Chapter: Of course the greatest power Sara possessed and the one which gained
her even more followers than her luxuries and the fact that she was
"the show pupil," the power that Lavinia and certain other girls were
most envious of, and at the same time most fascinated by in spite of
themselves, was her power of telling stories and of making everything
she talked about seem like a story, whether it was one or not.

Anyone who has been at school with a teller of stories knows what the
wonder means--how he or she is followed about and besought in a whisper
to relate romances; how groups gather round and hang on the outskirts
of the favored party in the hope of being allowed to join in and
listen.  Sara not only could tell stories, but she adored telling them.
When she sat or stood in the midst of a circle and began to invent
wonderful things, her green eyes grew big and shining, her cheeks
flushed, and, without knowing that she was doing it, she began to act
and made what she told lovely or alarming by the raising or dropping of
her voice, the bend and sway of her slim body, and the dramatic
movement of her hands. She forgot that she was talking to listening
children; she saw and lived with the fairy folk, or the kings and
queens and beautiful ladies, whose adventures she was narrating.
Sometimes when she had finished her story, she was quite out of breath
with excitement, and would lay her hand on her thin, little,
quick-rising chest, and half laugh as if at herself.

"When I am telling it," she would say, "it doesn't seem as if it was
only made up.  It seems more real than you are--more real than the
schoolroom.  I feel as if I were all the people in the story--one after
the other.  It is queer."

She had been at Miss Minchin's school about two years when, one foggy
winter's afternoon, as she was getting out of her carriage, comfortably
wrapped up in her warmest velvets and furs and looking very much
grander than she knew, she caught sight, as she crossed the pavement,
of a dingy little figure standing on the area steps, and stretching its
neck so that its wide-open eyes might peer at her through the railings.
Something in the eagerness and timidity of the smudgy face made her
look at it, and when she looked she smiled because it was her way to
smile at people.

But the owner of the smudgy face and the wide-open eyes evidently was
afraid that she ought not to have been caught looking at pupils of
importance.  She dodged out of sight like a jack-in-the-box and
scurried back into the kitchen, disappearing so suddenly that if she
had not been such a poor little forlorn thing, Sara would have laughed
in spite of herself.  That very evening, as Sara was sitting in the
midst of a group of listeners in a corner of the schoolroom telling one
of her stories, the very same figure timidly entered the room, carrying
a coal box much too heavy for her, and knelt down upon the hearth rug
to replenish the fire and sweep up the ashes.

She was cleaner than she had been when she peeped through the area
railings, but she looked just as frightened.  She was evidently afraid
to look at the children or seem to be listening. She put on pieces of
coal cautiously with her fingers so that she might make no disturbing
noise, and she swept about the fire irons very softly.  But Sara saw in
two minutes that she was deeply interested in what was going on, and
that she was doing her work slowly in the hope of catching a word here
and there. And realizing this, she raised her voice and spoke more
clearly.

"The Mermaids swam softly about in the crystal-green water, and dragged
after them a fishing-net woven of deep-sea pearls," she said.  "The
Princess sat on the white rock and watched them."

It was a wonderful story about a princess who was loved by a Prince
Merman, and went to live with him in shining caves under the sea.

The small drudge before the grate swept the hearth once and then swept
it again.  Having done it twice, she did it three times; and, as she
was doing it the third time, the sound of the story so lured her to
listen that she fell under the spell and actually forgot that she had
no right to listen at all, and also forgot everything else. She sat
down upon her heels as she knelt on the hearth rug, and the brush hung
idly in her fingers.  The voice of the storyteller went on and drew her
with it into winding grottos under the sea, glowing with soft, clear
blue light, and paved with pure golden sands. Strange sea flowers and
grasses waved about her, and far away faint singing and music echoed.

The hearth brush fell from the work-roughened hand, and Lavinia Herbert
looked round.

"That girl has been listening," she said.

The culprit snatched up her brush, and scrambled to her feet.  She
caught at the coal box and simply scuttled out of the room like a
frightened rabbit.

Sara felt rather hot-tempered.

"I knew she was listening," she said.  "Why shouldn't she?"

Lavinia tossed her head with great elegance.

"Well," she remarked, "I do not know whether your mamma would like you
to tell stories to servant girls, but I know MY mamma wouldn't like ME
to do it."

"My mamma!" said Sara, looking odd.  "I don't believe she would mind in
the least.  She knows that stories belong to everybody."

"I thought," retorted Lavinia, in severe recollection, "that your mamma
was dead.  How can she know things?"

"Do you think she DOESN'T know things?" said Sara, in her stern little
voice.  Sometimes she had a rather stern little voice.

"Sara's mamma knows everything," piped in Lottie.  "So does my
mamma--'cept Sara is my mamma at Miss Minchin's--my other one knows
everything.  The streets are shining, and there are fields and fields
of lilies, and everybody gathers them. Sara tells me when she puts me
to bed."

"You wicked thing," said Lavinia, turning on Sara; "making fairy
stories about heaven."

"There are much more splendid stories in Revelation," returned Sara.
"Just look and see!  How do you know mine are fairy stories? But I can
tell you"--with a fine bit of unheavenly temper--"you will never find
out whether they are or not if you're not kinder to people than you are
now.  Come along, Lottie."  And she marched out of the room, rather
hoping that she might see the little servant again somewhere, but she
found no trace of her when she got into the hall.

"Who is that little girl who makes the fires?" she asked Mariette that
night.

Mariette broke forth into a flow of description.

Ah, indeed, Mademoiselle Sara might well ask.  She was a forlorn little
thing who had just taken the place of scullery maid--though, as to
being scullery maid, she was everything else besides. She blacked boots
and grates, and carried heavy coal-scuttles up and down stairs, and
scrubbed floors and cleaned windows, and was ordered about by
everybody.  She was fourteen years old, but was so stunted in growth
that she looked about twelve.  In truth, Mariette was sorry for her.
She was so timid that if one chanced to speak to her it appeared as if
her poor, frightened eyes would jump out of her head.

"What is her name?" asked Sara, who had sat by the table, with her chin
on her hands, as she listened absorbedly to the recital.

Her name was Becky.  Mariette heard everyone below-stairs calling,
"Becky, do this," and "Becky, do that," every five minutes in the day.

Sara sat and looked into the fire, reflecting on Becky for some time
after Mariette left her.  She made up a story of which Becky was the
ill-used heroine.  She thought she looked as if she had never had quite
enough to eat.  Her very eyes were hungry.  She hoped she should see
her again, but though she caught sight of her carrying things up or
down stairs on several occasions, she always seemed in such a hurry and
so afraid of being seen that it was impossible to speak to her.

But a few weeks later, on another foggy afternoon, when she entered her
sitting room she found herself confronting a rather pathetic picture.
In her own special and pet easy-chair before the bright fire,
Becky--with a coal smudge on her nose and several on her apron, with
her poor little cap hanging half off her head, and an empty coal box on
the floor near her--sat fast asleep, tired out beyond even the
endurance of her hard-working young body. She had been sent up to put
the bedrooms in order for the evening. There were a great many of them,
and she had been running about all day.  Sara's rooms she had saved
until the last. They were not like the other rooms, which were plain
and bare. Ordinary pupils were expected to be satisfied with mere
necessaries. Sara's comfortable sitting room seemed a bower of luxury
to the scullery maid, though it was, in fact, merely a nice, bright
little room. But there were pictures and books in it, and curious
things from India; there was a sofa and the low, soft chair; Emily sat
in a chair of her own, with the air of a presiding goddess, and there
was always a glowing fire and a polished grate.  Becky saved it until
the end of her afternoon's work, because it rested her to go into it,
and she always hoped to snatch a few minutes to sit down in the soft
chair and look about her, and think about the wonderful good fortune of
the child who owned such surroundings and who went out on the cold days
in beautiful hats and coats one tried to catch a glimpse of through the
area railing.

On this afternoon, when she had sat down, the sensation of relief to
her short, aching legs had been so wonderful and delightful that it had
seemed to soothe her whole body, and the glow of warmth and comfort
from the fire had crept over her like a spell, until, as she looked at
the red coals, a tired, slow smile stole over her smudged face, her
head nodded forward without her being aware of it, her eyes drooped,
and she fell fast asleep.  She had really been only about ten minutes
in the room when Sara entered, but she was in as deep a sleep as if she
had been, like the Sleeping Beauty, slumbering for a hundred years.
But she did not look--poor Becky--like a Sleeping Beauty at all.  She
looked only like an ugly, stunted, worn-out little scullery drudge.

Sara seemed as much unlike her as if she were a creature from another
world.

