 CHAPTER VII CONTINUED He bowed himself out and closed the door, and it must be confessed that Miss Minton 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, beggard 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 Emilia, who, when she caught sight of a changed, angry face, fell back a step in alarm. What is the matter, sister? she ejaculated. Miss Minton's voice was almost fierce when she answered, Where is Sarah, crew? Miss Emilia was bewildered. Sarah, 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 Emilia stammered again. A black one. She has frocks of every other colour. Has she a black one? Miss Emilia began to turn pale. No—yes! 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 Emilia began to wring her fat hands and cry. Oh, sister! she sift. Oh, sister! what can have happened? Miss Minton wasted no words. Captain crew is dead, she said. He has died without a penny. That spoiled, pampered, fanciful child has left a pauper on my hands. Miss Emilia 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 Emilia, must I go and tell her now? This moment was the fierce answer. Don't sit staring like a goose. Go! Poor Miss Emilia 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 cause 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 a diamond mine 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 Sarah 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 them, it's me, Mum,' she explained. I know I hadn't ought to, but I was looking at the door, Mum, and I was frightened when you came in and slipped under the table. "'You have been there all the time, listening,' said Miss Minchin. "'No, Mum,' Becky protested, bobbing curtsies. "'Not listening. I thought I could slip out with the archer noticing, but I couldn't, and I had to stay. But I didn't listen, Mum. I went for nothing. But I couldn't help hearing.' Suddenly it seemed almost as if she lost all fear of the awful lady before her. She burst into fresh tears. "'Oh, please them,' she said. "'I dare say you'll give me a warning, Mum. But I'm so sorry for poor Miss Sarah. I'm so sorry.' "'Leave the room,' ordered Miss Minchin. Becky curtsied again, the tears openly streaming down her cheeks. "'Yes, I will, I'm,' she said, trembling. "'But, oh, I just wanted to ask you. Miss Sarah, she's been such a rich young lady, and she's been waited on, and in foot. And 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 and kettles? I'd do them that quick, if you'd let me wait on her now she's poor.' "'Oh,' breaking out of fresh, poor little Miss Sarah, 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. "'Is exactly like the ones in the stories,' she wailed. Then poor princess ones that was drove into the world!' Miss Minchin had never looked quite so still and hard, as she did when Sarah came to her a few hours later, in response to a message she had sent her. Even by that time it seemed to Sarah 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 Sarah to come to my room,' Miss Minchin had said to her sister, and explained 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 Crue 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 Sarah 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 stopped, 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 Mention'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 school-room. She looked and said, "'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 Mention. "'What do you mean by bringing her here?' "'No,' Sarah answered. "'I will not put her down. She is all I have. My papa gave her to me.' She had always made Miss Mention feel secretly uncomfortable, and she did so now. She did not speak with rudeness so much as with a cold steadiness, with which Miss Mention felt it difficult to coat. 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.' Sarah kept her big, strange eyes fixed on her, and said not a word. "'Everything will be very different now,' Miss Mention went on. "'I suppose Miss Amelia has explained matters to you.' "'Yes,' answered Sarah. "'My papa is dead. He left me no money. I am quite poor.' "'You are a beggar,' said Miss Mention, 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 Sarah again said nothing. "'What are you staring at?' demanded Miss Mention 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 Sarah, 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 Mention, pointing to the splendid birthday gift seated near, that ridiculous doll with all her nonsensical extravagant things, I actually paid the bill for her.' Sarah 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 Mention. "'And she is mine, not yours. Everything you own is mine.' "'Please take it away from me, then,' said Sarah. "'I do not want it.' If she had cried and sobbed and seemed frightened, Miss Mention 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 Sarah'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'll make yourself useful, I may let you stay here. You speak French well, and you can help with your younger children.' "'May I?' exclaimed Sarah. "'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 Mention. "'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 school-room. If you don't please me, you will be sent away. Remember that. Now go.'" Sarah 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 Mention. "'Don't you intend to thank me?' Sarah paused, and all the deep, strange thoughts surged up in her breast. "'What for?' she said. "'For my kindness to