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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MISS MINCHIN,

Select Seminary for Young Ladies.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who is Emily?" she inquired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sara felt a little awkward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miss Minchin glanced toward her scrutinizingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is your name?" she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?" inquired Sara, curiously.

Ermengarde shook her head so that the pigtail wobbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sara looked at her in simple surprise.

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

She put her hand warningly on Ermengarde's.

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

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

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

Ermengarde looked from her to the doll and back again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


If Sara had been a different kind of child, the life she led at Miss
Minchin's Select Seminary for the next few years would not have been at
all good for her.  She was treated more as if she were a distinguished
guest at the establishment than as if she were a mere little girl. If
she had been a self-opinionated, domineering child, she might have
become disagreeable enough to be unbearable through being so much
indulged and flattered.  If she had been an indolent child, she would
have learned nothing.  Privately Miss Minchin disliked her, but she was
far too worldly a woman to do or say anything which might make such a
desirable pupil wish to leave her school. She knew quite well that if
Sara wrote to her papa to tell him she was uncomfortable or unhappy,
Captain Crewe would remove her at once. Miss Minchin's opinion was that
if a child were continually praised and never forbidden to do what she
liked, she would be sure to be fond of the place where she was so
treated.  Accordingly, Sara was praised for her quickness at her
lessons, for her good manners, for her amiability to her fellow pupils,
for her generosity if she gave sixpence to a beggar out of her full
little purse; the simplest thing she did was treated as if it were a
virtue, and if she had not had a disposition and a clever little brain,
she might have been a very self-satisfied young person.  But the clever
little brain told her a great many sensible and true things about
herself and her circumstances, and now and then she talked these things
over to Ermengarde as time went on.

"Things happen to people by accident," she used to say.  "A lot of nice
accidents have happened to me.  It just HAPPENED that I always liked
lessons and books, and could remember things when I learned them. It
just happened that I was born with a father who was beautiful and nice
and clever, and could give me everything I liked. Perhaps I have not
really a good temper at all, but if you have everything you want and
everyone is kind to you, how can you help but be good-tempered?  I
don't know"--looking quite serious--"how I shall ever find out whether
I am really a nice child or a horrid one. Perhaps I'm a HIDEOUS child,
and no one will ever know, just because I never have any trials."

"Lavinia has no trials," said Ermengarde, stolidly, "and she is horrid
enough."

Sara rubbed the end of her little nose reflectively, as she thought the
matter over.

"Well," she said at last, "perhaps--perhaps that is because Lavinia is
GROWING." This was the result of a charitable recollection of having
heard Miss Amelia say that Lavinia was growing so fast that she
believed it affected her health and temper.

Lavinia, in fact, was spiteful.  She was inordinately jealous of Sara.
Until the new pupil's arrival, she had felt herself the leader in the
school.  She had led because she was capable of making herself
extremely disagreeable if the others did not follow her. She domineered
over the little children, and assumed grand airs with those big enough
to be her companions.  She was rather pretty, and had been the
best-dressed pupil in the procession when the Select Seminary walked
out two by two, until Sara's velvet coats and sable muffs appeared,
combined with drooping ostrich feathers, and were led by Miss Minchin
at the head of the line.  This, at the beginning, had been bitter
enough; but as time went on it became apparent that Sara was a leader,
too, and not because she could make herself disagreeable, but because
she never did.

"There's one thing about Sara Crewe," Jessie had enraged her "best
friend" by saying honestly, "she's never 'grand' about herself the
least bit, and you know she might be, Lavvie.  I believe I couldn't
help being--just a little--if I had so many fine things and was made
such a fuss over.  It's disgusting, the way Miss Minchin shows her off
when parents come."

"'Dear Sara must come into the drawing room and talk to Mrs. Musgrave
about India,'" mimicked Lavinia, in her most highly flavored imitation
of Miss Minchin.  "'Dear Sara must speak French to Lady Pitkin. Her
accent is so perfect.'  She didn't learn her French at the Seminary, at
any rate.  And there's nothing so clever in her knowing it. She says
herself she didn't learn it at all.  She just picked it up, because she
always heard her papa speak it.  And, as to her papa, there is nothing
so grand in being an Indian officer."

"Well," said Jessie, slowly, "he's killed tigers.  He killed the one in
the skin Sara has in her room.  That's why she likes it so. She lies on
it and strokes its head, and talks to it as if it was a cat."

"She's always doing something silly," snapped Lavinia.  "My mamma says
that way of hers of pretending things is silly.  She says she will grow
up eccentric."

It was quite true that Sara was never "grand."  She was a friendly
little soul, and shared her privileges and belongings with a free hand.
The little ones, who were accustomed to being disdained and ordered out
of the way by mature ladies aged ten and twelve, were never made to cry
by this most envied of them all.  She was a motherly young person, and
when people fell down and scraped their knees, she ran and helped them
up and patted them, or found in her pocket a bonbon or some other
article of a soothing nature. She never pushed them out of her way or
alluded to their years as a humiliation and a blot upon their small
characters.