On this particular afternoon she had been taking her dancing lesson,
and the afternoon on which the dancing master appeared was rather a
grand occasion at the seminary, though it occurred every week. The
pupils were attired in their prettiest frocks, and as Sara danced
particularly well, she was very much brought forward, and Mariette was
requested to make her as diaphanous and fine as possible.

Today a frock the color of a rose had been put on her, and Mariette had
bought some real buds and made her a wreath to wear on her black locks.
She had been learning a new, delightful dance in which she had been
skimming and flying about the room, like a large rose-colored
butterfly, and the enjoyment and exercise had brought a brilliant,
happy glow into her face.

When she entered the room, she floated in with a few of the butterfly
steps--and there sat Becky, nodding her cap sideways off her head.

"Oh!" cried Sara, softly, when she saw her.  "That poor thing!"

It did not occur to her to feel cross at finding her pet chair occupied
by the small, dingy figure.  To tell the truth, she was quite glad to
find it there.  When the ill-used heroine of her story wakened, she
could talk to her.  She crept toward her quietly, and stood looking at
her.  Becky gave a little snore.

"I wish she'd waken herself," Sara said.  "I don't like to waken her.
But Miss Minchin would be cross if she found out.  I'll just wait a few
minutes."

She took a seat on the edge of the table, and sat swinging her slim,
rose-colored legs, and wondering what it would be best to do. Miss
Amelia might come in at any moment, and if she did, Becky would be sure
to be scolded.

"But she is so tired," she thought.  "She is so tired!"

A piece of flaming coal ended her perplexity for her that very moment.
It broke off from a large lump and fell on to the fender. Becky
started, and opened her eyes with a frightened gasp.  She did not know
she had fallen asleep.  She had only sat down for one moment and felt
the beautiful glow--and here she found herself staring in wild alarm at
the wonderful pupil, who sat perched quite near her, like a
rose-colored fairy, with interested eyes.

She sprang up and clutched at her cap.  She felt it dangling over her
ear, and tried wildly to put it straight.  Oh, she had got herself into
trouble now with a vengeance!  To have impudently fallen asleep on such
a young lady's chair!  She would be turned out of doors without wages.

She made a sound like a big breathless sob.

"Oh, miss!  Oh, miss!" she stuttered.  "I arst yer pardon, miss!  Oh, I
do, miss!"

Sara jumped down, and came quite close to her.

"Don't be frightened," she said, quite as if she had been speaking to a
little girl like herself.  "It doesn't matter the least bit."

"I didn't go to do it, miss," protested Becky.  "It was the warm
fire--an' me bein' so tired.  It--it WASN'T impertience!"

Sara broke into a friendly little laugh, and put her hand on her
shoulder.

"You were tired," she said; "you could not help it.  You are not really
awake yet."

How poor Becky stared at her!  In fact, she had never heard such a
nice, friendly sound in anyone's voice before.  She was used to being
ordered about and scolded, and having her ears boxed. And this one--in
her rose-colored dancing afternoon splendor--was looking at her as if
she were not a culprit at all--as if she had a right to be tired--even
to fall asleep!  The touch of the soft, slim little paw on her shoulder
was the most amazing thing she had ever known.

"Ain't--ain't yer angry, miss?" she gasped.  "Ain't yer goin' to tell
the missus?"

"No," cried out Sara.  "Of course I'm not."

The woeful fright in the coal-smutted face made her suddenly so sorry
that she could scarcely bear it.  One of her queer thoughts rushed into
her mind.  She put her hand against Becky's cheek.

"Why," she said, "we are just the same--I am only a little girl like
you. It's just an accident that I am not you, and you are not me!"

Becky did not understand in the least.  Her mind could not grasp such
amazing thoughts, and "an accident" meant to her a calamity in which
some one was run over or fell off a ladder and was carried to "the
'orspital."

"A' accident, miss," she fluttered respectfully.  "Is it?"

"Yes," Sara answered, and she looked at her dreamily for a moment. But
the next she spoke in a different tone.  She realized that Becky did
not know what she meant.

"Have you done your work?" she asked.  "Dare you stay here a few
minutes?"

Becky lost her breath again.

"Here, miss?  Me?"

Sara ran to the door, opened it, and looked out and listened.

"No one is anywhere about," she explained.  "If your bedrooms are
finished, perhaps you might stay a tiny while.  I thought--perhaps--you
might like a piece of cake."

The next ten minutes seemed to Becky like a sort of delirium.  Sara
opened a cupboard, and gave her a thick slice of cake. She seemed to
rejoice when it was devoured in hungry bites. She talked and asked
questions, and laughed until Becky's fears actually began to calm
themselves, and she once or twice gathered boldness enough to ask a
question or so herself, daring as she felt it to be.

"Is that--" she ventured, looking longingly at the rose-colored frock.
And she asked it almost in a whisper.  "Is that there your best?"

"It is one of my dancing-frocks," answered Sara.  "I like it, don't
you?"

For a few seconds Becky was almost speechless with admiration.  Then
she said in an awed voice, "Onct I see a princess.  I was standin' in
the street with the crowd outside Covin' Garden, watchin' the swells go
inter the operer.  An' there was one everyone stared at most.  They ses
to each other, 'That's the princess.' She was a growed-up young lady,
but she was pink all over--gownd an' cloak, an' flowers an' all.  I
called her to mind the minnit I see you, sittin' there on the table,
miss.  You looked like her."

"I've often thought," said Sara, in her reflecting voice, "that I
should like to be a princess; I wonder what it feels like. I believe I
will begin pretending I am one."

Becky stared at her admiringly, and, as before, did not understand her
in the least.  She watched her with a sort of adoration. Very soon Sara
left her reflections and turned to her with a new question.

"Becky," she said, "weren't you listening to that story?"

"Yes, miss," confessed Becky, a little alarmed again.  "I knowed I
hadn't orter, but it was that beautiful I--I couldn't help it."

"I liked you to listen to it," said Sara.  "If you tell stories, you
like nothing so much as to tell them to people who want to listen. I
don't know why it is.  Would you like to hear the rest?"

Becky lost her breath again.

"Me hear it?" she cried.  "Like as if I was a pupil, miss!  All about
the Prince--and the little white Mer-babies swimming about
laughing--with stars in their hair?"

Sara nodded.

"You haven't time to hear it now, I'm afraid," she said; "but if you
will tell me just what time you come to do my rooms, I will try to be
here and tell you a bit of it every day until it is finished. It's a
lovely long one--and I'm always putting new bits to it."

"Then," breathed Becky, devoutly, "I wouldn't mind HOW heavy the coal
boxes was--or WHAT the cook done to me, if--if I might have that to
think of."

"You may," said Sara.  "I'll tell it ALL to you."

When Becky went downstairs, she was not the same Becky who had
staggered up, loaded down by the weight of the coal scuttle. She had an
extra piece of cake in her pocket, and she had been fed and warmed, but
not only by cake and fire.  Something else had warmed and fed her, and
the something else was Sara.

When she was gone Sara sat on her favorite perch on the end of her
table.  Her feet were on a chair, her elbows on her knees, and her chin
in her hands.

"If I WAS a princess--a REAL princess," she murmured, "I could scatter
largess to the populace.  But even if I am only a pretend princess, I
can invent little things to do for people. Things like this.  She was
just as happy as if it was largess. I'll pretend that to do things
people like is scattering largess.  I've scattered largess."


Not very long after this a very exciting thing happened. Not only Sara,
but the entire school, found it exciting, and made it the chief subject
of conversation for weeks after it occurred.  In one of his letters
Captain Crewe told a most interesting story. A friend who had been at
school with him when he was a boy had unexpectedly come to see him in
India.  He was the owner of a large tract of land upon which diamonds
had been found, and he was engaged in developing the mines.  If all
went as was confidently expected, he would become possessed of such
wealth as it made one dizzy to think of; and because he was fond of the
friend of his school days, he had given him an opportunity to share in
this enormous fortune by becoming a partner in his scheme.  This, at
least, was what Sara gathered from his letters.  It is true that any
other business scheme, however magnificent, would have had but small
attraction for her or for the schoolroom; but "diamond mines" sounded
so like the Arabian Nights that no one could be indifferent.  Sara
thought them enchanting, and painted pictures, for Ermengarde and
Lottie, of labyrinthine passages in the bowels of the earth, where
sparkling stones studded the walls and roofs and ceilings, and strange,
dark men dug them out with heavy picks.  Ermengarde delighted in the
story, and Lottie insisted on its being retold to her every evening.
Lavinia was very spiteful about it, and told Jessie that she didn't
believe such things as diamond mines existed.

"My mamma has a diamond ring which cost forty pounds," she said.  "And
it is not a big one, either.  If there were mines full of diamonds,
people would be so rich it would be ridiculous."

