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."

"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.

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: Mr. Carrisford and the children of the large family are anxiously awaiting Mr. Carmichael's return from Moscow. If all has gone well, Mr. Carmichael will arrive in London with Captain Crewe's daughter--he is in Moscow to speak to the adopted daughter of a Russian family, hoping the daughter is in fact Sara Crewe. He arrives with bad news. The adopted daughter in Moscow is actually a girl named Emily Carew. Carrisford is completely heartbroken, though Carmichael tries to cheer him up. They decide to start searching London's many schools, starting, for lack of any better idea, with the one that happens to sit next door to their homes. Carrisford mentions that there is a child there who interests him, although she's far too sad-looking to be a relative of Captain Crewe. At this moment Ram Dass enters the room with news of the servant girl next door . Ram Dass reports that Sara has come to return his monkey; knowing about Carrisford's interest in Sara, Ram Dass has asked her to stay and chat. Sara enters with the monkey and greets Carrisford politely. Sara casually mentions being brought up in India, and Carrisford realizes that she may be the girl he's looking for. Feeling too overwhelmed to ask further questions, he has Carmichael take over. Sara tells Carmichael her sad story: how she was brought to Miss Minchin's as a student by her now-dead father. The men realize that Sara is Captain Crewe's daughter, and Mr. Carrisford is so shocked that he nearly faints. Sara, hearing that Carrisford and Carmichael have been seeking her out and that Mr. Carrisford is the friend of her father's whose business dealings led to Captain Crewe's downfall, is scarcely able to believe the coincidence. While Mr. Carrisford is recovering, Mr. Carmichael's wife comes to help Sara. She explains that Carrisford never actually lost Crewe's fortune, but that he incorrectly thought that he had, and became so distressed that he grew very ill. Sara also learns that Ram Dass and Carmichael were responsible for the surprises that were left in her attic. Sara goes to meet Mr. Carrisford, who already looks as if he's recovering from his stress-induced ill health. He has decided that Sara should never return to school. Instead, Mr. Carmichael will speak to Miss Minchin and explain the change in her situation. Unbeknownst to the assembled characters, though, Miss Minchin is already on her way. She has heard about Sara stopping by the house next door and, assuming she is intruding, decides to go fetch her servant and apologize on Sara's behalf. As she enters, Sara stays calm. Carrisford explains that he was about to send his solicitor, Carmichael, to speak to Miss Minchin. Confused, she explains that she is merely there to retrieve her servant. She instructs Sara to go home, but Carrisford tells Sara to remain at his side, and explains to Miss Minchin that her new home is with him. Moreover, Captain Crewe's fortune has been restored, making Sara rich again. Few princesses, Carmichael explains, have more money than Sara. Distraught, Miss Minchin tries to at least get on Carrisford's good side by arguing that she's cared for Sara over the years, and that Sara should return to school. Carmichael replies that Sara herself can decide whether to go back, and of course, she refuses. Miss Minchin, in response, threatens that she will no longer be allowed to see Lottie or Ermengarde. But Carmichael points out that this isn't really her decision to make. Sara tells Miss Minchin that, even in her most desperate moments, she has tried to act like a princess. Now, of course, she is as close to a princess as any non-royal person can be. The book's point of view shifts, allowing readers to witness a conversation between the Minchin sisters. Amelia timidly points out to her cranky sister that she has probably been too harsh on Sara, which only makes Miss Minchin crankier. This only emboldens Miss Amelia, who lets go of all her inhibitions and calls her sister out for being materialistic and hard-hearted. That evening, word spreads to the students when Ermengarde receives a letter from Sara sharing the good news. The revelations cause a total uproar among the students. One forgotten person, though, is saddened. Becky feels more alone than ever--until Ram Dass appears in her attic unexpectedly. He has brought a letter from Sara, and news that Sara wishes for Becky to work for her instead of for Miss Minchin. Sara now has a set of new companions--the Carmichael children, who love hearing her stories of life in the attic and of the surprises from Ram Dass. Mr. Carrisford, who has asked Sara to call him "Uncle Tom," also shares his memory of the events at Sara's behest, describing his own interest in the poor girl next door and Ram Dass's ideas for how to improve her lot. Sara and Carrisford get along wonderfully, and he continues to surprise her, even getting her a dog as a gift. Sometimes, Lottie and Ermengarde even join these happy get-togethers. Sara is troubled by one thing, though--the memory of the child even hungrier than herself, who she encountered outside of the bakery. She now wants to give the kind baker money, so that she can provide food for any poor children who arrive on her doorstep. Carrisford encourages her to do so in the morning. Through her window the next day, Miss Minchin watches angrily while a happy-looking Sara and Becky ride in Carrisford's carriage to the bakery. The woman remembers Sara and is all too eager to help her feed the city's hungry children. Sara mentions the child who used to sit at the bakery's entrance, and the woman reveals that she has taken the child in, clothed her, and fed her. The child emerges from the bakery's back room, looking healthy and cared-for. Sara and the girl, whose name is Anne, shake hands, and Sara mentions that the girl might enjoy personally feeding children as hungry as she once was. Then she goes back to Carrisford's carriage and heads home.


prompt:
Chapter: Once on a dark winter's day, when the yellow fog hung so thick and
heavy in the streets of London that the lamps were lighted and the shop
windows blazed with gas as they do at night, an odd-looking little girl
sat in a cab with her father and was driven rather slowly through the
big thoroughfares.

She sat with her feet tucked under her, and leaned against her father,
who held her in his arm, as she stared out of the window at the passing
people with a queer old-fashioned thoughtfulness in her big eyes.