"If you are four you are four," she said severely to Lavinia on an
occasion of her having--it must be confessed--slapped Lottie and called
her "a brat;" "but you will be five next year, and six the year after
that.  And," opening large, convicting eyes, "it takes sixteen years to
make you twenty."

"Dear me," said Lavinia, "how we can calculate!"  In fact, it was not
to be denied that sixteen and four made twenty--and twenty was an age
the most daring were scarcely bold enough to dream of.

So the younger children adored Sara.  More than once she had been known
to have a tea party, made up of these despised ones, in her own room.
And Emily had been played with, and Emily's own tea service used--the
one with cups which held quite a lot of much-sweetened weak tea and had
blue flowers on them.  No one had seen such a very real doll's tea set
before.  From that afternoon Sara was regarded as a goddess and a queen
by the entire alphabet class.

Lottie Legh worshipped her to such an extent that if Sara had not been
a motherly person, she would have found her tiresome.  Lottie had been
sent to school by a rather flighty young papa who could not imagine
what else to do with her.  Her young mother had died, and as the child
had been treated like a favorite doll or a very spoiled pet monkey or
lap dog ever since the first hour of her life, she was a very appalling
little creature.  When she wanted anything or did not want anything she
wept and howled; and, as she always wanted the things she could not
have, and did not want the things that were best for her, her shrill
little voice was usually to be heard uplifted in wails in one part of
the house or another.

Her strongest weapon was that in some mysterious way she had found out
that a very small girl who had lost her mother was a person who ought
to be pitied and made much of.  She had probably heard some grown-up
people talking her over in the early days, after her mother's death. So
it became her habit to make great use of this knowledge.

The first time Sara took her in charge was one morning when, on passing
a sitting room, she heard both Miss Minchin and Miss Amelia trying to
suppress the angry wails of some child who, evidently, refused to be
silenced.  She refused so strenuously indeed that Miss Minchin was
obliged to almost shout--in a stately and severe manner--to make
herself heard.

"What IS she crying for?" she almost yelled.

"Oh--oh--oh!"  Sara heard; "I haven't got any mam--ma-a!"

"Oh, Lottie!" screamed Miss Amelia.  "Do stop, darling!  Don't cry!
Please don't!"

"Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  Oh!"  Lottie howled tempestuously.
"Haven't--got--any--mam--ma-a!"

"She ought to be whipped," Miss Minchin proclaimed.  "You SHALL be
whipped, you naughty child!"

Lottie wailed more loudly than ever.  Miss Amelia began to cry.  Miss
Minchin's voice rose until it almost thundered, then suddenly she
sprang up from her chair in impotent indignation and flounced out of
the room, leaving Miss Amelia to arrange the matter.

Sara had paused in the hall, wondering if she ought to go into the
room, because she had recently begun a friendly acquaintance with
Lottie and might be able to quiet her.  When Miss Minchin came out and
saw her, she looked rather annoyed.  She realized that her voice, as
heard from inside the room, could not have sounded either dignified or
amiable.

"Oh, Sara!" she exclaimed, endeavoring to produce a suitable smile.

"I stopped," explained Sara, "because I knew it was Lottie--and I
thought, perhaps--just perhaps, I could make her be quiet. May I try,
Miss Minchin?"

"If you can, you are a clever child," answered Miss Minchin, drawing in
her mouth sharply.  Then, seeing that Sara looked slightly chilled by
her asperity, she changed her manner. "But you are clever in
everything," she said in her approving way. "I dare say you can manage
her.  Go in."  And she left her.

When Sara entered the room, Lottie was lying upon the floor, screaming
and kicking her small fat legs violently, and Miss Amelia was bending
over her in consternation and despair, looking quite red and damp with
heat.  Lottie had always found, when in her own nursery at home, that
kicking and screaming would always be quieted by any means she insisted
on.  Poor plump Miss Amelia was trying first one method, and then
another.

"Poor darling," she said one moment, "I know you haven't any mamma,
poor--" Then in quite another tone, "If you don't stop, Lottie, I will
shake you.  Poor little angel!  There--!  You wicked, bad, detestable
child, I will smack you!  I will!"

Sara went to them quietly.  She did not know at all what she was going
to do, but she had a vague inward conviction that it would be better
not to say such different kinds of things quite so helplessly and
excitedly.

"Miss Amelia," she said in a low voice, "Miss Minchin says I may try to
make her stop--may I?"

Miss Amelia turned and looked at her hopelessly.  "Oh, DO you think you
can?" she gasped.

"I don't know whether I CAN", answered Sara, still in her half-whisper;
"but I will try."

