheerfully. "Why, bless
you!  Yes, miss.  What can I do?"

And then Sara, leaning on the counter, made her little proposal
concerning the dreadful days and the hungry waifs and the buns.

The woman watched her, and listened with an astonished face.

"Why, bless me!" she said again when she had heard it all; "it'll be a
pleasure to me to do it.  I am a working-woman myself and cannot 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 away many a
bit of bread since that wet afternoon, just along o' thinking of
you--an' how wet an' cold you was, an' how hungry you looked; an' yet
you gave away your hot buns as if you was a princess."

The Indian gentleman smiled involuntarily at this, and Sara smiled a
little, too, remembering what she had said to herself when she put the
buns down on the ravenous child's ragged lap.

"She looked so hungry," she said.  "She was even hungrier than I was."

"She was starving," said the woman.  "Many's the time she's told me of
it since--how she sat there in the wet, and felt as if a wolf was
a-tearing at her poor young insides."

"Oh, have you seen her since then?" exclaimed Sara.  "Do you know where
she is?"

"Yes, I do," answered the woman, smiling more good-naturedly than ever.
"Why, she's in that there back room, miss, an' has been for a month;
an' a decent, well-meanin' girl she's goin' to turn out, an' such a
help to me in the shop an' in the kitchen as you'd scarce believe,
knowin' how she's lived."

She stepped to the door of the little back parlor and spoke; and the
next minute a girl came out and followed her behind the counter. And
actually it was the beggar-child, clean and neatly clothed, and looking
as if she had not been hungry for a long time. She looked shy, but she
had a nice face, now that she was no longer a savage, and the wild look
had gone from her eyes.  She knew Sara in an instant, and stood and
looked at her as if she could never look enough.

"You see," said the woman, "I told her to come when she was hungry, and
when she'd come I'd give her odd jobs to do; an' I found she was
willing, and somehow I got to like her; and the end of it was, I've
given her a place an' a home, and she helps me, an' behaves well, an'
is as thankful as a girl can be.  Her name's Anne. She has no other."

The children stood and looked at each other for a few minutes; and then
Sara took her hand out of her muff and held it out across the counter,
and Anne took it, and they looked straight into each other's eyes.

"I am so glad," Sara said.  "And I have just thought of something.
Perhaps Mrs. Brown will let you be the one to give the buns and bread
to the children.  Perhaps you would like to do it because you know what
it is to be hungry, too."

"Yes, miss," said the girl.

And, somehow, Sara felt as if she understood her, though she said so
little, and only stood still and looked and looked after her as she
went out of the shop with the Indian gentleman, and they got into the
carriage and drove away.

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

completion: Sara tells the children in the Large Family all about her story, which they love--especially the part about the magical things that appeared in her attic room. Mr. Carrisford tells his part of the story and says that Ram Dass thought of the idea of sneaking over to Sara's room and making it magical and warm--and that Mr. Carrisford loved how fanciful the idea was. They become great friends, Sara and Mr. Carrisford. He plans all sorts of fun activities, gives her little gifts, and even buys her a dog named Boris. One day, Sara looks thoughtful and Mr. Carrisford asks her what she's thinking about. She says she's thinking about "the hungry day" when she found the fourpence and bought the buns. She wants to go talk to the baker and ask her if she'll give bread to the poor children and send the bill to Sara. The next morning, Sara and Mr. Carrisford and Becky set out to go to the bakery, and Sara has to remind the baker woman about who she is. Then Sara asks her if she'll give food to the hungry children and let Sara pay for it. When the baker woman hears this, she says that she's already doing a bit of that. Oh, and she took in that hungry child that Sara gave the five buns. The girl now works at the bakery. Sara says that because Anne knows what it's like to be hungry, that she should be the one to give the buns and bread to the children in the future. And ... that's all, folks. Happy endings all around.


prompt:
Chapter: INTRODUCTORY

WHAT IS THE SALVATION ARMY?

If this question were put to the ordinary person of fashion or
leisure, how would it be answered?