She was such a little girl that one did not expect to see such a look
on her small face.  It would have been an old look for a child of
twelve, and Sara Crewe was only seven.  The fact was, however, that she
was always dreaming and thinking odd things and could not herself
remember any time when she had not been thinking things about grown-up
people and the world they belonged to. She felt as if she had lived a
long, long time.

At this moment she was remembering the voyage she had just made from
Bombay with her father, Captain Crewe.  She was thinking of the big
ship, of the Lascars passing silently to and fro on it, of the children
playing about on the hot deck, and of some young officers' wives who
used to try to make her talk to them and laugh at the things she said.

Principally, she was thinking of what a queer thing it was that at one
time one was in India in the blazing sun, and then in the middle of the
ocean, and then driving in a strange vehicle through strange streets
where the day was as dark as the night.  She found this so puzzling
that she moved closer to her father.

"Papa," she said in a low, mysterious little voice which was almost a
whisper, "papa."

"What is it, darling?"  Captain Crewe answered, holding her closer and
looking down into her face.  "What is Sara thinking of?"

"Is this the place?"  Sara whispered, cuddling still closer to him. "Is
it, papa?"

"Yes, little Sara, it is.  We have reached it at last."  And though she
was only seven years old, she knew that he felt sad when he said it.

It seemed to her many years since he had begun to prepare her mind for
"the place," as she always called it.  Her mother had died when she was
born, so she had never known or missed her.  Her young, handsome, rich,
petting father seemed to be the only relation she had in the world.
They had always played together and been fond of each other.  She only
knew he was rich because she had heard people say so when they thought
she was not listening, and she had also heard them say that when she
grew up she would be rich, too.  She did not know all that being rich
meant.  She had always lived in a beautiful bungalow, and had been used
to seeing many servants who made salaams to her and called her "Missee
Sahib," and gave her her own way in everything.  She had had toys and
pets and an ayah who worshipped her, and she had gradually learned that
people who were rich had these things.  That, however, was all she knew
about it.

During her short life only one thing had troubled her, and that thing
was "the place" she was to be taken to some day.  The climate of India
was very bad for children, and as soon as possible they were sent away
from it--generally to England and to school. She had seen other
children go away, and had heard their fathers and mothers talk about
the letters they received from them. She had known that she would be
obliged to go also, and though sometimes her father's stories of the
voyage and the new country had attracted her, she had been troubled by
the thought that he could not stay with her.

"Couldn't you go to that place with me, papa?" she had asked when she
was five years old.  "Couldn't you go to school, too? I would help you
with your lessons."

"But you will not have to stay for a very long time, little Sara," he
had always said.  "You will go to a nice house where there will be a
lot of little girls, and you will play together, and I will send you
plenty of books, and you will grow so fast that it will seem scarcely a
year before you are big enough and clever enough to come back and take
care of papa."

She had liked to think of that.  To keep the house for her father; to
ride with him, and sit at the head of his table when he had dinner
parties; to talk to him and read his books--that would be what she
would like most in the world, and if one must go away to "the place" in
England to attain it, she must make up her mind to go. She did not care
very much for other little girls, but if she had plenty of books she
could console herself.  She liked books more than anything else, and
was, in fact, always inventing stories of beautiful things and telling
them to herself.  Sometimes she had told them to her father, and he had
liked them as much as she did.

"Well, papa," she said softly, "if we are here I suppose we must be
resigned."

He laughed at her old-fashioned speech and kissed her.  He was really
not at all resigned himself, though he knew he must keep that a secret.
His quaint little Sara had been a great companion to him, and he felt
he should be a lonely fellow when, on his return to India, he went into
his bungalow knowing he need not expect to see the small figure in its
white frock come forward to meet him.  So he held her very closely in
his arms as the cab rolled into the big, dull square in which stood the
house which was their destination.

It was a big, dull, brick house, exactly like all the others in its
row, but that on the front door there shone a brass plate on which was
engraved in black letters:

MISS MINCHIN,

Select Seminary for Young Ladies.

"Here we are, Sara," said Captain Crewe, making his voice sound as
cheerful as possible.  Then he lifted her out of the cab and they
mounted the steps and rang the bell.  Sara often thought afterward that
the house was somehow exactly like Miss Minchin.  It was respectable
and well furnished, but everything in it was ugly; and the very
armchairs seemed to have hard bones in them.  In the hall everything
was hard and polished--even the red cheeks of the moon face on the tall
clock in the corner had a severe varnished look. The drawing room into
which they were ushered was covered by a carpet with a square pattern
upon it, the chairs were square, and a heavy marble timepiece stood
upon the heavy marble mantel.

As she sat down in one of the stiff mahogany chairs, Sara cast one of
her quick looks about her.

"I don't like it, papa," she said.  "But then I dare say soldiers--even
brave ones--don't really LIKE going into battle."

Captain Crewe laughed outright at this.  He was young and full of fun,
and he never tired of hearing Sara's queer speeches.

"Oh, little Sara," he said.  "What shall I do when I have no one to say
solemn things to me?  No one else is as solemn as you are."

"But why do solemn things make you laugh so?" inquired Sara.

"Because you are such fun when you say them," he answered, laughing
still more.  And then suddenly he swept her into his arms and kissed
her very hard, stopping laughing all at once and looking almost as if
tears had come into his eyes.

It was just then that Miss Minchin entered the room.  She was very like
her house, Sara felt: tall and dull, and respectable and ugly. She had
large, cold, fishy eyes, and a large, cold, fishy smile. It spread
itself into a very large smile when she saw Sara and Captain Crewe.
She had heard a great many desirable things of the young soldier from
the lady who had recommended her school to him. Among other things, she
had heard that he was a rich father who was willing to spend a great
deal of money on his little daughter.