"Perhaps Sara will be so rich that she will be ridiculous," giggled
Jessie.

"She's ridiculous without being rich," Lavinia sniffed.

"I believe you hate her," said Jessie.

"No, I don't," snapped Lavinia.  "But I don't believe in mines full of
diamonds."

"Well, people have to get them from somewhere," said Jessie.
"Lavinia," with a new giggle, "what do you think Gertrude says?"

"I don't know, I'm sure; and I don't care if it's something more about
that everlasting Sara."

"Well, it is.  One of her 'pretends' is that she is a princess.  She
plays it all the time--even in school.  She says it makes her learn her
lessons better.  She wants Ermengarde to be one, too, but Ermengarde
says she is too fat."

"She IS too fat," said Lavinia.  "And Sara is too thin."

Naturally, Jessie giggled again.

"She says it has nothing to do with what you look like, or what you
have.  It has only to do with what you THINK of, and what you DO."

"I suppose she thinks she could be a princess if she was a beggar,"
said Lavinia.  "Let us begin to call her Your Royal Highness."

Lessons for the day were over, and they were sitting before the
schoolroom fire, enjoying the time they liked best.  It was the time
when Miss Minchin and Miss Amelia were taking their tea in the sitting
room sacred to themselves.  At this hour a great deal of talking was
done, and a great many secrets changed hands, particularly if the
younger pupils behaved themselves well, and did not squabble or run
about noisily, which it must be confessed they usually did.  When they
made an uproar the older girls usually interfered with scolding and
shakes.  They were expected to keep order, and there was danger that if
they did not, Miss Minchin or Miss Amelia would appear and put an end
to festivities. Even as Lavinia spoke the door opened and Sara entered
with Lottie, whose habit was to trot everywhere after her like a little
dog.

"There she is, with that horrid child!" exclaimed Lavinia in a whisper.
"If she's so fond of her, why doesn't she keep her in her own room? She
will begin howling about something in five minutes."

It happened that Lottie had been seized with a sudden desire to play in
the schoolroom, and had begged her adopted parent to come with her. She
joined a group of little ones who were playing in a corner. Sara curled
herself up in the window-seat, opened a book, and began to read.  It
was a book about the French Revolution, and she was soon lost in a
harrowing picture of the prisoners in the Bastille--men who had spent
so many years in dungeons that when they were dragged out by those who
rescued them, their long, gray hair and beards almost hid their faces,
and they had forgotten that an outside world existed at all, and were
like beings in a dream.

She was so far away from the schoolroom that it was not agreeable to be
dragged back suddenly by a howl from Lottie.  Never did she find
anything so difficult as to keep herself from losing her temper when
she was suddenly disturbed while absorbed in a book. People who are
fond of books know the feeling of irritation which sweeps over them at
such a moment.  The temptation to be unreasonable and snappish is one
not easy to manage.

"It makes me feel as if someone had hit me," Sara had told Ermengarde
once in confidence.  "And as if I want to hit back.  I have to remember
things quickly to keep from saying something ill-tempered."

She had to remember things quickly when she laid her book on the
window-seat and jumped down from her comfortable corner.

Lottie had been sliding across the schoolroom floor, and, having first
irritated Lavinia and Jessie by making a noise, had ended by falling
down and hurting her fat knee.  She was screaming and dancing up and
down in the midst of a group of friends and enemies, who were
alternately coaxing and scolding her.

"Stop this minute, you cry-baby!  Stop this minute!"  Lavinia commanded.

"I'm not a cry-baby ... I'm not!" wailed Lottie.  "Sara, Sa--ra!"

"If she doesn't stop, Miss Minchin will hear her," cried Jessie.
"Lottie darling, I'll give you a penny!"

"I don't want your penny," sobbed Lottie; and she looked down at the
fat knee, and, seeing a drop of blood on it, burst forth again.

Sara flew across the room and, kneeling down, put her arms round her.

"Now, Lottie," she said.  "Now, Lottie, you PROMISED Sara."

"She said I was a cry-baby," wept Lottie.

Sara patted her, but spoke in the steady voice Lottie knew.

"But if you cry, you will be one, Lottie pet.  You PROMISED." Lottie
remembered that she had promised, but she preferred to lift up her
voice.

"I haven't any mamma," she proclaimed.  "I haven't--a bit--of mamma."

"Yes, you have," said Sara, cheerfully.  "Have you forgotten?  Don't
you know that Sara is your mamma?  Don't you want Sara for your mamma?"

Lottie cuddled up to her with a consoled sniff.

"Come and sit in the window-seat with me," Sara went on, "and I'll
whisper a story to you."

"Will you?" whimpered Lottie.  "Will you--tell me--about the diamond
mines?"

"The diamond mines?" broke out Lavinia.  "Nasty, little spoiled thing,
I should like to SLAP her!"

Sara got up quickly on her feet.  It must be remembered that she had
been very deeply absorbed in the book about the Bastille, and she had
had to recall several things rapidly when she realized that she must go
and take care of her adopted child.  She was not an angel, and she was
not fond of Lavinia.

"Well," she said, with some fire, "I should like to slap YOU--but I
don't want to slap you!" restraining herself.  "At least I both want to
slap you--and I should LIKE to slap you--but I WON'T slap you.  We are
not little gutter children.  We are both old enough to know better."

Here was Lavinia's opportunity.

"Ah, yes, your royal highness," she said.  "We are princesses, I
believe.  At least one of us is.  The school ought to be very
fashionable now Miss Minchin has a princess for a pupil."

Sara started toward her.  She looked as if she were going to box her
ears.  Perhaps she was.  Her trick of pretending things was the joy of
her life.  She never spoke of it to girls she was not fond of. Her new
"pretend" about being a princess was very near to her heart, and she
was shy and sensitive about it.  She had meant it to be rather a
secret, and here was Lavinia deriding it before nearly all the school.
She felt the blood rush up into her face and tingle in her ears. She
only just saved herself.  If you were a princess, you did not fly into
rages.  Her hand dropped, and she stood quite still a moment. When she
spoke it was in a quiet, steady voice; she held her head up, and
everybody listened to her.

"It's true," she said.  "Sometimes I do pretend I am a princess.  I
pretend I am a princess, so that I can try and behave like one."

Lavinia could not think of exactly the right thing to say.  Several
times she had found that she could not think of a satisfactory reply
when she was dealing with Sara.  The reason for this was that, somehow,
the rest always seemed to be vaguely in sympathy with her opponent. She
saw now that they were pricking up their ears interestedly. The truth
was, they liked princesses, and they all hoped they might hear
something more definite about this one, and drew nearer Sara
accordingly.

Lavinia could only invent one remark, and it fell rather flat.

"Dear me," she said, "I hope, when you ascend the throne, you won't
forget us!"

"I won't," said Sara, and she did not utter another word, but stood
quite still, and stared at her steadily as she saw her take Jessie's
arm and turn away.

After this, the girls who were jealous of her used to speak of her as
"Princess Sara" whenever they wished to be particularly disdainful, and
those who were fond of her gave her the name among themselves as a term
of affection.  No one called her "princess" instead of "Sara," but her
adorers were much pleased with the picturesqueness and grandeur of the
title, and Miss Minchin, hearing of it, mentioned it more than once to
visiting parents, feeling that it rather suggested a sort of royal
boarding school.

To Becky it seemed the most appropriate thing in the world. The
acquaintance begun on the foggy afternoon when she had jumped up
terrified from her sleep in the comfortable chair, had ripened and
grown, though it must be confessed that Miss Minchin and Miss Amelia
knew very little about it.  They were aware that Sara was "kind" to the
scullery maid, but they knew nothing of certain delightful moments
snatched perilously when, the upstairs rooms being set in order with
lightning rapidity, Sara's sitting room was reached, and the heavy coal
box set down with a sigh of joy. At such times stories were told by
installments, things of a satisfying nature were either produced and
eaten or hastily tucked into pockets to be disposed of at night, when
Becky went upstairs to her attic to bed.

"But I has to eat 'em careful, miss," she said once; "'cos if I leaves
crumbs the rats come out to get 'em."

"Rats!" exclaimed Sara, in horror.  "Are there RATS there?"

"Lots of 'em, miss," Becky answered in quite a matter-of-fact manner.
"There mostly is rats an' mice in attics.  You gets used to the noise
they makes scuttling about.  I've got so I don't mind 'em s' long as
they don't run over my piller."

"Ugh!" said Sara.

"You gets used to anythin' after a bit," said Becky.  "You have to,
miss, if you're born a scullery maid.  I'd rather have rats than
cockroaches."

"So would I," said Sara; "I suppose you might make friends with a rat
in time, but I don't believe I should like to make friends with a
cockroach."