Miss Amelia stumbled up from her knees with a heavy sigh, and Lottie's
fat little legs kicked as hard as ever.

"If you will steal out of the room," said Sara, "I will stay with her."

"Oh, Sara!" almost whimpered Miss Amelia.  "We never had such a
dreadful child before.  I don't believe we can keep her."

But she crept out of the room, and was very much relieved to find an
excuse for doing it.

Sara stood by the howling furious child for a few moments, and looked
down at her without saying anything.  Then she sat down flat on the
floor beside her and waited.  Except for Lottie's angry screams, the
room was quite quiet.  This was a new state of affairs for little Miss
Legh, who was accustomed, when she screamed, to hear other people
protest and implore and command and coax by turns. To lie and kick and
shriek, and find the only person near you not seeming to mind in the
least, attracted her attention. She opened her tight-shut streaming
eyes to see who this person was. And it was only another little girl.
But it was the one who owned Emily and all the nice things.  And she
was looking at her steadily and as if she was merely thinking.  Having
paused for a few seconds to find this out, Lottie thought she must
begin again, but the quiet of the room and of Sara's odd, interested
face made her first howl rather half-hearted.

"I--haven't--any--ma--ma--ma-a!" she announced; but her voice was not
so strong.

Sara looked at her still more steadily, but with a sort of
understanding in her eyes.

"Neither have I," she said.

This was so unexpected that it was astounding.  Lottie actually dropped
her legs, gave a wriggle, and lay and stared.  A new idea will stop a
crying child when nothing else will.  Also it was true that while
Lottie disliked Miss Minchin, who was cross, and Miss Amelia, who was
foolishly indulgent, she rather liked Sara, little as she knew her.
She did not want to give up her grievance, but her thoughts were
distracted from it, so she wriggled again, and, after a sulky sob,
said, "Where is she?"

Sara paused a moment.  Because she had been told that her mamma was in
heaven, she had thought a great deal about the matter, and her thoughts
had not been quite like those of other people.

"She went to heaven," she said.  "But I am sure she comes out sometimes
to see me--though I don't see her.  So does yours.  Perhaps they can
both see us now.  Perhaps they are both in this room."

Lottie sat bolt upright, and looked about her.  She was a pretty,
little, curly-headed creature, and her round eyes were like wet
forget-me-nots. If her mamma had seen her during the last half-hour,
she might not have thought her the kind of child who ought to be
related to an angel.

Sara went on talking.  Perhaps some people might think that what she
said was rather like a fairy story, but it was all so real to her own
imagination that Lottie began to listen in spite of herself. She had
been told that her mamma had wings and a crown, and she had been shown
pictures of ladies in beautiful white nightgowns, who were said to be
angels.  But Sara seemed to be telling a real story about a lovely
country where real people were.

"There are fields and fields of flowers," she said, forgetting herself,
as usual, when she began, and talking rather as if she were in a dream,
"fields and fields of lilies--and when the soft wind blows over them it
wafts the scent of them into the air--and everybody always breathes it,
because the soft wind is always blowing.  And little children run about
in the lily fields and gather armfuls of them, and laugh and make
little wreaths.  And the streets are shining. And people are never
tired, however far they walk.  They can float anywhere they like.  And
there are walls made of pearl and gold all round the city, but they are
low enough for the people to go and lean on them, and look down onto
the earth and smile, and send beautiful messages."

Whatsoever story she had begun to tell, Lottie would, no doubt, have
stopped crying, and been fascinated into listening; but there was no
denying that this story was prettier than most others. She dragged
herself close to Sara, and drank in every word until the end came--far
too soon.  When it did come, she was so sorry that she put up her lip
ominously.

"I want to go there," she cried.  "I--haven't any mamma in this school."

Sara saw the danger signal, and came out of her dream.  She took hold
of the chubby hand and pulled her close to her side with a coaxing
little laugh.

"I will be your mamma," she said.  "We will play that you are my little
girl.  And Emily shall be your sister."

Lottie's dimples all began to show themselves.

"Shall she?" she said.

"Yes," answered Sara, jumping to her feet.  "Let us go and tell her.
And then I will wash your face and brush your hair."

To which Lottie agreed quite cheerfully, and trotted out of the room
and upstairs with her, without seeming even to remember that the whole
of the last hour's tragedy had been caused by the fact that she had
refused to be washed and brushed for lunch and Miss Minchin had been
called in to use her majestic authority.

And from that time Sara was an adopted mother.