In many cases thus: 'The Salvation Army is a body of people dressed up
in a semi-military uniform, or those of them who are women, in
unbecoming poke bonnets, who go about the streets making a noise in
the name of God and frightening horses with brass bands. It is under
the rule of an arbitrary old gentleman named Booth, who calls himself
a General, and whose principal trade assets consist in a handsome and
unusual face, and an inexhaustible flow of language, which he
generally delivers from a white motor-car wherever he finds that he
can attract the most attention. He is a clever actor in his way, who
has got a great number of people under his thumb, and I am told that
he has made a large fortune out of the business, like the late prophet
Dowie, and others of the same sort. The newspapers are always exposing
him; but he knows which side his bread is buttered and does not care.
When he is gone no doubt his family will divide up the cash, and we
shall hear no more of the Salvation Army!'

Such are still the honest beliefs of thousands of our instructed
fellow-countrymen, and of hundreds of thousands of others of less
degree belonging to the classes which are generally typified under the
synonym of 'the man in the street,' by which most people understand
one who knows little, and of that little nothing accurately, but who
decides the fate of political elections.

Let us suppose, however, that the questioner should succeed in
interesting an intelligent and fair-minded individual holder of these
views sufficiently to induce him to make inquiry into the facts
concerning this Salvation Army. What would he then discover?

He would discover that about five and forty years ago some impulse,
wherever it may have come from, moved a Dissenting minister, gifted
with a mind of power and originality, and a body of great strength and
endurance, gifted, also, with an able wife who shared his views, to
try, if not to cure, at least to ameliorate the lot of the fallen or
distressed millions that are one of the natural products of high
civilization, by ministering to their creature wants and regenerating
their spirits upon the plain and simple lines laid down in the New
Testament. He would find, also, that this humble effort, at first
quite unaided, has been so successful that the results seem to partake
of the nature of the miraculous.

Thus he would learn that the religious Organization founded by this
man and his wife is now established and, in most instances, firmly
rooted in 56 Countries and Colonies, where it preaches the Gospel in
33 separate languages: that it has over 16,000 Officers wholly
employed in its service, and publishes 74 periodicals in 20 tongues,
with a total circulation of nearly 1,000,000 copies per issue: that it
accommodates over 28,000 poor people nightly in its Institutions,
maintaining 229 Food Depots and Shelters for men, women, and children,
and 157 Labour Factories where destitute or characterless people are
employed: that it has 17 Homes for ex-criminals, 37 Homes for
children, 116 Industrial Homes for the rescue of women, 16 Land
Colonies, 149 Slum Stations for the visitation and assistance of the
poor, 60 Labour Bureaux for helping the unemployed, and 521 Day
Schools for children: that, in addition to all these, it has Criminal
and General Investigation Departments, Inebriate Homes for men and
women, Inquiry Offices for tracing lost and missing people, Maternity
Hospitals, 37 Homes for training Officers, Prison-visitation Staffs,
and so on almost _ad infinitum_.

He would find, also, that it collects and dispenses an enormous
revenue, mostly from among the poorer classes, and that its system is
run with remarkable business ability: that General Booth, often
supposed to be so opulent, lives upon a pittance which most country
clergymen would refuse, taking nothing, and never having taken
anything, from the funds of the Army. And lastly, not to weary the
reader, that whatever may be thought of its methods and of the noise
made by the 23,000 or so of voluntary bandsmen who belong to it, it is
undoubtedly for good or evil one of the world forces of our age.

Before going further, it may, perhaps, be well that I should explain
how it is that I come to write these pages. First, I ought to state
that my personal acquaintance with the Salvation Army dates back a
good many years, from the time, indeed, when I was writing 'Rural
England,' in connexion with which work I had a long and interesting
interview with General Booth that is already published. Subsequently I
was appointed by the British Government as a Commissioner to
investigate and report upon the Land Colonies of the Salvation Army in
the United States, in the course of which inquiry I came into contact
with many of its Officers, and learned much of its system and methods,
especially with reference to emigration. Also I have had other
opportunities of keeping in touch with the Army and its developments.

In the spring of 1910 I was asked, on behalf of General Booth, whether
I would undertake to write for publication an account of the Social
Work of the Army in this country. After some hesitation, for the lack
of time was a formidable obstacle to a very busy man, I assented to
this request, the plan agreed upon being that I should visit the
various Institutions, or a number of them, etc., and record what I
actually saw, neither more nor less, together with my resulting
impressions. This I have done, and it only remains for me to assure
the reader that the record is true, and, to the best of his belief and
ability, set down without fear, favour, or prejudice, by one not
unaccustomed to such tasks.