Sometimes Becky did not dare to spend more than a few minutes in the
bright, warm room, and when this was the case perhaps only a few words
could be exchanged, and a small purchase slipped into the old-fashioned
pocket Becky carried under her dress skirt, tied round her waist with a
band of tape.  The search for and discovery of satisfying things to eat
which could be packed into small compass, added a new interest to
Sara's existence.  When she drove or walked out, she used to look into
shop windows eagerly. The first time it occurred to her to bring home
two or three little meat pies, she felt that she had hit upon a
discovery. When she exhibited them, Becky's eyes quite sparkled.

"Oh, miss!" she murmured.  "Them will be nice an' fillin.' It's
fillin'ness that's best.  Sponge cake's a 'evenly thing, but it melts
away like--if you understand, miss.  These'll just STAY in yer
stummick."

"Well," hesitated Sara, "I don't think it would be good if they stayed
always, but I do believe they will be satisfying."

They were satisfying--and so were beef sandwiches, bought at a
cook-shop--and so were rolls and Bologna sausage.  In time, Becky began
to lose her hungry, tired feeling, and the coal box did not seem so
unbearably heavy.

However heavy it was, and whatsoever the temper of the cook, and the
hardness of the work heaped upon her shoulders, she had always the
chance of the afternoon to look forward to--the chance that Miss Sara
would be able to be in her sitting room.  In fact, the mere seeing of
Miss Sara would have been enough without meat pies. If there was time
only for a few words, they were always friendly, merry words that put
heart into one; and if there was time for more, then there was an
installment of a story to be told, or some other thing one remembered
afterward and sometimes lay awake in one's bed in the attic to think
over.  Sara--who was only doing what she unconsciously liked better
than anything else, Nature having made her for a giver--had not the
least idea what she meant to poor Becky, and how wonderful a benefactor
she seemed. If Nature has made you for a giver, your hands are born
open, and so is your heart; and though there may be times when your
hands are empty, your heart is always full, and you can give things out
of that--warm things, kind things, sweet things--help and comfort and
laughter--and sometimes gay, kind laughter is the best help of all.

Becky had scarcely known what laughter was through all her poor, little
hard-driven life.  Sara made her laugh, and laughed with her; and,
though neither of them quite knew it, the laughter was as "fillin'" as
the meat pies.

A few weeks before Sara's eleventh birthday a letter came to her from
her father, which did not seem to be written in such boyish high
spirits as usual.  He was not very well, and was evidently overweighted
by the business connected with the diamond mines.

"You see, little Sara," he wrote, "your daddy is not a businessman at
all, and figures and documents bother him.  He does not really
understand them, and all this seems so enormous.  Perhaps, if I was not
feverish I should not be awake, tossing about, one half of the night
and spend the other half in troublesome dreams.  If my little missus
were here, I dare say she would give me some solemn, good advice.  You
would, wouldn't you, Little Missus?"

One of his many jokes had been to call her his "little missus" because
she had such an old-fashioned air.

He had made wonderful preparations for her birthday.  Among other
things, a new doll had been ordered in Paris, and her wardrobe was to
be, indeed, a marvel of splendid perfection.  When she had replied to
the letter asking her if the doll would be an acceptable present, Sara
had been very quaint.

"I am getting very old," she wrote; "you see, I shall never live to
have another doll given me.  This will be my last doll. There is
something solemn about it.  If I could write poetry, I am sure a poem
about 'A Last Doll' would be very nice. But I cannot write poetry.  I
have tried, and it made me laugh. It did not sound like Watts or
Coleridge or Shakespeare at all. No one could ever take Emily's place,
but I should respect the Last Doll very much; and I am sure the school
would love it.  They all like dolls, though some of the big ones--the
almost fifteen ones--pretend they are too grown up."

Captain Crewe had a splitting headache when he read this letter in his
bungalow in India.  The table before him was heaped with papers and
letters which were alarming him and filling him with anxious dread, but
he laughed as he had not laughed for weeks.

"Oh," he said, "she's better fun every year she lives.  God grant this
business may right itself and leave me free to run home and see her.
What wouldn't I give to have her little arms round my neck this minute!
What WOULDN'T I give!"

The birthday was to be celebrated by great festivities.  The schoolroom
was to be decorated, and there was to be a party.  The boxes containing
the presents were to be opened with great ceremony, and there was to be
a glittering feast spread in Miss Minchin's sacred room. When the day
arrived the whole house was in a whirl of excitement. How the morning
passed nobody quite knew, because there seemed such preparations to be
made.  The schoolroom was being decked with garlands of holly; the
desks had been moved away, and red covers had been put on the forms
which were arrayed round the room against the wall.

When Sara went into her sitting room in the morning, she found on the
table a small, dumpy package, tied up in a piece of brown paper. She
knew it was a present, and she thought she could guess whom it came
from.  She opened it quite tenderly.  It was a square pincushion, made
of not quite clean red flannel, and black pins had been stuck carefully
into it to form the words, "Menny hapy returns."

"Oh!" cried Sara, with a warm feeling in her heart.  "What pains she
has taken!  I like it so, it--it makes me feel sorrowful."

But the next moment she was mystified.  On the under side of the
pincushion was secured a card, bearing in neat letters the name "Miss
Amelia Minchin."

Sara turned it over and over.

"Miss Amelia!" she said to herself "How CAN it be!"

And just at that very moment she heard the door being cautiously pushed
open and saw Becky peeping round it.

There was an affectionate, happy grin on her face, and she shuffled
forward and stood nervously pulling at her fingers.

"Do yer like it, Miss Sara?" she said.  "Do yer?"

"Like it?" cried Sara.  "You darling Becky, you made it all yourself."

Becky gave a hysteric but joyful sniff, and her eyes looked quite moist
with delight.

"It ain't nothin' but flannin, an' the flannin ain't new; but I wanted
to give yer somethin' an' I made it of nights. I knew yer could PRETEND
it was satin with diamond pins in. _I_ tried to when I was makin' it.
The card, miss," rather doubtfully; "'t warn't wrong of me to pick it
up out o' the dust-bin, was it?  Miss 'Meliar had throwed it away.  I
hadn't no card o' my own, an' I knowed it wouldn't be a proper presink
if I didn't pin a card on--so I pinned Miss 'Meliar's."

Sara flew at her and hugged her.  She could not have told herself or
anyone else why there was a lump in her throat.

"Oh, Becky!" she cried out, with a queer little laugh, "I love you,
Becky--I do, I do!"

"Oh, miss!" breathed Becky.  "Thank yer, miss, kindly; it ain't good
enough for that.  The--the flannin wasn't new."



The Diamond Mines Again


When Sara entered the holly-hung schoolroom in the afternoon, she did
so as the head of a sort of procession.  Miss Minchin, in her grandest
silk dress, led her by the hand.  A manservant followed, carrying the
box containing the Last Doll, a housemaid carried a second box, and
Becky brought up the rear, carrying a third and wearing a clean apron
and a new cap.  Sara would have much preferred to enter in the usual
way, but Miss Minchin had sent for her, and, after an interview in her
private sitting room, had expressed her wishes.

"This is not an ordinary occasion," she said.  "I do not desire that it
should be treated as one."

So Sara was led grandly in and felt shy when, on her entry, the big
girls stared at her and touched each other's elbows, and the little
ones began to squirm joyously in their seats.

"Silence, young ladies!" said Miss Minchin, at the murmur which arose.
"James, place the box on the table and remove the lid.  Emma, put yours
upon a chair.  Becky!" suddenly and severely.

Becky had quite forgotten herself in her excitement, and was grinning
at Lottie, who was wriggling with rapturous expectation. She almost
dropped her box, the disapproving voice so startled her, and her
frightened, bobbing curtsy of apology was so funny that Lavinia and
Jessie tittered.

"It is not your place to look at the young ladies," said Miss Minchin.
"You forget yourself.  Put your box down."

Becky obeyed with alarmed haste and hastily backed toward the door.

"You may leave us," Miss Minchin announced to the servants with a wave
of her hand.

Becky stepped aside respectfully to allow the superior servants to pass
out first.  She could not help casting a longing glance at the box on
the table.  Something made of blue satin was peeping from between the
folds of tissue paper.

"If you please, Miss Minchin," said Sara, suddenly, "mayn't Becky stay?"

It was a bold thing to do.  Miss Minchin was betrayed into something
like a slight jump.  Then she put her eyeglass up, and gazed at her
show pupil disturbedly.

"Becky!" she exclaimed.  "My dearest Sara!"

Sara advanced a step toward her.

"I want her because I know she will like to see the presents," she
explained.  "She is a little girl, too, you know."