you,' replied Miss Mention, "'for my kindness in giving you a home.'" Sarah made two or three steps toward her. Her thin little chest heaved up and down, and she spoke in a strange, unchildishly 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 Mention 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 a thing she had been ordered to do. "'You—you are not to go in there,' she said. "'Not go in,' exclaimed Sarah, and she fell back apace. "'That is not your room now,' Miss Amelia answered, reddening a little. Somehow all at once Sarah understood. She realized that this was the beginning of the change Miss Mention 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.'" Sarah 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 grey sky, there stood an old battered red footstool. Sarah 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—just to come in?' Sarah 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 any more.' She ran to her and caught her hand, and hugged it to her breast, kneeling beside her in sobbing with love and pain. "'Yes, Miss, you are,' she cried, and her words were all broken. "'Whatsever happens to you! Whatsever! You'd be a princess all the same, and nothing couldn't make you nothing different.'" CHAPTER VIII. The first night she spent in her attic was a thing Sarah never forgot. During its passing she lived through a wild, unchild-like woe of which she never spoke to anyone about her. There was no one who would have understood. It was indeed well for her that as she lay awake in the darkness her mind was forcibly distracted now and then by the strangeness of her surroundings. It was perhaps well for her that she was reminded by her small body of material things. If this had not been so, the anguish of her young mind might have been too great for a child to bear. But really, while the night was passing she scarcely knew that she had a body at all, or remembered any other thing than one. "'My papa is dead,' she kept whispering to herself, "'my papa is dead.'" It was not until long afterward that she realized that her bed had been so hard that she turned over and over in it to find a place to rest, that the darkness seemed more intense than any she had ever known, and that the wind howled over the roof among the chimneys like something which wailed aloud. Then there was something worse. This was certain scufflings and scratchings and squeakings in the walls behind the skirting-boards. She knew what they meant because Becky had described them. They meant rats and mice who were either fighting with each other or playing together. Once or twice she even heard sharp-toed feet scurrying across the floor, and she remembered in those after-days when she recalled things, that when first she heard them she started up in bed and sat trembling, and when she lay down again covered her head with the bed-clothes. The change in her life did not come about gradually, but was made all at once. She must begin as she is to go on," Miss Minchin said to Miss Amelia. She must be taught at once what she is to expect. Mariette had left the house the next morning. The glimpse Sarah called of her sitting-room as she passed its open door, showed her that everything had been changed. Her ornaments and luxuries had been removed, and a bed had been placed in a corner to transform it into a new pupil's bedroom. When she went down to breakfast, she saw that her seat at Miss Minchin's side was occupied by Levinia, and Miss Minchin spoke to her coldly. "'You will begin your new duty, Sarah,' she said, by taking your seat with the younger children at a smaller table. You must keep them quiet and see that they behave well and do not waste their food. You ought to have been down earlier. Lottie has already upset her tea.'" That was the beginning. And from day to day the duties given to her were added to. She told the younger children French and heard their other lessons, and these were the least of her labours. It was found that she could be made use of in numberless directions. She could be sent on errands at any time and in all weathers. She could be told to do things other people neglected. The cook and the housemaids took their tone from Miss Minchin, and rather enjoyed ordering about the young one who had been made so much fuss over for so long. They were not servants of the best class, and had neither good manners nor good tempers, and it was frequently convenient to have at hand someone on whom blame could be laid. During the first month or two, Sarah thought that her willingness to do things as well as she could, and her silence under reproof, might soften those who drove her so hard. In her proud little heart she wanted them to see that she was trying to earn her living and not accepting charity. But the time came when she saw that no one was softened at all, and the more willing she was to do as she was told, the more domineering and exacting careless housemaids became, and the more ready a scolding cook was to blame her. If she had been older Miss Minchin would have given her the bigger girls to teach and saved money by dismissing an instructress. But while she remained and looked like a child, she could be made more useful as a sort of little superior errant girl and made of all work. An ordinary errant boy would not have been so clever and reliable. Sarah could be trusted with difficult commissions and complicated messages. She could even go and pay bills, and she combined with this the ability to dust a