"It will be a great privilege to have charge of such a beautiful and
promising child, Captain Crewe," she said, taking Sara's hand and
stroking it.  "Lady Meredith has told me of her unusual cleverness. A
clever child is a great treasure in an establishment like mine."

Sara stood quietly, with her eyes fixed upon Miss Minchin's face. She
was thinking something odd, as usual.

"Why does she say I am a beautiful child?" she was thinking. "I am not
beautiful at all.  Colonel Grange's little girl, Isobel, is beautiful.
She has dimples and rose-colored cheeks, and long hair the color of
gold.  I have short black hair and green eyes; besides which, I am a
thin child and not fair in the least.  I am one of the ugliest children
I ever saw.  She is beginning by telling a story."

She was mistaken, however, in thinking she was an ugly child.  She was
not in the least like Isobel Grange, who had been the beauty of the
regiment, but she had an odd charm of her own.  She was a slim, supple
creature, rather tall for her age, and had an intense, attractive
little face.  Her hair was heavy and quite black and only curled at the
tips; her eyes were greenish gray, it is true, but they were big,
wonderful eyes with long, black lashes, and though she herself did not
like the color of them, many other people did. Still she was very firm
in her belief that she was an ugly little girl, and she was not at all
elated by Miss Minchin's flattery.

"I should be telling a story if I said she was beautiful," she thought;
"and I should know I was telling a story.  I believe I am as ugly as
she is--in my way.  What did she say that for?"

After she had known Miss Minchin longer she learned why she had said
it.  She discovered that she said the same thing to each papa and mamma
who brought a child to her school.

Sara stood near her father and listened while he and Miss Minchin
talked.  She had been brought to the seminary because Lady Meredith's
two little girls had been educated there, and Captain Crewe had a great
respect for Lady Meredith's experience. Sara was to be what was known
as "a parlor boarder," and she was to enjoy even greater privileges
than parlor boarders usually did.  She was to have a pretty bedroom and
sitting room of her own; she was to have a pony and a carriage, and a
maid to take the place of the ayah who had been her nurse in India.

"I am not in the least anxious about her education," Captain Crewe
said, with his gay laugh, as he held Sara's hand and patted it. "The
difficulty will be to keep her from learning too fast and too much.
She is always sitting with her little nose burrowing into books.  She
doesn't read them, Miss Minchin; she gobbles them up as if she were a
little wolf instead of a little girl. She is always starving for new
books to gobble, and she wants grown-up books--great, big, fat
ones--French and German as well as English--history and biography and
poets, and all sorts of things.  Drag her away from her books when she
reads too much.  Make her ride her pony in the Row or go out and buy a
new doll.  She ought to play more with dolls."

"Papa," said Sara, "you see, if I went out and bought a new doll every
few days I should have more than I could be fond of.  Dolls ought to be
intimate friends.  Emily is going to be my intimate friend."

Captain Crewe looked at Miss Minchin and Miss Minchin looked at Captain
Crewe.

"Who is Emily?" she inquired.

"Tell her, Sara," Captain Crewe said, smiling.

Sara's green-gray eyes looked very solemn and quite soft as she
answered.

"She is a doll I haven't got yet," she said.  "She is a doll papa is
going to buy for me.  We are going out together to find her. I have
called her Emily.  She is going to be my friend when papa is gone.  I
want her to talk to about him."

Miss Minchin's large, fishy smile became very flattering indeed.

"What an original child!" she said.  "What a darling little creature!"

"Yes," said Captain Crewe, drawing Sara close.  "She is a darling
little creature.  Take great care of her for me, Miss Minchin."

Sara stayed with her father at his hotel for several days; in fact, she
remained with him until he sailed away again to India.  They went out
and visited many big shops together, and bought a great many things.
They bought, indeed, a great many more things than Sara needed; but
Captain Crewe was a rash, innocent young man and wanted his little girl
to have everything she admired and everything he admired himself, so
between them they collected a wardrobe much too grand for a child of
seven.  There were velvet dresses trimmed with costly furs, and lace
dresses, and embroidered ones, and hats with great, soft ostrich
feathers, and ermine coats and muffs, and boxes of tiny gloves and
handkerchiefs and silk stockings in such abundant supplies that the
polite young women behind the counters whispered to each other that the
odd little girl with the big, solemn eyes must be at least some foreign
princess--perhaps the little daughter of an Indian rajah.

And at last they found Emily, but they went to a number of toy shops
and looked at a great many dolls before they discovered her.

"I want her to look as if she wasn't a doll really," Sara said.  "I
want her to look as if she LISTENS when I talk to her. The trouble with
dolls, papa"--and she put her head on one side and reflected as she
said it--"the trouble with dolls is that they never seem to HEAR." So
they looked at big ones and little ones--at dolls with black eyes and
dolls with blue--at dolls with brown curls and dolls with golden
braids, dolls dressed and dolls undressed.

"You see," Sara said when they were examining one who had no clothes.
"If, when I find her, she has no frocks, we can take her to a
dressmaker and have her things made to fit.  They will fit better if
they are tried on."

After a number of disappointments they decided to walk and look in at
the shop windows and let the cab follow them.  They had passed two or
three places without even going in, when, as they were approaching a
shop which was really not a very large one, Sara suddenly started and
clutched her father's arm.

"Oh, papa!" she cried.  "There is Emily!"

A flush had risen to her face and there was an expression in her
green-gray eyes as if she had just recognized someone she was intimate
with and fond of.

"She is actually waiting there for us!" she said.  "Let us go in to
her."