Miss Minchin was scandalized.  She glanced from one figure to the other.

"My dear Sara," she said, "Becky is the scullery maid. Scullery
maids--er--are not little girls."

It really had not occurred to her to think of them in that light.
Scullery maids were machines who carried coal scuttles and made fires.

"But Becky is," said Sara.  "And I know she would enjoy herself.
Please let her stay--because it is my birthday."

Miss Minchin replied with much dignity:

"As you ask it as a birthday favor--she may stay.  Rebecca, thank Miss
Sara for her great kindness."

Becky had been backing into the corner, twisting the hem of her apron
in delighted suspense.  She came forward, bobbing curtsies, but between
Sara's eyes and her own there passed a gleam of friendly understanding,
while her words tumbled over each other.

"Oh, if you please, miss!  I'm that grateful, miss!  I did want to see
the doll, miss, that I did.  Thank you, miss.  And thank you,
ma'am,"--turning and making an alarmed bob to Miss Minchin--"for
letting me take the liberty."

Miss Minchin waved her hand again--this time it was in the direction of
the corner near the door.

"Go and stand there," she commanded.  "Not too near the young ladies."

Becky went to her place, grinning.  She did not care where she was
sent, so that she might have the luck of being inside the room, instead
of being downstairs in the scullery, while these delights were going
on.  She did not even mind when Miss Minchin cleared her throat
ominously and spoke again.

"Now, young ladies, I have a few words to say to you," she announced.

"She's going to make a speech," whispered one of the girls. "I wish it
was over."

Sara felt rather uncomfortable.  As this was her party, it was probable
that the speech was about her.  It is not agreeable to stand in a
schoolroom and have a speech made about you.

"You are aware, young ladies," the speech began--for it was a
speech--"that dear Sara is eleven years old today."

"DEAR Sara!" murmured Lavinia.

"Several of you here have also been eleven years old, but Sara's
birthdays are rather different from other little girls' birthdays. When
she is older she will be heiress to a large fortune, which it will be
her duty to spend in a meritorious manner."

"The diamond mines," giggled Jessie, in a whisper.

Sara did not hear her; but as she stood with her green-gray eyes fixed
steadily on Miss Minchin, she felt herself growing rather hot. When
Miss Minchin talked about money, she felt somehow that she always hated
her--and, of course, it was disrespectful to hate grown-up people.

"When her dear papa, Captain Crewe, brought her from India and gave her
into my care," the speech proceeded, "he said to me, in a jesting way,
'I am afraid she will be very rich, Miss Minchin.' My reply was, 'Her
education at my seminary, Captain Crewe, shall be such as will adorn
the largest fortune.'  Sara has become my most accomplished pupil. Her
French and her dancing are a credit to the seminary.  Her
manners--which have caused you to call her Princess Sara--are perfect.
Her amiability she exhibits by giving you this afternoon's party. I
hope you appreciate her generosity.  I wish you to express your
appreciation of it by saying aloud all together, 'Thank you, Sara!'"

The entire schoolroom rose to its feet as it had done the morning Sara
remembered so well.

"Thank you, Sara!" it said, and it must be confessed that Lottie jumped
up and down.  Sara looked rather shy for a moment. She made a
curtsy--and it was a very nice one.

"Thank you," she said, "for coming to my party."

"Very pretty, indeed, Sara," approved Miss Minchin.  "That is what a
real princess does when the populace applauds her.
Lavinia"--scathingly--"the sound you just made was extremely like a
snort.  If you are jealous of your fellow-pupil, I beg you will express
your feelings in some more lady-like manner.  Now I will leave you to
enjoy yourselves."

The instant she had swept out of the room the spell her presence always
had upon them was broken.  The door had scarcely closed before every
seat was empty.  The little girls jumped or tumbled out of theirs; the
older ones wasted no time in deserting theirs. There was a rush toward
the boxes.  Sara had bent over one of them with a delighted face.

"These are books, I know," she said.

The little children broke into a rueful murmur, and Ermengarde looked
aghast.

"Does your papa send you books for a birthday present?" she exclaimed.
"Why, he's as bad as mine.  Don't open them, Sara."

"I like them," Sara laughed, but she turned to the biggest box.  When
she took out the Last Doll it was so magnificent that the children
uttered delighted groans of joy, and actually drew back to gaze at it
in breathless rapture.

"She is almost as big as Lottie," someone gasped.

Lottie clapped her hands and danced about, giggling.

"She's dressed for the theater," said Lavinia.  "Her cloak is lined
with ermine."

"Oh," cried Ermengarde, darting forward, "she has an opera-glass in her
hand--a blue-and-gold one!"

"Here is her trunk," said Sara.  "Let us open it and look at her
things."

She sat down upon the floor and turned the key.  The children crowded
clamoring around her, as she lifted tray after tray and revealed their
contents.  Never had the schoolroom been in such an uproar. There were
lace collars and silk stockings and handkerchiefs; there was a jewel
case containing a necklace and a tiara which looked quite as if they
were made of real diamonds; there was a long sealskin and muff, there
were ball dresses and walking dresses and visiting dresses; there were
hats and tea gowns and fans. Even Lavinia and Jessie forgot that they
were too elderly to care for dolls, and uttered exclamations of delight
and caught up things to look at them.

"Suppose," Sara said, as she stood by the table, putting a large,
black-velvet hat on the impassively smiling owner of all these
splendors--"suppose she understands human talk and feels proud of being
admired."

"You are always supposing things," said Lavinia, and her air was very
superior.

"I know I am," answered Sara, undisturbedly.  "I like it.  There is
nothing so nice as supposing.  It's almost like being a fairy.  If you
suppose anything hard enough it seems as if it were real."

"It's all very well to suppose things if you have everything," said
Lavinia.  "Could you suppose and pretend if you were a beggar and lived
in a garret?"

Sara stopped arranging the Last Doll's ostrich plumes, and looked
thoughtful.

"I BELIEVE I could," she said.  "If one was a beggar, one would have to
suppose and pretend all the time.  But it mightn't be easy."

She often thought afterward how strange it was that just as she had
finished saying this--just at that very moment--Miss Amelia came into
the room.

"Sara," she said, "your papa's solicitor, Mr. Barrow, has called to see
Miss Minchin, and, as she must talk to him alone and the refreshments
are laid in her parlor, you had all better come and have your feast
now, so that my sister can have her interview here in the schoolroom."

Refreshments were not likely to be disdained at any hour, and many
pairs of eyes gleamed.  Miss Amelia arranged the procession into
decorum, and then, with Sara at her side heading it, she led it away,
leaving the Last Doll sitting upon a chair with the glories of her
wardrobe scattered about her; dresses and coats hung upon chair backs,
piles of lace-frilled petticoats lying upon their seats.

Becky, who was not expected to partake of refreshments, had the
indiscretion to linger a moment to look at these beauties--it really
was an indiscretion.

"Go back to your work, Becky," Miss Amelia had said; but she had
stopped to pick up reverently first a muff and then a coat, and while
she stood looking at them adoringly, she heard Miss Minchin upon the
threshold, and, being smitten with terror at the thought of being
accused of taking liberties, she rashly darted under the table, which
hid her by its tablecloth.

Miss Minchin came into the room, accompanied by a sharp-featured, dry
little gentleman, who looked rather disturbed.  Miss Minchin herself
also looked rather disturbed, it must be admitted, and she gazed at the
dry little gentleman with an irritated and puzzled expression.

She sat down with stiff dignity, and waved him to a chair.

"Pray, be seated, Mr. Barrow," she said.

Mr. Barrow did not sit down at once.  His attention seemed attracted by
the Last Doll and the things which surrounded her.  He settled his
eyeglasses and looked at them in nervous disapproval. The Last Doll
herself did not seem to mind this in the least. She merely sat upright
and returned his gaze indifferently.

"A hundred pounds," Mr. Barrow remarked succinctly. "All expensive
material, and made at a Parisian modiste's. He spent money lavishly
enough, that young man."

Miss Minchin felt offended.  This seemed to be a disparagement of her
best patron and was a liberty.

Even solicitors had no right to take liberties.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Barrow," she said stiffly.  "I do not
understand."

"Birthday presents," said Mr. Barrow in the same critical manner, "to a
child eleven years old!  Mad extravagance, I call it."

Miss Minchin drew herself up still more rigidly.

"Captain Crewe is a man of fortune," she said.  "The diamond mines
alone--"

Mr. Barrow wheeled round upon her.  "Diamond mines!" he broke out.
"There are none!  Never were!"

Miss Minchin actually got up from her chair.

"What!" she cried.  "What do you mean?"

"At any rate," answered Mr. Barrow, quite snappishly, "it would have
been much better if there never had been any."