room well and to set things in order. Her own lessons became things of the past. She was taught nothing, and only after long and busy days spent in running here and there at everybody's orders, was she gradually allowed to go into the deserted school-room with a pile of old books, and study alone at night. If I do not remind myself of the things I have learned, perhaps I may forget them, she said to herself. I am almost a scullerymaid, and if I am a scullerymaid who knows nothing, I shall be like poor Becky. I wonder if I could quite forget and begin to drop my ages, and not remember that Henry VIII had six wives. One of the most curious things in her new existence was her changed position among the pupils. Instead of being a sort of small royal personage among them, she no longer seemed to be one of their number at all. She was kept so constantly at work that she scarcely ever have an opportunity of speaking to any of them, and she could not avoid seeing that Miss Minchin preferred that she should live a life apart from that of the occupants of the school-room. I will not have her forming intimacies and talking to the other children, that lady said. Girls like a grievance, and if she begins to tell romantic stories about herself, she will become an ill-used heroine, and parents will be given a wrong impression. It is better that she should live a separate life, one suited to her circumstances. I am giving her a home, and that is more than she has any right to expect from me." Sarah did not expect much, and was far too proud to try to continue to be intimate with girls who, evidently, felt rather awkward and uncertain about her. The fact was that Miss Minchin's pupils were a set of dull matter-of-fact young people. They were accustomed to being rich and comfortable, and as Sarah's frocks grew shorter and shabbier and queerer-looking, and it became an established fact that she wore shoes with holes in them, and were sent out to buy groceries, and carry them through the streets in a basket on her arm, when the cook wanted them in a hurry. They felt rather as if, when they spoke to her, they were addressing an underservant. To think that she was the girl with the diamond minds, Lavinia commented, she does look an object. And she's queerer than ever. I never liked her much, but I can't bear that way she has now of looking at people without speaking, just as if she was finding them out. I am," said Sarah promptly, when she heard of this. That's what I look at some people for. I like to know about them. I think them over afterward. The truth was that she had saved herself annoyance several times by keeping her eye on Lavinia, who was quite ready to make mischief, and would have been rather pleased to have made it for the ex-show pupil. Sarah never made any mischief herself or interfered with any one. She worked like a drudge. She tramped through the wet streets, carrying parcels and baskets. She laboured with the childish inattention of the little one's French lessons. As she became shabbier and more forlorn-looking, she was told that she had better take her meals downstairs. She was treated as if she was nobody's concern, and her heart grew proud and sore, but she never told any one what she felt. Others don't complain, she would say between her small, shut teeth. I am not going to do it. I will pretend this is part of a war. But there were hours when her child-heart might almost have broken with loneliness, but for three people. The first, it must be owned, was Becky—just Becky. Throughout all that first night spent in the garret, she had felt a vague comfort in knowing that on the other side of the wall in which the rats scuffled and squeaked, there was another young human creature, and during the nights that followed the sense of comfort grew. They had little chance to speak to each other during the day. Each had her own tasks to perform, and any attempt at conversation would have been regarded as a tendency to loiter and lose time. Don't mind me, miss," whispered Becky during the first morning, if I don't say nothing polite. Someone would be down on us if I did. I means please and thank you and beg pardon, but I dassen't take time to say it. But before daybreak she used to slip into Sarah's attic and button her dress and give her such help as she required before she went downstairs to light the kitchen fire. And when night came Sarah always heard the humble knock at her door, which meant that her handmaid was ready to help her again if she was needed. During the first weeks of her grief Sarah felt as if she were too stupefied to talk, so it happened that some time passed before they saw each other much or exchanged visits. Becky's heart told her that it was best that people in trouble should be left alone. The second of the trio of comforters was Irmingard, but odd things happened before Irmingard found her place. When Sarah's mind seemed to awaken again to the life about her, she realized that she had forgotten that an Irmingard lived in the world. The two had always been friends, but Sarah had felt as if she were years the older. It could not be contested that Irmingard was as dull as she was affectionate. She clung to Sarah in a simple, helpless way. She brought her lessons to her that she might be helped. She listened to her every word and besieged her with requests for stories, but she had nothing interesting to say herself, and she loathed books of every description. She was, in fact, not a person one would