"Dear me," said Captain Crewe, "I feel as if we ought to have someone
to introduce us."

"You must introduce me and I will introduce you," said Sara.  "But I
knew her the minute I saw her--so perhaps she knew me, too."

Perhaps she had known her.  She had certainly a very intelligent
expression in her eyes when Sara took her in her arms. She was a large
doll, but not too large to carry about easily; she had naturally
curling golden-brown hair, which hung like a mantle about her, and her
eyes were a deep, clear, gray-blue, with soft, thick eyelashes which
were real eyelashes and not mere painted lines.

"Of course," said Sara, looking into her face as she held her on her
knee, "of course papa, this is Emily."

So Emily was bought and actually taken to a children's outfitter's shop
and measured for a wardrobe as grand as Sara's own. She had lace
frocks, too, and velvet and muslin ones, and hats and coats and
beautiful lace-trimmed underclothes, and gloves and handkerchiefs and
furs.

"I should like her always to look as if she was a child with a good
mother," said Sara.  "I'm her mother, though I am going to make a
companion of her."

Captain Crewe would really have enjoyed the shopping tremendously, but
that a sad thought kept tugging at his heart.  This all meant that he
was going to be separated from his beloved, quaint little comrade.

He got out of his bed in the middle of that night and went and stood
looking down at Sara, who lay asleep with Emily in her arms. Her black
hair was spread out on the pillow and Emily's golden-brown hair mingled
with it, both of them had lace-ruffled nightgowns, and both had long
eyelashes which lay and curled up on their cheeks. Emily looked so like
a real child that Captain Crewe felt glad she was there.  He drew a big
sigh and pulled his mustache with a boyish expression.

"Heigh-ho, little Sara!" he said to himself "I don't believe you know
how much your daddy will miss you."

The next day he took her to Miss Minchin's and left her there.  He was
to sail away the next morning.  He explained to Miss Minchin that his
solicitors, Messrs. Barrow & Skipworth, had charge of his affairs in
England and would give her any advice she wanted, and that they would
pay the bills she sent in for Sara's expenses. He would write to Sara
twice a week, and she was to be given every pleasure she asked for.

"She is a sensible little thing, and she never wants anything it isn't
safe to give her," he said.

Then he went with Sara into her little sitting room and they bade each
other good-by. Sara sat on his knee and held the lapels of his coat in
her small hands, and looked long and hard at his face.

"Are you learning me by heart, little Sara?" he said, stroking her hair.

"No," she answered.  "I know you by heart.  You are inside my heart."
And they put their arms round each other and kissed as if they would
never let each other go.

When the cab drove away from the door, Sara was sitting on the floor of
her sitting room, with her hands under her chin and her eyes following
it until it had turned the corner of the square.  Emily was sitting by
her, and she looked after it, too.  When Miss Minchin sent her sister,
Miss Amelia, to see what the child was doing, she found she could not
open the door.

"I have locked it," said a queer, polite little voice from inside. "I
want to be quite by myself, if you please."

Miss Amelia was fat and dumpy, and stood very much in awe of her
sister.  She was really the better-natured person of the two, but she
never disobeyed Miss Minchin.  She went downstairs again, looking
almost alarmed.

"I never saw such a funny, old-fashioned child, sister," she said. "She
has locked herself in, and she is not making the least particle of
noise."

"It is much better than if she kicked and screamed, as some of them
do," Miss Minchin answered.  "I expected that a child as much spoiled
as she is would set the whole house in an uproar.  If ever a child was
given her own way in everything, she is."

"I've been opening her trunks and putting her things away," said Miss
Amelia.  "I never saw anything like them--sable and ermine on her
coats, and real Valenciennes lace on her underclothing.  You have seen
some of her clothes.  What DO you think of them?"

"I think they are perfectly ridiculous," replied Miss Minchin, sharply;
"but they will look very well at the head of the line when we take the
schoolchildren to church on Sunday. She has been provided for as if she
were a little princess."

And upstairs in the locked room Sara and Emily sat on the floor and
stared at the corner round which the cab had disappeared, while Captain
Crewe looked backward, waving and kissing his hand as if he could not
bear to stop.

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

completion: A little girl named Sara drives through London in a cab with her father, Captain Crewe. They have come to London from India. Sara's mother died when she was born, and she has been living with her rich father in India. But now it's time for her to get educated at boarding school in London. They arrive at Miss Minchin's Seminary for Young Ladies, a respectable big house. Sara doesn't like it at all, but she resolves to be brave. They meet Miss Minchin, who is pretty dull and mean-looking and kisses up to Sara and her rich papa like crazy. Sara's an astute kid, and she doesn't buy any of it. What she really cares about right now is going out and buying Emily--the doll her father has promised to get her in order for her to have a "friend" after he leaves her. You'll notice that Sara has already named Emily, even though Emily doesn't yet actually exist. Sara stays with her dad at his hotel room for a few days, and he buys her lots of fancy and expensive things--including the beloved Emily doll. After buying her love with lots of material things , Sara's dad drops her off at Miss Minchin's and tells her that his lawyers will pay for all her bills and upkeep. Sweet! Sara sits by the window and watches the cab drive off very sadly. But she doesn't cry, because she wants to be brave like a soldier. This is one of our early clues that Sara is a weird little girl. Miss Minchin's sister Amelia thinks that Sara is a very strange, old-fashioned child and Miss Minchin thinks that her fancy clothes are absolutely ridiculous. Jelly, much? As Captain Crewe drives off, Sara stares at the corner where he disappeared. She may not be crying, but we sure are.


prompt:
Chapter: When Sara entered the schoolroom the next morning everybody looked at
her with wide, interested eyes.  By that time every pupil--from Lavinia
Herbert, who was nearly thirteen and felt quite grown up, to Lottie
Legh, who was only just four and the baby of the school--had heard a
great deal about her.  They knew very certainly that she was Miss
Minchin's show pupil and was considered a credit to the establishment.
One or two of them had even caught a glimpse of her French maid,
Mariette, who had arrived the evening before. Lavinia had managed to
pass Sara's room when the door was open, and had seen Mariette opening
a box which had arrived late from some shop.