Almost at the commencement of my labours I sought an interview with
General Booth, thinking, as I told him and his Officers (the Salvation
Army is not mealy-mouthed about such matters) that at his age it would
be well to set down his views in black and white. On the whole, I
found him well and vigorous. He complained, however, of the difficulty
he was experiencing, owing to the complete loss of sight in one eye,
occasioned by an accident during a motor journey, and the possible
deprivation of the sight of the other through cataract.

Of the attacks that have been and are continually made upon the
Salvation Army, some of them extremely bitter, General Booth would say
little. He pointed out that he had not been in the habit of defending
himself and his Organization in public, and was quite content that the
work should speak for itself. Their affairs and finances had been
investigated by eminent men, who 'could not find a sixpence out of
place'; and for the rest, a balance-sheet was published annually. This
balance-sheet for the year ending September 30, 1909, I reprint in an
appendix.[1]

With regard to the Social Work of the Army, which in its beginning was
a purely religious body, General Booth said that they had been driven
into it because of their sympathy with suffering. They found it
impossible to look upon people undergoing starvation or weighed down
by sorrows and miseries that came upon them through poverty, without
stretching out a hand to help them on to their feet again. In the same
way they could not study wrongdoers and criminals and learn their
secret histories, which show how closely a great proportion of human
sin is connected with wretched surroundings, without trying to help
and reform them to the best of their abilities. Thus it was that their
Social operations began, increased, and multiplied. They contemplated
not only the regeneration of the individual, but also of his
circumstances, and were continually finding out new methods by which
this might be done.

The Army looked forward to the development of its Social Work on the
lines of self-help, self-management and self-support. Whenever a new
development came under consideration, the question arose--How is it to
be financed? The work they had in hand at present took all their
funds. One of their great underlying principles was that of the
necessity of self-support, without which no business or undertaking
could stand for long. The individual must co-operate in his own moral
and physical redemption. At the same time this system of theirs was,
in practice, one of the difficulties with which they had to contend,
since it caused the benevolent to believe that the Army did not need
financial assistance. His own view was that they ought to receive
support in their work from the Government, as they actually did in
some other countries. Especially did he desire to receive State aid in
dealing with ascertained criminals, such as was extended to them in
certain parts of the world.

Thus only a few weeks before, in Holland, the Parliament had asked the
Salvation Army to co-operate in the care of discharged prisoners and
gave a grant of money for their support. In Java the tale was the
same. There they were preparing estates as homes for lepers, and soon
a large portion of the leper population of that land would be in their
charge.

General Booth told me the story of a celebrated Danish doctor, an
optician, who became attracted to the Army, and, giving up his
practice and position, entered its service with his wife. They said
they wished to lead a life of real sacrifice and self-denial, and so,
after going through a training like any other Cadets, were sent out to
take charge of the medical work in Java. A recent report stated that
this Officer had attended 16,000 patients in nine months, and
performed 516 operations.

In Australia, the Government had handed over the work amongst the
Reformatory boys to the Army. In New Zealand, the Government had
requested it to take over inebriates, and was now paying a
contribution to that work of 10s. per head a week. There the Army had
purchased two islands to accommodate these inebriates, one on which
the men followed the pursuits of agriculture, fishing, and so forth,
and the other for the women. In Canada there was an idea that a large
prison should be erected, of which the Salvation Army would take
charge. He hoped that in course of time they would be allowed greatly
to extend their work in the English prisons.

General Booth pointed out to me with reference to their Social Work,
that it was necessary to spend large sums of money in finding
employment for men whom they had rescued. Here, one of their greatest
difficulties was the vehement opposition of members of the Labour
Party in different countries.

This party said, for example, that the Army ought to pay the Trade
Union rate of wage to any poor fellow whom they had picked up and set
to such labour as paper-sorting or carpentry. Thus in Western
Australia they had an estate of 20,000 acres lying idle. When he was
there a while ago, he asked the Officer in charge why he did not
cultivate this land and make it productive. The man replied he had no
labour; whereon the General said that he could send him plenty from
England.

'Yes,' commented the Officer, 'but the moment they begin to work here,
however inefficient or broken down they may be, we shall have to pay
them 7s. a day!'

This regulation, of course, makes it impossible to cultivate that
estate except at a heavy loss.

He himself had been denounced as the 'prince of sweaters,' because he
took in derelict carpenters at their Institution in Hanbury Street
(which I shall describe later), to whom he did not pay the Trade Union
wage, although that Institution had from the first been worked at a
loss. In this case he had made peace with the Parliamentary Committee
by promising not to make anything there which was used outside the
Army establishments. But still the attacks went on.