remember when one was caught in the storm of a great trouble, and Sarah forgot her. It had been all the easier to forget her because she had been suddenly called home for a few weeks. When she came back she did not see Sarah for a day or two, and when she met her for the first time she encountered her coming down a corridor with her arms full of garments which were to be taken downstairs to be mended. Sarah herself had already been taught to mend them. She looked pale and unlike herself, and she was attired in the queer, outgrown frock whose shortness showed so much thin, black leg. Irmingard was too slow a girl to be equal to such a situation. She could not think of anything to say. She knew what had happened, but somehow she had never imagined Sarah could look like this, so odd and poor, and almost like a servant. It made her quite miserable, and she could do nothing but break into a short hysterical laugh and exclaim aimlessly and as if without any meaning. Oh! Sarah! Is that you?" Yes, answered Sarah, and suddenly a strange thought passed through her mind and made her face flush. She held the pile of garments in her arms, and her chin rested upon the top of it to keep it steady. Something in the look of her straight, gazing eyes made Irmingard lose her wit still more. She felt as if Sarah had changed into a new kind of girl, and she had never known her before. Perhaps it was because she had suddenly grown poor, and had to mend things and work like Becky. Oh! she stammered. H-how are you? I don't know, Sarah replied. How are you? I—I'm quite well," said Irmingard, overwhelmed with shyness. Then spasmodically she thought of something to say which seemed more intimate. Are you—are you very unhappy? she said in a rush. Then Sarah was guilty of an injustice. Just at that moment her torn heart swelled within her, and she felt that if any one was as stupid as that, one had better get away from her. What do you think? she said. Do you think I am very happy? And she marched past her without another word. In course of time she realized that if her wretchedness had not made her forget things, she would have known that poor, dull Irmingard was not to be blamed for her unready, awkward ways. She was always awkward, and the more she felt, the more stupid she was given to being. But the sudden thought which had flashed upon her had made her oversensitive. She is like the others, she had thought. She does not really want to talk to me. She knows no one does. So for several weeks a barrier stood between them. When they met by chance Sarah looked the other way, and Irmingard felt too stiff and embarrassed to speak. Sometimes they nodded to each other in passing, but there were times when they did not even exchange a greeting. If she would rather not talk to me, Sarah thought, I will keep out of her way. Miss Minchin makes that easy enough. Miss Minchin made it so easy that at last they scarcely saw each other at all. At that time it was noticed that Irmingard was more stupid than ever, and that she looked listless and unhappy. She used to sit in the window-seat, huddled in a heap, and stare out of the window without speaking. Once Jesse, who was passing, stopped to look at her curiously. What are you crying for, Irmingard? She asked. I'm not crying," answered Irmingard in a muffled, unsteady voice. You are, said Jesse, a great big tear just rolled down the bridge of your nose and dropped off at the end of it, and there goes another. Well, said Irmingard, I'm miserable, and no one needed to fear, and she turned her plump back and took out her handkerchief and boldly hid her face in it. That night, when Sarah went to her attic, she was later than usual. She had been kept at work until after the hour at which the pupils went to bed, and after that she had gone to her lessons in the lonely schoolroom. When she reached the top of the stairs, she was surprised to see a glimmer of light coming from under the attic door. Nobody goes there but myself, she thought quickly, but someone has lighted a candle. Someone had indeed lighted a candle, and it was not burning in the kitchen candlestick she was expected to use, but in one of those belonging to the pupils' bedrooms. The someone was sitting upon the battered footstool, and was dressed in her nightgown and wrapped up in a red shawl. It was Irmingard. "'Irmingard!' cried Sarah. She was so startled that she was almost frightened. You will get into trouble.' Irmingard stumbled up from her footstool. She shuffled across the attic in her bedroom slippers, which were too large for her. Her eyes and nose were pink with crying. "'I know I shall, if I'm found out,' she said. "'But I don't care. I don't care a bit.' "'Oh, Sarah, please tell me. What is the matter? Why don't you like me any more?' Something in her voice made the familiar lump rise in Sarah's throat. It was so affectionate and simple, so like the old Irmingard, who had asked her to be best friends. It sounded as if she had not meant what she had seemed to mean during these past weeks. "'I do like you,' Sarah answered. I thought, you see, everything is different now. I thought you were different.' Irmingard opened her wet eyes wide. "'Why, it was you who were different,' she cried. "'You didn't want to talk to me. I didn't know what to do. It was you who were different after I came back.' Sarah thought a moment. She saw she had made a mistake. "'I am different,' she explained, though not in the way you think. Miss Minchin does