"Any diamond mines?" ejaculated Miss Minchin, catching at the back of a
chair and feeling as if a splendid dream was fading away from her.

"Diamond mines spell ruin oftener than they spell wealth," said Mr.
Barrow.  "When a man is in the hands of a very dear friend and is not a
businessman himself, he had better steer clear of the dear friend's
diamond mines, or gold mines, or any other kind of mines dear friends
want his money to put into.  The late Captain Crewe--"

Here Miss Minchin stopped him with a gasp.

"The LATE Captain Crewe!" she cried out.  "The LATE! You don't come to
tell me that Captain Crewe is--"

"He's dead, ma'am," Mr. Barrow answered with jerky brusqueness.  "Died
of jungle fever and business troubles combined.  The jungle fever might
not have killed him if he had not been driven mad by the business
troubles, and the business troubles might not have put an end to him if
the jungle fever had not assisted.  Captain Crewe is dead!"

Miss Minchin dropped into her chair again.  The words he had spoken
filled her with alarm.

"What WERE his business troubles?" she said.  "What WERE they?"

"Diamond mines," answered Mr. Barrow, "and dear friends--and ruin."

Miss Minchin lost her breath.

"Ruin!" she gasped out.

"Lost every penny.  That young man had too much money.  The dear friend
was mad on the subject of the diamond mine.  He put all his own money
into it, and all Captain Crewe's.  Then the dear friend ran
away--Captain Crewe was already stricken with fever when the news came.
The shock was too much for him.  He died delirious, raving about his
little girl--and didn't leave a penny."

Now Miss Minchin understood, and never had she received such a blow in
her life.  Her show pupil, her show patron, swept away from the Select
Seminary at one blow.  She felt as if she had been outraged and robbed,
and that Captain Crewe and Sara and Mr. Barrow were equally to blame.

"Do you mean to tell me," she cried out, "that he left NOTHING!  That
Sara will have no fortune!  That the child is a beggar!  That she is
left on my hands a little pauper instead of an heiress?"

Mr. Barrow was a shrewd businessman, and felt it as well to make his
own freedom from responsibility quite clear without any delay.

"She is certainly left a beggar," he replied.  "And she is certainly
left on your hands, ma'am--as she hasn't a relation in the world that
we know of."

Miss Minchin started forward.  She looked as if she was going to open
the door and rush out of the room to stop the festivities going on
joyfully and rather noisily that moment over the refreshments.

"It is monstrous!" she said.  "She's in my sitting room at this moment,
dressed in silk gauze and lace petticoats, giving a party at my
expense."

"She's giving it at your expense, madam, if she's giving it," said Mr.
Barrow, calmly.  "Barrow & Skipworth are not responsible for anything.
There never was a cleaner sweep made of a man's fortune. Captain Crewe
died without paying OUR last bill--and it was a big one."

Miss Minchin turned back from the door in increased indignation.  This
was worse than anyone could have dreamed of its being.

"That is what has happened to me!" she cried.  "I was always so sure of
his payments that I went to all sorts of ridiculous expenses for the
child.  I paid the bills for that ridiculous doll and her ridiculous
fantastic wardrobe.  The child was to have anything she wanted.  She
has a carriage and a pony and a maid, and I've paid for all of them
since the last cheque came."

Mr. Barrow evidently did not intend to remain to listen to the story of
Miss Minchin's grievances after he had made the position of his firm
clear and related the mere dry facts.  He did not feel any particular
sympathy for irate keepers of boarding schools.

"You had better not pay for anything more, ma'am," he remarked, "unless
you want to make presents to the young lady.  No one will remember you.
She hasn't a brass farthing to call her own."

"But what am I to do?" demanded Miss Minchin, as if she felt it
entirely his duty to make the matter right.  "What am I to do?"

"There isn't anything to do," said Mr. Barrow, folding up his
eyeglasses and slipping them into his pocket.  "Captain Crewe is dead.
The child is left a pauper.  Nobody is responsible for her but you."

"I am not responsible for her, and I refuse to be made responsible!"

Miss Minchin became quite white with rage.

Mr. Barrow turned to go.

"I have nothing to do with that, madam," he said uninterestedly.
"Barrow & Skipworth are not responsible.  Very sorry the thing has
happened, of course."

"If you think she is to be foisted off on me, you are greatly
mistaken," Miss Minchin gasped.  "I have been robbed and cheated; I
will turn her into the street!"

If she had not been so furious, she would have been too discreet to say
quite so much.  She saw herself burdened with an extravagantly
brought-up child whom she had always resented, and she lost all
self-control.

Mr. Barrow undisturbedly moved toward the door.

"I wouldn't do that, madam," he commented; "it wouldn't look well.
Unpleasant story to get about in connection with the establishment.
Pupil bundled out penniless and without friends."

He was a clever business man, and he knew what he was saying. He also
knew that Miss Minchin was a business woman, and would be shrewd enough
to see the truth.  She could not afford to do a thing which would make
people speak of her as cruel and hard-hearted.

"Better keep her and make use of her," he added.  "She's a clever
child, I believe.  You can get a good deal out of her as she grows
older."

"I will get a good deal out of her before she grows older!" exclaimed
Miss Minchin.

"I am sure you will, ma'am," said Mr. Barrow, with a little sinister
smile.  "I am sure you will.  Good morning!"

He bowed himself out and closed the door, and it must be confessed that
Miss Minchin stood for a few moments and glared at it.  What he had
said was quite true.  She knew it.  She had absolutely no redress. Her
show pupil had melted into nothingness, leaving only a friendless,
beggared little girl.  Such money as she herself had advanced was lost
and could not be regained.

And as she stood there breathless under her sense of injury, there fell
upon her ears a burst of gay voices from her own sacred room, which had
actually been given up to the feast. She could at least stop this.

But as she started toward the door it was opened by Miss Amelia, who,
when she caught sight of the changed, angry face, fell back a step in
alarm.

"What IS the matter, sister?" she ejaculated.

Miss Minchin's voice was almost fierce when she answered:

"Where is Sara Crewe?"

Miss Amelia was bewildered.

"Sara!" she stammered.  "Why, she's with the children in your room, of
course."

"Has she a black frock in her sumptuous wardrobe?"--in bitter irony.

"A black frock?"  Miss Amelia stammered again.  "A BLACK one?"

"She has frocks of every other color.  Has she a black one?"

Miss Amelia began to turn pale.

"No--ye-es!" she said.  "But it is too short for her.  She has only the
old black velvet, and she has outgrown it."

"Go and tell her to take off that preposterous pink silk gauze, and put
the black one on, whether it is too short or not.  She has done with
finery!"

Then Miss Amelia began to wring her fat hands and cry.

"Oh, sister!" she sniffed.  "Oh, sister!  What CAN have happened?"

Miss Minchin wasted no words.

"Captain Crewe is dead," she said.  "He has died without a penny. That
spoiled, pampered, fanciful child is left a pauper on my hands."

Miss Amelia sat down quite heavily in the nearest chair.

"Hundreds of pounds have I spent on nonsense for her.  And I shall
never see a penny of it.  Put a stop to this ridiculous party of hers.
Go and make her change her frock at once."

"I?" panted Miss Amelia.  "M-must I go and tell her now?"

"This moment!" was the fierce answer.  "Don't sit staring like a goose.
Go!"

Poor Miss Amelia was accustomed to being called a goose.  She knew, in
fact, that she was rather a goose, and that it was left to geese to do
a great many disagreeable things.  It was a somewhat embarrassing thing
to go into the midst of a room full of delighted children, and tell the
giver of the feast that she had suddenly been transformed into a little
beggar, and must go upstairs and put on an old black frock which was
too small for her.  But the thing must be done. This was evidently not
the time when questions might be asked.

She rubbed her eyes with her handkerchief until they looked quite red.
After which she got up and went out of the room, without venturing to
say another word.  When her older sister looked and spoke as she had
done just now, the wisest course to pursue was to obey orders without
any comment.  Miss Minchin walked across the room. She spoke to herself
aloud without knowing that she was doing it. During the last year the
story of the diamond mines had suggested all sorts of possibilities to
her.  Even proprietors of seminaries might make fortunes in stocks,
with the aid of owners of mines. And now, instead of looking forward to
gains, she was left to look back upon losses.

"The Princess Sara, indeed!" she said.  "The child has been pampered as
if she were a QUEEN." She was sweeping angrily past the corner table as
she said it, and the next moment she started at the sound of a loud,
sobbing sniff which issued from under the cover.

"What is that!" she exclaimed angrily.  The loud, sobbing sniff was
heard again, and she stooped and raised the hanging folds of the table
cover.

"How DARE you!" she cried out.  "How dare you!  Come out immediately!"