 The novel begins with Sara Crewe, a seven-year-old girl, riding a cab through the dark streets of London with her father. Captain Crewe is part of the British Colonial infrastructure in India, where he has raised his child, and Sara feels alienated and confused in England. Furthermore, Captain Crewe is heartbroken by the thought of parting from his sensible, wise daughter: the two are evidently very close. However, they will soon be separated--they have come to England in order for Sara to begin her education at Miss Minchin's Seminary for Young Ladies, a prestigious girls' boarding school. After bringing Sara to school, meeting with the administration, and spending several days in London with his daughter, Captain Crewe will return to India alone. Both father and daughter have dreaded this moment for years, but Captain Crewe wants his daughter to receive a good education. They arrive at the imposing school building and meet the headmistress, Miss Minchin, who is solicitous and manipulative. She is, the narrator hints, primarily interested in Sara because of her family's wealth. Sara immediately dislikes Miss Minchin, and reflects that the headmistress is as ugly as Sara herself--although the narrator explains that Sara is not ugly, but merely believes herself to be so. Sara mentions a doll of hers named Emily, and her father explains to Miss Minchin that Emily does not yet exist--Sara has merely decided to buy and befriend a doll, who she will name Emily. Over the next few days, the Crewes go shopping for lavish clothes for Sara, and find Emily, a luxuriously realistic doll with whom Sara immediately falls in love. They even buy a custom-made wardrobe for Emily: Captain Crewe clearly cannot resist spoiling his beloved daughter. In fact, Miss Minchin and her kinder sister Amelia, who also works at the school, are surprised that Sara does not act entitled, as one might expect of someone with her privileges. When her father says farewell to her at the end of the chapter and leaves to return to India, she does not cry or throw a tantrum. Instead, she is quiet and somber. Soon afterward, Sara begins her lessons at the school. On her first day of class, all eyes are on her. Other students know that she is extraordinarily wealthy and that she has expensive clothes and even a maid of her very own, a French woman named Mariette. In fact, two students, named Lavinia and Jessie, gossip about her luxurious lifestyle while they wait for class to begin. Sara is unaware that she is the center of attention. She has spent most of her free time talking to her doll, Emily, and chatting with her maid. Miss Minchin herself enters the room and asks the students to greet their new peer. Miss Minchin also tells Sara that, since her father has hired a French maid for her, she assumes he intends for her to learn French. When Sara mildly assures her that her father simply thought Mariette and Sara would get along, Miss Minchin tells Sara that she is spoiled. Sara--whose mother was French and whose father continued to speak French to her after her mother's death--already speaks the language, but is too shy and polite to explain this. When Monsieur Dufarge, the French teacher, enters the room full of students to greet his newest pupil, Sara notes his kind manner and explains her situation to him in fluent French. Miss Minchin, who is insecure about her own inability to speak French, scolds Sara for failing to explain herself fully. Feeling embarrassed in front of the giggling students, she starts to resent Sara. During the rest of the class, Sara watches a student named Ermengarde St. John. Ermengarde is chubby, awkward, and hopeless at speaking French, and Sara feels quite defensive of her, especially when Miss Minchin scolds her and when the other students laugh at her. After class, Sara introduces herself to Ermengarde, who is surprised that the exotic new student is interested in her. A brief dive into Ermengarde's perspective reveals that she is known as the school's academic underachiever, and that her insecurity is heightened because she has a very intelligent father. Sara invites Ermengarde to her private playroom, explaining that her father has paid for it because she likes to make up stories and tell them aloud to herself. Ermengarde is in awe of Sara, and Sara is charmed by Ermengarde. Sara confides in Ermengarde, introducing her to her doll, Emily, and describing her sadness at being separated from her father. Before their playdate ends, they agree to be friends and help one another. As Sara's first schoolyears pass, she is happy enough. Miss Minchin praises everything she does because of her wealth, but Sara has enough sense and humility not to let it go to her head. However, as Ermengarde points out to Sara, not all of their fellow students are as kind--the older Lavinia, for instance, is a bully who insists on getting her way. Lavinia envies Sara because she gets her way--not because she is feared, but because she is beloved. Younger students are especially fond of Sara, who even hosts tea parties for them in her room: when Lavinia slaps a four-year-old named Lottie, the school's youngest pupil, Sara comforts her. For a time, the narrative cuts away from Sara and shows a conversation between Lavinia and her friend Jessie, and while Jessie is somewhat susceptible to the new student's charms, Lavinia maintains her skepticism and dislike. Lottie, however, only grows more attached to Sara. She is prone to tantrums, and, having lost her mother before coming to the seminary, knows how easily she can get her way by soliciting others' pity. One day Sara passes the room in which she is wailing and yelling about her motherlessness while Miss Minchin and Amelia Minchin watch helplessly. Miss Minchin is too cruel and Amelia too hapless to make Lottie stop, so, when Sara offers to help, they accept with relief. Sara waits for Lottie to announce once again that she has no mother, and then explains that her own mother has also died. This catches Lottie's interest, and Sara spins a whimsical tale about how their mothers are together, watching over them in a wonderful place full of flowers. Sara offers to be a mother figure to Lottie during their time at school, and Lottie eagerly agrees and stops crying.