not want me to talk to the girls. Most of them don't want to talk to me. I thought, perhaps, you didn't. So I tried to keep out of your way. "'Oh, Sarah!' Irmingard almost wailed in her reproachful dismay. And then, after one more look, they rushed into each other's arms. It must be confessed that Sarah's small black head laid for some minutes on the shoulder covered by the red shawl. When Irmingard had seemed to desert her, she had felt horribly lonely. Afterward they sat down upon the floor together, Sarah clasping her knees with her arms, and Irmingard rolled up in her shawl. Irmingard looked at the odd, big-eyed little face adoringly. "'I couldn't bear it any more,' she said. "'I dare say you could live without me, Sarah, but I couldn't live without you. I was nearly dead. So to-night, when I was crying under the bed-clothes, I thought all at once of creeping up here and just begging you to let us be friends again. "'You're nicer than I am,' said Sarah. I was too proud to try and make friends. You see, now that trials have come, they have shown that I am not a nice child. I was afraid they would. Perhaps, wrinkling her forehead wisely, that is what they were sent for. "'I don't see any good in them,' said Irmingard stoutly. "'Neither do I to speak the truth,' admitted Sarah, frankly. "'But I suppose there might be good in things, even if we don't see it. There MIGHT, doubtfully, be good in Miss Minchin.' Irmingard looked round the attic with a rather fearsome curiosity. "'Sarah,' she said, "'do you think you can bear living here?' Sarah looked round also. "'If I pretend it's quite different, I can,' she answered, or if I pretend it is a place in a story.' She spoke slowly. Her imagination was beginning to work for her. It had not worked for her at all since her troubles had come upon her. She had felt as if it had been stunned. Other people have lived in worse places. Think of the Count of Monte Cristo in the dungeons of the Château d'Yves, and think of the people in the Bastille." "'The Bastille!' half whispered Irmingard, watching her in beginning to be fascinated. She remembered stories of the French Revolution which Sarah had been able to fix in her mind by her dramatic relation of them. No one but Sarah could have done it." A well-known glow came into Sarah's eyes. "'Yes,' she said, hugging her knees. "'That will be a good place to pretend about. I am a prisoner in the Bastille. I have been here for years and years and years, and everybody has forgotten about me. Miss Mention is the jailer. And Becky, a sudden light adding itself to the glow in her eyes, Becky is the prisoner in the next cell.' She turned to Irmingard, looking quite like the old Sarah. "'I shall pretend that,' she said, and it will be a great comfort. Irmingard was at once enraptured and awed. "'And will you tell me all about it?' she said. "'May I creep up here at night, whenever it is safe, and hear the things you have made up in the day? It will seem as if we were more best friends than ever.' "'Yes,' answered Sarah, nodding. Adversity tries people, and mine has tried you and proved how nice you are." CHAPTER IX. The third person in the trio was Lottie. She was a small thing, and did not know what adversity meant, and was much bewildered by the alteration she saw in her young adopted mother. She had heard it rumoured that strange things had happened to Sarah, but she could not understand why she looked different, why she wore an old black frock and came into the schoolroom only to teach, instead of to sit in her place of honour and learn lessons herself. There had been much whispering among the little ones, when it had been discovered that Sarah no longer lived in the rooms in which Emily had so long sat in state. Lottie's chief difficulty was that Sarah said so little when one asked her questions. At seven, mysteries must be made very clear if one is to understand them. "'Are you very poor now, Sarah?' she had asked confidentially the first morning her friend took charge of the small French class. "'Are you as poor as a beggar?' she thrust a fat hand into the slim one, and opened round, tearful eyes. "'I don't want you to be as poor as a beggar.' She looked as if she was going to cry, and Sarah hurriedly consoled her. "'Begas have nowhere to live,' she said courageously. "'I have a place to live in.' "'Where do you live?' persisted Lottie. "'The new girl sleeps in your room, and it isn't pretty any more.' "'I live in another room,' said Sarah. "'Is it a nice one?' inquired Lottie. "'I want to go and see it.' "'You must not talk,' said Sarah. "'Miss Minchon is looking at us. She will be angry with me for letting you whisper.' She had found out already that she was to be held accountable for everything which was objected to. If the children were not attentive, if they talked, if they were restless, it was she who would be reproved. But Lottie was a determined little person. If Sarah would not tell her where she lived, she would find out in some other way. She talked to her small companions and hung about the elder girls and listened when they were gossiping, and acting upon certain information they had unconsciously let drop, she started, late one afternoon, on a voyage of discovery, climbing stairs she had never known the existence of, until she reached the attic floor. There she found two doors near each other, and opening one, she saw her beloved Sarah standing upon an old table and looking out of a window. "'Sarah!' she cried