Passing from this subject, I asked General Booth if he had formed any
forecast of the future of the Salvation Army after his own death. He
replied that there were certain factors in the present position of the
Army which seemed to him to indicate its future growth and continuity.
Speaking impersonally, he said that the present General had become an
important man not by his own choice or through the workings of
ambition, but by the will of Providence. He had acquired a certain
standing, a great hold over his community, and an influence which
helped to concentrate and keep together forces that had grown to be
worldwide in their character. It was natural, therefore, that people
should wonder what would happen when he ceased to be.

His answer to these queries was that legal arrangements had been made
to provide for this obvious contingency. Under the provisions of the
constitution of the Army he had selected his successor, although he
had never told anybody the name of that successor, which he felt sure,
when announced, was one that would command the fullest confidence and
respect. The first duty of the General of the Army on taking up his
office was to choose a man to succeed him, reserving to himself the
power to change that man for another, should he see good reason for
such a course. In short, his choice is secret, and being unhampered by
any law of heredity or other considerations except those that appeal
to his own reason and judgment, not final. He nominates whom he will.

I asked him what would happen if this nominated General misconducted
himself in any way, or proved unsuitable, or lost his reason. He
replied that in such circumstances arrangements had been made under
which the heads of the Army could elect another General, and that what
they decided would be law. The organization of the Army was such that
any Department of it remained independent of the ability of one
individual. If a man proved incompetent, or did not succeed, his
office was changed; the square man was never left in the round hole.
Each Department had laws for its direction and guidance, and those in
authority were responsible for the execution of those laws. If for any
reason whatsoever, one commander fell out of the line of action,
another was always waiting to take his place. In short, he had no fear
that the removal of his own person and name would affect the
Organization. It was true, he remarked, that leaders cannot be
manufactured to order, and also that the Army had made, and would
continue to make, mistakes up and down the world. But those mistakes
showed them how to avoid similar errors, and how and where to improve.

As regarded a change of headship, a fresh individuality always has
charms, and a new force would always strike out in some new direction.
The man needed was one who would _do_ something. General Booth did not
fear but that he would be always forthcoming, and said that for his
part he was quite happy as to the future, in which he anticipated an
enlargement of their work. The Organization existed, and with it the
arrangements for filling every niche. The discipline of to-day would
continue to-morrow, and that spirit would always be ready to burst
into flame when it was needed.

In his view it was inextinguishable.

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

completion: Dr. W. H. R. Rivers, a military psychologist at the Craiglockhart mental facility in Scotland, reads a letter published by Siegfried Sassoon, a British second lieutenant. In his missive, Sassoon decries the meaningless violence of the interminable Great War. Rivers then discusses the letter and Sassoon, a potential patient, with his supervisor, Bryce. Evidently, the normally skeptical military board has declared Sassoon mentally ill in order to undercut the effectiveness of his critique. Rivers wearily agrees to treat the outspoken soldier. Some time before, Robert Graves, Sassoon's good friend and fellow soldier, convinces Sassoon to agree with a diagnosis of mental illness and comply with orders to undergo treatment at Craiglockhart, a progressive center for the treatment of officers. Sassoon, however, is hoping that his letter will force the military authorities to court-martial him, which will make him a much-needed martyr before the apathetic British public. Graves lies and tells his friend that he is unlikely to be court-martialed. Graves further argues that Sassoon's hallucinations--of decomposing corpses in London streets and faces of long dead soldiers--suggest he is actually mentally ill. Graves claims that if Sassoon does not cooperate and appear before a mental health board, he will be thrown into a common lunatic asylum. Sassoon, trusting Graves, relinquishes. Once committed, Sassoon arranges to travel by train to Craiglockhart with Graves, but his friend does not arrive at the station on time. Sassoon therefore arrives at the hospital alone. He pauses briefly outside of the intimidating facade but eventually forces himself to enter. Dr. Rivers quietly watches Sassoon arrive at Craiglockhart and mulls over his newest patient, whose writing and behavior seem coherent and logical. He reflects that it is convenient for the military authorities to assume that Sassoon is mentally ill because his words are most dangerous to them. Rivers observes the lieutenant pause before entering the building, noting Sassoon's "small private victory over fear"