It was poor Becky who crawled out, and her cap was knocked on one side,
and her face was red with repressed crying.

"If you please, 'm--it's me, mum," she explained.  "I know I hadn't
ought to.  But I was lookin' at the doll, mum--an' I was frightened
when you come in--an' slipped under the table."

"You have been there all the time, listening," said Miss Minchin.

"No, mum," Becky protested, bobbing curtsies.  "Not listenin'--I
thought I could slip out without your noticin', but I couldn't an' I
had to stay.  But I didn't listen, mum--I wouldn't for nothin'. But I
couldn't help hearin'."

Suddenly it seemed almost as if she lost all fear of the awful lady
before her.  She burst into fresh tears.

"Oh, please, 'm," she said; "I dare say you'll give me warnin', mum--but
I'm so sorry for poor Miss Sara--I'm so sorry!"

"Leave the room!" ordered Miss Minchin.

Becky curtsied again, the tears openly streaming down her cheeks.

"Yes, 'm; I will, 'm," she said, trembling; "but oh, I just wanted to
arst you:  Miss Sara--she's been such a rich young lady, an' she's been
waited on, 'and and foot; an' what will she do now, mum, without no
maid?  If--if, oh please, would you let me wait on her after I've done
my pots an' kettles?  I'd do 'em that quick--if you'd let me wait on
her now she's poor.  Oh," breaking out afresh, "poor little Miss Sara,
mum--that was called a princess."

Somehow, she made Miss Minchin feel more angry than ever.  That the
very scullery maid should range herself on the side of this child--whom
she realized more fully than ever that she had never liked--was too
much.  She actually stamped her foot.

"No--certainly not," she said.  "She will wait on herself, and on other
people, too.  Leave the room this instant, or you'll leave your place."

Becky threw her apron over her head and fled.  She ran out of the room
and down the steps into the scullery, and there she sat down among her
pots and kettles, and wept as if her heart would break.

"It's exactly like the ones in the stories," she wailed. "Them pore
princess ones that was drove into the world."

Miss Minchin had never looked quite so still and hard as she did when
Sara came to her, a few hours later, in response to a message she had
sent her.

Even by that time it seemed to Sara as if the birthday party had either
been a dream or a thing which had happened years ago, and had happened
in the life of quite another little girl.

Every sign of the festivities had been swept away; the holly had been
removed from the schoolroom walls, and the forms and desks put back
into their places.  Miss Minchin's sitting room looked as it always
did--all traces of the feast were gone, and Miss Minchin had resumed
her usual dress.  The pupils had been ordered to lay aside their party
frocks; and this having been done, they had returned to the schoolroom
and huddled together in groups, whispering and talking excitedly.

"Tell Sara to come to my room," Miss Minchin had said to her sister.
"And explain to her clearly that I will have no crying or unpleasant
scenes."

"Sister," replied Miss Amelia, "she is the strangest child I ever saw.
She has actually made no fuss at all.  You remember she made none when
Captain Crewe went back to India.  When I told her what had happened,
she just stood quite still and looked at me without making a sound.
Her eyes seemed to get bigger and bigger, and she went quite pale.
When I had finished, she still stood staring for a few seconds, and
then her chin began to shake, and she turned round and ran out of the
room and upstairs.  Several of the other children began to cry, but she
did not seem to hear them or to be alive to anything but just what I
was saying. It made me feel quite queer not to be answered; and when
you tell anything sudden and strange, you expect people will say
SOMETHING--whatever it is."

Nobody but Sara herself ever knew what had happened in her room after
she had run upstairs and locked her door.  In fact, she herself
scarcely remembered anything but that she walked up and down, saying
over and over again to herself in a voice which did not seem her own,
"My papa is dead!  My papa is dead!"

Once she stopped before Emily, who sat watching her from her chair, and
cried out wildly, "Emily!  Do you hear?  Do you hear--papa is dead? He
is dead in India--thousands of miles away."

When she came into Miss Minchin's sitting room in answer to her
summons, her face was white and her eyes had dark rings around them.
Her mouth was set as if she did not wish it to reveal what she had
suffered and was suffering.  She did not look in the least like the
rose-colored butterfly child who had flown about from one of her
treasures to the other in the decorated schoolroom. She looked instead
a strange, desolate, almost grotesque little figure.

She had put on, without Mariette's help, the cast-aside black-velvet
frock.  It was too short and tight, and her slender legs looked long
and thin, showing themselves from beneath the brief skirt.  As she had
not found a piece of black ribbon, her short, thick, black hair tumbled
loosely about her face and contrasted strongly with its pallor.  She
held Emily tightly in one arm, and Emily was swathed in a piece of
black material.

"Put down your doll," said Miss Minchin.  "What do you mean by bringing
her here?"

"No," Sara answered.  "I will not put her down.  She is all I have. My
papa gave her to me."

She had always made Miss Minchin feel secretly uncomfortable, and she
did so now.  She did not speak with rudeness so much as with a cold
steadiness with which Miss Minchin felt it difficult to cope--perhaps
because she knew she was doing a heartless and inhuman thing.

"You will have no time for dolls in future," she said.  "You will have
to work and improve yourself and make yourself useful."

Sara kept her big, strange eyes fixed on her, and said not a word.

"Everything will be very different now," Miss Minchin went on.  "I
suppose Miss Amelia has explained matters to you."

"Yes," answered Sara.  "My papa is dead.  He left me no money. I am
quite poor."

"You are a beggar," said Miss Minchin, her temper rising at the
recollection of what all this meant.  "It appears that you have no
relations and no home, and no one to take care of you."

For a moment the thin, pale little face twitched, but Sara again said
nothing.

"What are you staring at?" demanded Miss Minchin, sharply.  "Are you so
stupid that you cannot understand?  I tell you that you are quite alone
in the world, and have no one to do anything for you, unless I choose
to keep you here out of charity."

"I understand," answered Sara, in a low tone; and there was a sound as
if she had gulped down something which rose in her throat. "I
understand."

"That doll," cried Miss Minchin, pointing to the splendid birthday gift
seated near--"that ridiculous doll, with all her nonsensical,
extravagant things--I actually paid the bill for her!"

Sara turned her head toward the chair.

"The Last Doll," she said.  "The Last Doll."  And her little mournful
voice had an odd sound.

"The Last Doll, indeed!" said Miss Minchin.  "And she is mine, not
yours.  Everything you own is mine."

"Please take it away from me, then," said Sara.  "I do not want it."

If she had cried and sobbed and seemed frightened, Miss Minchin might
almost have had more patience with her.  She was a woman who liked to
domineer and feel her power, and as she looked at Sara's pale little
steadfast face and heard her proud little voice, she quite felt as if
her might was being set at naught.

"Don't put on grand airs," she said.  "The time for that sort of thing
is past.  You are not a princess any longer.  Your carriage and your
pony will be sent away--your maid will be dismissed. You will wear your
oldest and plainest clothes--your extravagant ones are no longer suited
to your station.  You are like Becky--you must work for your living."

To her surprise, a faint gleam of light came into the child's eyes--a
shade of relief.

"Can I work?" she said.  "If I can work it will not matter so much.
What can I do?"

"You can do anything you are told," was the answer.  "You are a sharp
child, and pick up things readily.  If you make yourself useful I may
let you stay here.  You speak French well, and you can help with the
younger children."

"May I?" exclaimed Sara.  "Oh, please let me!  I know I can teach them.
I like them, and they like me."

"Don't talk nonsense about people liking you," said Miss Minchin. "You
will have to do more than teach the little ones.  You will run errands
and help in the kitchen as well as in the schoolroom. If you don't
please me, you will be sent away.  Remember that. Now go."

Sara stood still just a moment, looking at her.  In her young soul, she
was thinking deep and strange things.  Then she turned to leave the
room.

"Stop!" said Miss Minchin.  "Don't you intend to thank me?"

Sara paused, and all the deep, strange thoughts surged up in her breast.

"What for?" she said.

"For my kindness to you," replied Miss Minchin.  "For my kindness in
giving you a home."

Sara made two or three steps toward her.  Her thin little chest heaved
up and down, and she spoke in a strange un-childishly fierce way.

"You are not kind," she said.  "You are NOT kind, and it is NOT a
home."  And she had turned and run out of the room before Miss Minchin
could stop her or do anything but stare after her with stony anger.

She went up the stairs slowly, but panting for breath and she held
Emily tightly against her side.

"I wish she could talk," she said to herself.  "If she could speak--if
she could speak!"

She meant to go to her room and lie down on the tiger-skin, with her
cheek upon the great cat's head, and look into the fire and think and
think and think.  But just before she reached the landing Miss Amelia
came out of the door and closed it behind her, and stood before it,
looking nervous and awkward.  The truth was that she felt secretly
ashamed of the thing she had been ordered to do.