aghast. "'Mama, Sarah!' She was aghast because the attic was so bare and ugly, and seemed so far away from all the world. Her short legs had seemed to have been mounting hundreds of stairs. Sarah turned round at the sound of her voice. It was her turn to be aghast. What would happen now? If Lottie began to cry and any one chance to hear, they were both lost. She jumped down from her table and ran to the child. "'Don't cry and make a noise,' she implored. "'I shall be scolded if you do, and I have been scolded all day. It's—it's not such a bad room, Lottie.' "'Isn't it?' gasped Lottie, and as she looked round it, she bit her lip. She was a spoiled child yet, but she was fond enough of her adopted parent to make an effort to control herself for her sake. Then somehow it was quite possible that any place in which Sarah lived might turn out to be nice. "'Why isn't it, Sarah?' she almost whispered. Sarah hugged her close and tried to laugh. There was a sort of comfort in the warmth of the plump, childish body. She had had a hard day and had been staring out of the windows with hot eyes. "'You can see all sorts of things that you can't see downstairs,' she said. "'What sort of things?' demanded Lottie, with that curiosity Sarah could always awaken even in the bigger girls. Chimneys, quite close to us, with smoke curling up in wreaths and clouds and going up into the sky, and sparrows hopping about and talking to each other, just as if they were people, and other attic windows where heads may pop out any minute, and you can wonder who they belong to. And it all feels as high up as if it was another world. "'Oh, let me see it,' cried Lottie, "'lift me up.'" Sarah lifted her up, and they stood on the old table together and leaned on the edge of the flat window in the roof, and looked out. One who has not done this does not know what a different world they saw. The slate spread out on either side of them, and slanted down into the rain-gutter pipes. The sparrows, being at home here, twitted and hopped about quite without fear. Two of them perched on the chimney-top nearest, and quarreled with each other fiercely, until one pecked the other and drove him away. The garret window next to theirs was shut, because the house next door was empty. "'I wish someone lived there,' Sarah said. "'It is so close that if there was a little girl in the attic, we could talk to each other through the windows and climb over to see each other, if we were not afraid of falling.' The sky seemed so much nearer than when one saw it from the street, that Lottie was enchanted. From the attic window, among the chimney-pots, the things which were happening in the world below seemed almost unreal. One scarcely believed in the existence of Miss Minchin and Miss Amelia in the school-room, and the role of wheels in the square seemed a sound belonging to another existence. "'Oh, Sarah!' cried Lottie, cuddling in her guarding-arm. "'I like this attic. I like it. It's nicer than downstairs.' "'Look at that sparrow,' whispered Sarah. I wish I had some crumbs to throw to him.' "'I have some,' came in a little shriek from Lottie. I have part of a bun in my pocket. I bought it with my penny yesterday, and I saved a bit.' When they threw out a few crumbs, the sparrow jumped and flew away to an adjacent chimney-top. He was evidently not accustomed to intimates in attics, and unexpected crumbs startled him. Lottie remained quite still, and Sarah chirped very softly, almost as if she were a sparrow herself. He saw that the thing which had alarmed him represented hospitality, after all. He put his head on one side, and from his perch on the chimney looked down at the crumbs with twinkling eyes. Lottie could scarcely keep still. "'Will he come? Will he come?' she whispered. His eyes look as if he would. Sarah whispered back. He is thinking and thinking whether he dare. "'Yes. He will. Yes, he's coming.' He flew down and hopped toward the crumbs, but stopped a few inches away from them, putting his head on one side again, as if reflecting on the chances that Sarah and Lottie might turn out to be big cats and jump on him. At last his heart told him they were really nicer than they looked, and he hopped nearer and nearer, darted at the biggest crumb with a lightning-peck, seized it, and carried it away to the other side of his chimney. "'Now he knows,' said Sarah, and he will come back for the others. He did come back, and even brought a friend, and the friend went away and brought a relative, and among them they made a hearty meal over which they twitted and chatted and exclaimed, stopping every now and then to put their heads on one side and examine Lottie and Sarah. Lottie was so delighted that she quite forgot her first shocked impression of the attic. In fact, when she was lifted down from the table and returned to earthly things as it were, Sarah was able to point out to her many beauties in the room which she herself would not have suspected the existence of. "'It is so little and so high above everything,' she said, that it is almost like a nest in a tree.' The slanting ceiling is so funny. See, you can scarcely stand up at this end of the room. And when the morning begins to come, I can lie in bed and look right up into the sky through that flat window and the roof. It is like a square patch of light. If the sun is going to shine, little pink clouds float about, and I feel as if I could touch them. And if it rains, the drops patter and patter as if they were saying