"It was full of petticoats with lace frills on them--frills and
frills," she whispered to her friend Jessie as she bent over her
geography. "I saw her shaking them out.  I heard Miss Minchin say to
Miss Amelia that her clothes were so grand that they were ridiculous
for a child.  My mamma says that children should be dressed simply. She
has got one of those petticoats on now.  I saw it when she sat down."

"She has silk stockings on!" whispered Jessie, bending over her
geography also.  "And what little feet!  I never saw such little feet."

"Oh," sniffed Lavinia, spitefully, "that is the way her slippers are
made.  My mamma says that even big feet can be made to look small if
you have a clever shoemaker.  I don't think she is pretty at all. Her
eyes are such a queer color."

"She isn't pretty as other pretty people are," said Jessie, stealing a
glance across the room; "but she makes you want to look at her again.
She has tremendously long eyelashes, but her eyes are almost green."

Sara was sitting quietly in her seat, waiting to be told what to do.
She had been placed near Miss Minchin's desk.  She was not abashed at
all by the many pairs of eyes watching her.  She was interested and
looked back quietly at the children who looked at her. She wondered
what they were thinking of, and if they liked Miss Minchin, and if they
cared for their lessons, and if any of them had a papa at all like her
own.  She had had a long talk with Emily about her papa that morning.

"He is on the sea now, Emily," she had said.  "We must be very great
friends to each other and tell each other things.  Emily, look at me.
You have the nicest eyes I ever saw--but I wish you could speak."

She was a child full of imaginings and whimsical thoughts, and one of
her fancies was that there would be a great deal of comfort in even
pretending that Emily was alive and really heard and understood. After
Mariette had dressed her in her dark-blue schoolroom frock and tied her
hair with a dark-blue ribbon, she went to Emily, who sat in a chair of
her own, and gave her a book.

"You can read that while I am downstairs," she said; and, seeing
Mariette looking at her curiously, she spoke to her with a serious
little face.

"What I believe about dolls," she said, "is that they can do things
they will not let us know about.  Perhaps, really, Emily can read and
talk and walk, but she will only do it when people are out of the room.
That is her secret.  You see, if people knew that dolls could do
things, they would make them work.  So, perhaps, they have promised
each other to keep it a secret.  If you stay in the room, Emily will
just sit there and stare; but if you go out, she will begin to read,
perhaps, or go and look out of the window. Then if she heard either of
us coming, she would just run back and jump into her chair and pretend
she had been there all the time."

"Comme elle est drole!"  Mariette said to herself, and when she went
downstairs she told the head housemaid about it.  But she had already
begun to like this odd little girl who had such an intelligent small
face and such perfect manners.  She had taken care of children before
who were not so polite.  Sara was a very fine little person, and had a
gentle, appreciative way of saying, "If you please, Mariette," "Thank
you, Mariette," which was very charming.  Mariette told the head
housemaid that she thanked her as if she was thanking a lady.

"Elle a l'air d'une princesse, cette petite," she said. Indeed, she was
very much pleased with her new little mistress and liked her place
greatly.

After Sara had sat in her seat in the schoolroom for a few minutes,
being looked at by the pupils, Miss Minchin rapped in a dignified
manner upon her desk.

"Young ladies," she said, "I wish to introduce you to your new
companion."  All the little girls rose in their places, and Sara rose
also.  "I shall expect you all to be very agreeable to Miss Crewe; she
has just come to us from a great distance--in fact, from India. As soon
as lessons are over you must make each other's acquaintance."

The pupils bowed ceremoniously, and Sara made a little curtsy, and then
they sat down and looked at each other again.

"Sara," said Miss Minchin in her schoolroom manner, "come here to me."

She had taken a book from the desk and was turning over its leaves.
Sara went to her politely.

"As your papa has engaged a French maid for you," she began, "I
conclude that he wishes you to make a special study of the French
language."

Sara felt a little awkward.

"I think he engaged her," she said, "because he--he thought I would
like her, Miss Minchin."

"I am afraid," said Miss Minchin, with a slightly sour smile, "that you
have been a very spoiled little girl and always imagine that things are
done because you like them.  My impression is that your papa wished you
to learn French."

If Sara had been older or less punctilious about being quite polite to
people, she could have explained herself in a very few words. But, as
it was, she felt a flush rising on her cheeks.  Miss Minchin was a very
severe and imposing person, and she seemed so absolutely sure that Sara
knew nothing whatever of French that she felt as if it would be almost
rude to correct her.  The truth was that Sara could not remember the
time when she had not seemed to know French. Her father had often
spoken it to her when she had been a baby. Her mother had been a French
woman, and Captain Crewe had loved her language, so it happened that
Sara had always heard and been familiar with it.

"I--I have never really learned French, but--but--" she began, trying
shyly to make herself clear.

One of Miss Minchin's chief secret annoyances was that she did not
speak French herself, and was desirous of concealing the irritating
fact. She, therefore, had no intention of discussing the matter and
laying herself open to innocent questioning by a new little pupil.

"That is enough," she said with polite tartness.  "If you have not
learned, you must begin at once.  The French master, Monsieur Dufarge,
will be here in a few minutes.  Take this book and look at it until he
arrives."

