Chapter: 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."

 A little later, Sara gets an exciting letter: her papa is investing in diamond mines! Talk about glamorous. Lavinia, in true Mean Girls fashion, sniffs and huffs and says that they should call Sara "Your Royal Highness." We already don't like Lavinia, but it gets worse when she actually has a tiff with Lottie, who is about a decade younger than she is: Lavinia tells Lottie not to be a baby and to not cry, and Lottie becomes hysterical. However, Sara sweeps in and saves Lottie, who asks her to tell her about the diamond mines. Lavinia says that she'd like to slap Lottie, and Sara retorts that she would slap Lavinia, but she's above that. Of course, Lavinia uses that as an excuse to call Sara a princess. Sara comes towards her, and we're so ready for a fight. But at the last moment, she stops and says, yeah, sometimes she does pretend to be a princess so she'll behave like one. Sara talks to Becky and hears about all sorts of crazy things in the attic where Becky lives--like, there are rats. Blech! Sara feels bad for her and gives her some food. Sara also tells Becky stories. A few weeks before Sara's eleventh birthday, she gets a letter from her father telling her that he's buying her a "Last Doll" and that her birthday is going to be one super duper big party that he'll pay for . When she wakes up on her birthday, Becky has left her a little package with a pincushion. She says that she loves it, and she and Becky hug.