"You--you are not to go in there," she said.

"Not go in?" exclaimed Sara, and she fell back a pace.

"That is not your room now," Miss Amelia answered, reddening a little.

Somehow, all at once, Sara understood.  She realized that this was the
beginning of the change Miss Minchin had spoken of.

"Where is my room?" she asked, hoping very much that her voice did not
shake.

"You are to sleep in the attic next to Becky."

Sara knew where it was.  Becky had told her about it.  She turned, and
mounted up two flights of stairs.  The last one was narrow, and covered
with shabby strips of old carpet.  She felt as if she were walking away
and leaving far behind her the world in which that other child, who no
longer seemed herself, had lived.  This child, in her short, tight old
frock, climbing the stairs to the attic, was quite a different creature.

When she reached the attic door and opened it, her heart gave a dreary
little thump.  Then she shut the door and stood against it and looked
about her.

Yes, this was another world.  The room had a slanting roof and was
whitewashed.  The whitewash was dingy and had fallen off in places.
There was a rusty grate, an old iron bedstead, and a hard bed covered
with a faded coverlet.  Some pieces of furniture too much worn to be
used downstairs had been sent up.  Under the skylight in the roof,
which showed nothing but an oblong piece of dull gray sky, there stood
an old battered red footstool.  Sara went to it and sat down. She
seldom cried.  She did not cry now.  She laid Emily across her knees
and put her face down upon her and her arms around her, and sat there,
her little black head resting on the black draperies, not saying one
word, not making one sound.

And as she sat in this silence there came a low tap at the door--such a
low, humble one that she did not at first hear it, and, indeed, was not
roused until the door was timidly pushed open and a poor tear-smeared
face appeared peeping round it.  It was Becky's face, and Becky had
been crying furtively for hours and rubbing her eyes with her kitchen
apron until she looked strange indeed.

"Oh, miss," she said under her breath.  "Might I--would you allow
me--jest to come in?"

Sara lifted her head and looked at her.  She tried to begin a smile,
and somehow she could not.  Suddenly--and it was all through the loving
mournfulness of Becky's streaming eyes--her face looked more like a
child's not so much too old for her years. She held out her hand and
gave a little sob.

"Oh, Becky," she said.  "I told you we were just the same--only two
little girls--just two little girls.  You see how true it is.  There's
no difference now.  I'm not a princess anymore."

Becky ran to her and caught her hand, and hugged it to her breast,
kneeling beside her and sobbing with love and pain.

"Yes, miss, you are," she cried, and her words were all broken.
"Whats'ever 'appens to you--whats'ever--you'd be a princess all the
same--an' nothin' couldn't make you nothin' different."

 Burnett begins chapter five by explaining that Sara's true power lies in neither her wealth nor her cleverness, but in her ability to make up stories. Sara loves to tell stories and get lost in her imagination. One day she notices a small, grimy child watching her, but the child runs away as soon as Sara notices her presence. Later, though, the same girl enters the room where Sara is telling a story to friends and begins to clean the fireplace. Sara, seeing that she is working slowly and quietly because she wants to hear the story that is being told, raises her voice to help the girl hear. Lavinia, though, calls attention to the eavesdropper, who runs out of the room. This prompts Sara to reveal her more hotheaded side. She objects to Lavinia's behavior, but Lavinia explains that her mother would not allow her to tell stories to servants. When Sara responds that her own mother would not mind, Lavinia reminds Sara that she has none. This prompts Lottie to pipe up, mentioning the comforting tales of the afterlife that Sara has told her. Lavinia finds these tales immoral and ridiculous. Later, Sara asks her maid Mariette about the servant, and Mariette tells her that she is newly hired and does every type of menial task imaginable at the school. In spite of her stunted appearance, she is fourteen years old, and her name is Becky. This revelation sets Sara's imagination aflame, and she becomes even more curious about Becky. Not long afterwards, Sara finds Becky fast asleep in her own room. A brief foray into Becky's point of view reveals that she always saves Sara's room for last when she cleans, since it is more luxurious than the other pupils' and therefore more interesting. In fact, Becky is as fascinated by Sara as Sara is by Becky. Sara is inclined to let Becky rest, but she wakes up in a panic. Sara soothes her and reassures her that she won't tell anyone about Becky falling asleep. She even offers her some cake. Becky tells Sara that she reminds her of a princess she once saw, and Sara resolves out loud to pretend that she is a princess. She also offers to tell Becky the rest of the story that Becky started listening to earlier, sharing it in increments when Becky comes to visit. Becky leaves feeling loved and gratified, while Sara realizes that, while she cannot help strangers the way a real princess might, she can still offer kindness in small ways to those who cross her path. The start of chapter six brings a major revelation: a friend of Sara's father owns some land with diamond mines on it, and, as he develops these mines, he is sure to become extremely rich. He has asked Captain Crewe to be his partner in the venture. Lavinia, as usual, is jealous when this news arrives. In a conversation with Jessie, she makes fun of the way Sara pretends to be a princess. Jessie reports that Sara thinks being a princess has to do entirely with how one behaves and thinks, not with wealth. One day, during free time at school, Lavinia cruelly scolds Lottie for crying. Sara soothes Lottie, but is furious with Lavinia's treatment of the young child. Lavinia, feeling hurt, begins to tease Sara for her pretend-princess game. Sara, whose imaginative games are meaningful and private to her, proudly tells Lavinia that pretending to be a princess allows her to behave like one. After this very public argument, Sara's classmates begin to refer to her as "Princess Sara," either out of admiration or jealousy. In the meantime, Becky's visits to Sara continue. Sara begins to shop for filling food to give her hungry friend. Sara's birthday arrives, and her father offers to buy her a new doll from Paris, as well as new clothes. He is delighted by Sara's response, in which she declares that this will be her "Last Doll," since she is growing out of playing with dolls. However, his letter has an undertone of solemnity. He is unwell, and feels overwhelmed by his new business ventures. Still, the birthday is set to be a celebratory occasion, with a huge party for Sara. Sara also discovers a humble package addressed to her, with a flannel pincushion inside it. The attached card reads "Miss Amelia Minchin," but Becky enters and explains that she made the pincushion, then used one of Miss Amelia's rejected cards since she had none of her own. Sara is delighted and overwhelmed with affection for Becky. The next time Sara sees Becky is at her own luxurious party. Miss Minchin tries to expel Becky from the festivities after she has helped set up the party, but Sara, reminding Miss Minchin that Becky is a girl just like herself who will enjoy the party, insists on her staying. Miss Minchin then gives a speech about how Sara will inherit a large fortune, and how her manners and academic skills are a credit to the school. Sara feels embarrassed and a little angry. Sara begins to unwrap her presents to the delight of the gathered girls. The Last Doll is particularly exciting, since she is enormous and extravagant, with a hugely expensive wardrobe. Sara asks her schoolmates to pretend that the doll can hear and enjoy their admiration, prompting Lavinia to derisively imply that Sara only enjoys imagining pleasant things: her imagination would not, for instance, allow her to pretend to be a beggar. Sara objects that someone in poverty might require an even more active imagination than one with wealth. At this moment, the girls are expelled from the room so that Miss Minchin can speak to Mr. Barrow, Captain Crewe's solicitor. The narrative shifts to their conversation, in which Barrow reveals that Crewe's investment in diamond mines was a failure and that he has now died from a combination of "jungle fever" and business-related stress. Sara is now orphaned, penniless, and left entirely in the care of Miss Minchin. Miss Minchin's dislike of Sara emerges fully now that she has no money, and she nearly decides to cast her once-star student out on the street. She changes her mind only when Barrow points out that this will be bad for the school's reputation. After Miss Minchin instructs her overwhelmed sister Miss Amelia to break the news to Sara, Becky emerges crying from under the table: she has overheard both conversations and pities Sara, who must transition from a life of luxury to one of poverty. After Miss Amelia tells Sara that her father is dead, Sara paces her room in a daze, and Miss Amelia reports with surprise that she does not cry when receiving the news. She also does not cry several hours later, when she visits Miss Minchin in mourning clothes. Miss Minchin tells her that she will give up her fine clothes and toys and that she will be a servant, working in the kitchens and helping tutor younger students. Sara is relieved to hear that she will have work to keep her busy; Miss Minchin is disappointed by her dignified reaction to this news. When Sara tries to return to her room, Miss Amelia reluctantly informs her that she will now sleep in the attic with Becky. Becky finds Sara in their now-shared room, and Sara exclaims that she is no longer a princess. Becky, overcome with emotion, assures her friend that she will always be a princess regardless of circumstance.