Sara's cheeks felt warm.  She went back to her seat and opened the
book. She looked at the first page with a grave face.  She knew it
would be rude to smile, and she was very determined not to be rude. But
it was very odd to find herself expected to study a page which told her
that "le pere" meant "the father," and "la mere" meant "the mother."

Miss Minchin glanced toward her scrutinizingly.

"You look rather cross, Sara," she said.  "I am sorry you do not like
the idea of learning French."

"I am very fond of it," answered Sara, thinking she would try again;
"but--"

"You must not say 'but' when you are told to do things," said Miss
Minchin.  "Look at your book again."

And Sara did so, and did not smile, even when she found that "le fils"
meant "the son," and "le frere" meant "the brother."

"When Monsieur Dufarge comes," she thought, "I can make him understand."

Monsieur Dufarge arrived very shortly afterward.  He was a very nice,
intelligent, middle-aged Frenchman, and he looked interested when his
eyes fell upon Sara trying politely to seem absorbed in her little book
of phrases.

"Is this a new pupil for me, madame?" he said to Miss Minchin.  "I hope
that is my good fortune."

"Her papa--Captain Crewe--is very anxious that she should begin the
language.  But I am afraid she has a childish prejudice against it. She
does not seem to wish to learn," said Miss Minchin.

"I am sorry of that, mademoiselle," he said kindly to Sara.  "Perhaps,
when we begin to study together, I may show you that it is a charming
tongue."

Little Sara rose in her seat.  She was beginning to feel rather
desperate, as if she were almost in disgrace.  She looked up into
Monsieur Dufarge's face with her big, green-gray eyes, and they were
quite innocently appealing.  She knew that he would understand as soon
as she spoke.  She began to explain quite simply in pretty and fluent
French.  Madame had not understood.  She had not learned French
exactly--not out of books--but her papa and other people had always
spoken it to her, and she had read it and written it as she had read
and written English. Her papa loved it, and she loved it because he
did.  Her dear mamma, who had died when she was born, had been French.
She would be glad to learn anything monsieur would teach her, but what
she had tried to explain to madame was that she already knew the words
in this book--and she held out the little book of phrases.

When she began to speak Miss Minchin started quite violently and sat
staring at her over her eyeglasses, almost indignantly, until she had
finished.  Monsieur Dufarge began to smile, and his smile was one of
great pleasure.  To hear this pretty childish voice speaking his own
language so simply and charmingly made him feel almost as if he were in
his native land--which in dark, foggy days in London sometimes seemed
worlds away.  When she had finished, he took the phrase book from her,
with a look almost affectionate. But he spoke to Miss Minchin.

"Ah, madame," he said, "there is not much I can teach her.  She has not
LEARNED French; she is French.  Her accent is exquisite."

"You ought to have told me," exclaimed Miss Minchin, much mortified,
turning to Sara.

"I--I tried," said Sara.  "I--I suppose I did not begin right."

Miss Minchin knew she had tried, and that it had not been her fault
that she was not allowed to explain.  And when she saw that the pupils
had been listening and that Lavinia and Jessie were giggling behind
their French grammars, she felt infuriated.

"Silence, young ladies!" she said severely, rapping upon the desk.
"Silence at once!"

And she began from that minute to feel rather a grudge against her show
pupil.

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

completion: Sara enters the classroom for the first time the next morning, and everyone checks her out because she's the new kid. Some of her classmates include: Lavinia Herbert and Lottie Leigh . Talk about multi-age classrooms. All the girls have been gossiping about Sara: she has a French maid and boxes full of ridiculously frilly clothes, canyouevenbelieveit? Oh, and she's been telling tales about how she believes that dolls can talk and walk but only do it when people are out of the room. Who is this girl? Miss Minchin introduces Sara to the rest of the class and tells her that she will be studying French. Sara wants to say that she already knows French, but she doesn't know how to say so and ends up giving Miss Minchin the impression that she's being difficult and doesn't want to learn the language. When the French master, Monsieur Dufarge comes in, Miss Minchin announces to him that Sara does not wish to learn French. However, Sara stands up and begins to explain to Monsieur Dufarge--in perfect French, of course--that she totally does know French, merci beaucoup. Miss Minchin has a secret: she doesn't speak French. So now she's ticked off that Sara didn't tell her, annoyed that she knows she's in the wrong, and also a little resentful of her new pupil. Yeah, this is going to end well.


prompt:
Chapter: On that first morning, when Sara sat at Miss Minchin's side, aware that
the whole schoolroom was devoting itself to observing her, she had
noticed very soon one little girl, about her own age, who looked at her
very hard with a pair of light, rather dull, blue eyes.  She was a fat
child who did not look as if she were in the least clever, but she had
a good-naturedly pouting mouth. Her flaxen hair was braided in a tight
pigtail, tied with a ribbon, and she had pulled this pigtail around her
neck, and was biting the end of the ribbon, resting her elbows on the
desk, as she stared wonderingly at the new pupil.  When Monsieur
Dufarge began to speak to Sara, she looked a little frightened; and
when Sara stepped forward and, looking at him with the innocent,
appealing eyes, answered him, without any warning, in French, the fat
little girl gave a startled jump, and grew quite red in her awed
amazement. Having wept hopeless tears for weeks in her efforts to
remember that "la mere" meant "the mother," and "le pere," "the
father,"--when one spoke sensible English--it was almost too much for
her suddenly to find herself listening to a child her own age who
seemed not only quite familiar with these words, but apparently knew
any number of others, and could mix them up with verbs as if they were
mere trifles.