something nice. Then if there are stars, you can lie and try to count how many go into the patch. It takes such a lot. And just look at that tiny, rusty grate in the corner. If it was polished and there was a fire in it, just think how nice it would be. You see, it's really a beautiful little room. She was walking around the small place, holding Lottie's hand and making gestures, which described all the beauties she was making herself see. She quite made Lottie see them too. Lottie could always believe in the things Sarah made pictures of. You see, she said, there could be a thick, soft, blue Indian rug on the floor, and in that corner there could be a soft little sofa with cushions to curl up on, and just over it could be a shelf full of books so that one could reach them easily, and there could be a fur rug before the fire and hangings on the wall to cover up the whitewash and pictures. They would have to be little ones, but they could be beautiful, and there could be a lamp with a deep rose-colored shade and a table in the middle with things to have tea with, and a little fat copper kettle singing on the hob, and the bed could be quite different. It could be made soft and covered with a lovely silk coverlet. It could be beautiful, and perhaps we could coax the sparrows until we made such friends with them that they could come and peck at the window and ask to be let in. Oh, Sarah! cried Lottie, I should like to live here. When Sarah had persuaded her to go downstairs again, and after setting her on her way had come back into her attic, she stood in the middle of it and looked about her. The enchantment of her imaginings for Lottie had died away. The bed was hard and covered with its dingy quilt. The whitewashed wall showed its broken patches, the floor was cold and bare, the grate was broken and rusty, and the battered footstool tilted sideways on its injured leg, the only seat in the room. She sat down on it for a few minutes and let her head drop in her hands. The mere fact that Lottie had come and gone away again made things seem a little worse, just as perhaps prisoners feel a little more desolate after visitors come and go, leaving them behind. It's a lonely place, she said. Sometimes it's the loneliest place in the world. She was sitting in this way when her attention was attracted by a slight sound near her. She lifted her head to see where it came from, and if she had been a nervous child she would have left her seat on the battered footstool in a great hurry. A large rat was sitting up on his hind quarters and sniffing the air in an interested manner. Some of Lottie's crumbs had dropped upon the floor, and their scent had drawn him out of his hole. He looked so queer and so like a gray-whisker dwarf or gnome that Sarah was rather fascinated. He looked at her with his bright eyes as if he were asking a question. He was evidently so doubtful that one of the child's queer thoughts came into her mind. I daresay it's rather hard to be a rat, she mused. Nobody likes you. People jump and run away and scream out, Oh, a horrid rat! I shouldn't like people to scream and jump and say, Oh, a horrid Sarah! the moment they saw me, and set traps for me and pretend they were dinner. It's so different to be a sparrow. But nobody asked this rat if he wanted to be a rat when he was made. Nobody said, Wouldn't you rather be a sparrow? She had sat so quietly that the rat had begun to take courage. He was very much afraid of her, but perhaps he had a heart like the sparrow, and it told him that she was not a thing which pounced. He was very hungry. He had a wife and a large family in the wall, and they had had frightfully bad luck for several days. He had left the children crying bitterly, and felt he would risk a good deal for a few crumbs. So he cautiously dropped upon his feet. Come on, said Sarah, I'm not a trap. You can have them, poor thing. Prisoners in the Bastille used to make friends with rats. Who's I make friends with you? How it is that animals understand things I do not know, but it is certain that they do understand. Perhaps there is a language which is not made of words, and everything in the world understands it. Perhaps there is a soul hidden in everything, and it can always speak, without even making a sound, to another soul. But whatsoever the reason, the rat knew from that moment that he was safe, even though he was a rat. He knew that this young human being sitting on the red footstool would not jump up and terrify him with wild, sharp noises, or throw heavy objects at him which, if they did not fall and crush him, would send him limping in his scurry back to his hole. He was really a very nice rat, and did not mean the least harm. When he had stood on his hind legs and sniffed the air with his bright eyes fixed on Sarah, he had hoped that she would understand this, and would not begin by hating him as an enemy. When the mysterious thing which speaks without saying any words told him that she would not, he went softly toward the crumbs and began to eat them. As he did it, he glanced every now and then at Sarah, just as the sparrows had done, and his expression was so very apologetic that it touched her heart. She sat and watched him without making any movement. One crumb was very much larger than the others. In fact, it could scarcely be called a crumb. It was evident that he wanted that piece very much, but it lay quite near the footstool, and he was still rather timid. I believe he wanted to carry