She stared so hard and bit the ribbon on her pigtail so fast that she
attracted the attention of Miss Minchin, who, feeling extremely cross
at the moment, immediately pounced upon her.

"Miss St. John!" she exclaimed severely.  "What do you mean by such
conduct?  Remove your elbows!  Take your ribbon out of your mouth! Sit
up at once!"

Upon which Miss St. John gave another jump, and when Lavinia and Jessie
tittered she became redder than ever--so red, indeed, that she almost
looked as if tears were coming into her poor, dull, childish eyes; and
Sara saw her and was so sorry for her that she began rather to like her
and want to be her friend.  It was a way of hers always to want to
spring into any fray in which someone was made uncomfortable or unhappy.

"If Sara had been a boy and lived a few centuries ago," her father used
to say, "she would have gone about the country with her sword drawn,
rescuing and defending everyone in distress.  She always wants to fight
when she sees people in trouble."

So she took rather a fancy to fat, slow, little Miss St. John, and kept
glancing toward her through the morning.  She saw that lessons were no
easy matter to her, and that there was no danger of her ever being
spoiled by being treated as a show pupil. Her French lesson was a
pathetic thing.  Her pronunciation made even Monsieur Dufarge smile in
spite of himself, and Lavinia and Jessie and the more fortunate girls
either giggled or looked at her in wondering disdain.  But Sara did not
laugh.  She tried to look as if she did not hear when Miss St. John
called "le bon pain," "lee bong pang."  She had a fine, hot little
temper of her own, and it made her feel rather savage when she heard
the titters and saw the poor, stupid, distressed child's face.

"It isn't funny, really," she said between her teeth, as she bent over
her book.  "They ought not to laugh."

When lessons were over and the pupils gathered together in groups to
talk, Sara looked for Miss St. John, and finding her bundled rather
disconsolately in a window-seat, she walked over to her and spoke. She
only said the kind of thing little girls always say to each other by
way of beginning an acquaintance, but there was something friendly
about Sara, and people always felt it.

"What is your name?" she said.

To explain Miss St. John's amazement one must recall that a new pupil
is, for a short time, a somewhat uncertain thing; and of this new pupil
the entire school had talked the night before until it fell asleep
quite exhausted by excitement and contradictory stories. A new pupil
with a carriage and a pony and a maid, and a voyage from India to
discuss, was not an ordinary acquaintance.

"My name's Ermengarde St. John," she answered.

"Mine is Sara Crewe," said Sara.  "Yours is very pretty.  It sounds
like a story book."

"Do you like it?" fluttered Ermengarde.  "I--I like yours."

Miss St. John's chief trouble in life was that she had a clever father.
Sometimes this seemed to her a dreadful calamity.  If you have a father
who knows everything, who speaks seven or eight languages, and has
thousands of volumes which he has apparently learned by heart, he
frequently expects you to be familiar with the contents of your lesson
books at least; and it is not improbable that he will feel you ought to
be able to remember a few incidents of history and to write a French
exercise.  Ermengarde was a severe trial to Mr. St. John. He could not
understand how a child of his could be a notably and unmistakably dull
creature who never shone in anything.

"Good heavens!" he had said more than once, as he stared at her, "there
are times when I think she is as stupid as her Aunt Eliza!"

If her Aunt Eliza had been slow to learn and quick to forget a thing
entirely when she had learned it, Ermengarde was strikingly like her.
She was the monumental dunce of the school, and it could not be denied.

"She must be MADE to learn," her father said to Miss Minchin.

Consequently Ermengarde spent the greater part of her life in disgrace
or in tears.  She learned things and forgot them; or, if she remembered
them, she did not understand them.  So it was natural that, having made
Sara's acquaintance, she should sit and stare at her with profound
admiration.

"You can speak French, can't you?" she said respectfully.

Sara got on to the window-seat, which was a big, deep one, and, tucking
up her feet, sat with her hands clasped round her knees.

"I can speak it because I have heard it all my life," she answered.
"You could speak it if you had always heard it."

"Oh, no, I couldn't," said Ermengarde.  "I NEVER could speak it!"

"Why?" inquired Sara, curiously.

Ermengarde shook her head so that the pigtail wobbled.

"You heard me just now," she said.  "I'm always like that. I can't SAY
the words.  They're so queer."

She paused a moment, and then added with a touch of awe in her voice,
"You are CLEVER, aren't you?"

Sara looked out of the window into the dingy square, where the sparrows
were hopping and twittering on the wet, iron railings and the sooty
branches of the trees.  She reflected a few moments. She had heard it
said very often that she was "clever," and she wondered if she was--and
IF she was, how it had happened.

"I don't know," she said.  "I can't tell."  Then, seeing a mournful
look on the round, chubby face, she gave a little laugh and changed the
subject.

"Would you like to see Emily?" she inquired.

"Who is Emily?"  Ermengarde asked, just as Miss Minchin had done.

"Come up to my room and see," said Sara, holding out her hand.

They jumped down from the window-seat together, and went upstairs.

"Is it true," Ermengarde whispered, as they went through the hall--"is
it true that you have a playroom all to yourself?"

"Yes," Sara answered.  "Papa asked Miss Minchin to let me have one,
because--well, it was because when I play I make up stories and tell
them to myself, and I don't like people to hear me. It spoils it if I
think people listen."

They had reached the passage leading to Sara's room by this time, and
Ermengarde stopped short, staring, and quite losing her breath.

"You MAKE up stories!" she gasped.  "Can you do that--as well as speak
French?  CAN you?"

Sara looked at her in simple surprise.

"Why, anyone can make up things," she said.  "Have you never tried?"

She put her hand warningly on Ermengarde's.

"Let us go very quietly to the door," she whispered, "and then I will
open it quite suddenly; perhaps we may catch her."

She was half laughing, but there was a touch of mysterious hope in her
eyes which fascinated Ermengarde, though she had not the remotest idea
what it meant, or whom it was she wanted to "catch," or why she wanted
to catch her.  Whatsoever she meant, Ermengarde was sure it was
something delightfully exciting.  So, quite thrilled with expectation,
she followed her on tiptoe along the passage. They made not the least
noise until they reached the door. Then Sara suddenly turned the
handle, and threw it wide open. Its opening revealed the room quite
neat and quiet, a fire gently burning in the grate, and a wonderful
doll sitting in a chair by it, apparently reading a book.

"Oh, she got back to her seat before we could see her!"  Sara
explained. "Of course they always do.  They are as quick as lightning."

Ermengarde looked from her to the doll and back again.

"Can she--walk?" she asked breathlessly.

"Yes," answered Sara.  "At least I believe she can.  At least I PRETEND
I believe she can.  And that makes it seem as if it were true. Have you
never pretended things?"

"No," said Ermengarde.  "Never.  I--tell me about it."

She was so bewitched by this odd, new companion that she actually
stared at Sara instead of at Emily--notwithstanding that Emily was the
most attractive doll person she had ever seen.

"Let us sit down," said Sara, "and I will tell you.  It's so easy that
when you begin you can't stop.  You just go on and on doing it always.
And it's beautiful.  Emily, you must listen.  This is Ermengarde St.
John, Emily.  Ermengarde, this is Emily.  Would you like to hold her?"

"Oh, may I?" said Ermengarde.  "May I, really?  She is beautiful!" And
Emily was put into her arms.

Never in her dull, short life had Miss St. John dreamed of such an hour
as the one she spent with the queer new pupil before they heard the
lunch-bell ring and were obliged to go downstairs.

Sara sat upon the hearth-rug and told her strange things.  She sat
rather huddled up, and her green eyes shone and her cheeks flushed. She
told stories of the voyage, and stories of India; but what fascinated
Ermengarde the most was her fancy about the dolls who walked and
talked, and who could do anything they chose when the human beings were
out of the room, but who must keep their powers a secret and so flew
back to their places "like lightning" when people returned to the room.

"WE couldn't do it," said Sara, seriously.  "You see, it's a kind of
magic."

Once, when she was relating the story of the search for Emily,
Ermengarde saw her face suddenly change.  A cloud seemed to pass over
it and put out the light in her shining eyes.  She drew her breath in
so sharply that it made a funny, sad little sound, and then she shut
her lips and held them tightly closed, as if she was determined either
to do or NOT to do something. Ermengarde had an idea that if she had
been like any other little girl, she might have suddenly burst out
sobbing and crying. But she did not.

"Have you a--a pain?"  Ermengarde ventured.

"Yes," Sara answered, after a moment's silence.  "But it is not in my
body."  Then she added something in a low voice which she tried to keep
quite steady, and it was this:  "Do you love your father more than
anything else in all the whole world?"

Ermengarde's mouth fell open a little.  She knew that it would be far
from behaving like a respectable child at a select seminary to say that
it had never occurred to you that you COULD love your father, that you
would do anything desperate to avoid being left alone in his society
for ten minutes.  She was, indeed, greatly embarrassed.

"I--I scarcely ever see him," she stammered.  "He is always in the
library--reading things."

"I love mine more than all the world ten times over," Sara said.  "That
is what my pain is.  He has gone away."

She put her head quietly down on her little, huddled-up knees, and sat
very still for a few minutes.

"She's going to cry out loud," thought Ermengarde, fearfully.

But she did not.  Her short, black locks tumbled about her ears, and
she sat still.  Then she spoke without lifting her head.

"I promised him I would bear it," she said.  "And I will.  You have to
bear things.  Think what soldiers bear!  Papa is a soldier. If there
was a war he would have to bear marching and thirstiness and, perhaps,
deep wounds.  And he would never say a word--not one word."

Ermengarde could only gaze at her, but she felt that she was beginning
to adore her.  She was so wonderful and different from anyone else.

Presently, she lifted her face and shook back her black locks, with a
queer little smile.

"If I go on talking and talking," she said, "and telling you things
about pretending, I shall bear it better.  You don't forget, but you
bear it better."

Ermengarde did not know why a lump came into her throat and her eyes
felt as if tears were in them.

"Lavinia and Jessie are 'best friends,'" she said rather huskily. "I
wish we could be 'best friends.'  Would you have me for yours? You're
clever, and I'm the stupidest child in the school, but I--oh, I do so
like you!"

"I'm glad of that," said Sara.  "It makes you thankful when you are
liked.  Yes.  We will be friends.  And I'll tell you what"--a sudden
gleam lighting her face--"I can help you with your French lessons."

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

completion: Sara may be a weird kid, but Ermengarde St. John has a decidedly weird name. She's not super smart, poor thing, and is blown away by Sara's ability to learn French. Miss Minchin isn't very nice to Ermengarde, and because of this, Sara feels the need to reach out to her. After lessons, Sara introduces herself. Ermengarde goes on about how clever Sara must be because she can speak French. Sara does what any child would upon making a friend --she asks Ermengarde if she'd like to meet Emily, her doll. When she starts to tell fantastical stories about Emily, Ermengarde is amazed at how she's able to just make things up on the fly. Suddenly, Sara looks like she's in pain. Ermengarde asks her what is up with that, and Sara responds that she's in pain because she misses her father. Then, Ermengarde asks Sara if she'd like to be her best friend. Which is not weird at all. Sara agrees. Yay, BFF!