to his family in the war, Sarah thought. If I do not stir at all, perhaps he will come and get it. She scarcely allowed herself to breathe she was so deeply interested. The rat shuffled a little nearer, and ate a few more crumbs. Then he stopped and sniffed delicately, giving a side glance at the occupant of the footstool. Then he darted at the piece of bun with something very like the sudden bulness of the sparrow, and the instant he had possession of it, he fled back to the wall, slipped down a crack in the skirting-board, and was gone. I knew he wanted it for his children, said Sarah. I do believe I could make friends with him. A week or so afterward, on one of the rare nights when Ermengard found it safe to steal up to the attic, when she tapped on the door with the tips of her fingers, Sarah did not come to her for two or three minutes. There was indeed such a silence in the room at first, that Ermengard wondered if she could have fallen asleep. Then to her surprise, she heard her utter a low, little laugh and speak coaxingly to someone. There, Ermengard heard her say, take it and go home, milk-is-a-deck. Go home to your wife. Almost immediately Sarah opened the door, and when she did so she found Ermengard standing with alarmed eyes upon the threshold. Who—who are you talking to, Sarah? She gasped out. Sarah drew her in cautiously, but she looked as if something pleased and amused her. You must promise not to be frightened, not to scream the least bit, or I can't tell you," she answered. Ermengard felt almost inclined to scream on the spot, but managed to control herself. She looked all round the attic and saw no one, and yet Sarah had certainly been speaking to someone. She thought of ghosts. Is it something that will frighten me? She asked timorously. Some people are afraid of them, said Sarah. I was at first, but I am not now. Was it a ghost? quaked Ermengard. Oh! said Sarah, laughing. It was my rat. Ermengard made one bound and landed in the middle of the little dingy bed. She tucked her feet under her nightgown in the red shawl. She did not scream, but she gasped with fright. Oh! Oh! she cried under her breath. A rat! A rat! I was afraid you would be frightened, said Sarah, but you needn't be. I am making him tame. He actually knows me and comes out when I call him. Are you too frightened to want to see him? The truth was that, as the days had gone on, and with the aid of scraps brought up from the kitchen, her curious friendship had developed, and she had gradually forgotten that the timid creature she was becoming familiar with was a mere rat. At first Ermengard was too much alarm to do anything but huddle in a heap upon the bed and tuck up her feet. But the sight of Sarah's composed little countenance and the story of Melchizedek's first appearance began at last to rouse her curiosity, and she leaned forward over the edge of the bed and watched Sarah go and kneel down by the hole in the skirting board. He—he won't run out quickly and jump on the bed, will he? She said. No, answered Sarah. He's as polite as we are. He's just like a person. Now watch. She began to make a low whistling sound, so low and coaxing that it could only have been heard in entire stillness. She did it several times, and looked entirely absorbed in it. Ermengard thought she looked as if she were working a spell. And at last, evidently in response to it, a grey-whiskered, bright head peeped out of the hole. Sarah had some crumbs in her hand. She dropped them, and Melchizedek came quietly forth and ate them. A piece of larger size than the rest he took and carried it in the most business-like manner back to his home. "'You see,' said Sarah, that is for his wife and children. He's very nice. He only eats the little bits. After he goes back I can always hear his family squeaking for joy. There are three kinds of squeaks. One kind is the children's, and one is Mrs. Melchizedek's, and one is Melchizedek's own.' Ermengard began to laugh. "'Oh, Sarah,' she said, "'you are queer, but you're nice.' "'I know I am queer,' admitted Sarah cheerfully, and I try to be nice.' She rubbed her forehead with a little brown paw, and a puzzled, tender look came into her face. "'Papa always laughed at me,' she said, but I liked it. He thought I was queer, but he liked me to make up things. I—I can't help making up things. If I didn't, I don't believe I could live.' She paused and glanced around the attic. I'm sure I couldn't live here.' She added in a low voice. Ermengard was interested, as she always was. "'When you talk about things,' she said, they seem as if they grew real. He talk about Melchizedek as if he was a person.' "'He is a person,' said Sarah. He gets hungry and frightened just as we do, and he is married and has children. How do we know he doesn't think things just as we do? His eyes look as if he was a person. That was why I gave him a name.' She sat down on the floor in her favourite attitude, holding her knees. "'Besides,' she said, he is a Bastille rat, sent to be my friend. I can always get a bit of bread the cook has thrown away, and it is quite enough to support him.' "'Is it the Bastille yet?' asked Ermengard eagerly. "'Do you always pretend it is the Bastille?' "'Nearly always,' answered Sarah. "'Sometimes I try to pretend it is another kind of place, but the Bastille is generally easiest, particularly when it is cold.' Just at that moment, Ermengard almost jumped off the bed, she was so startled by a sound, she heard. It was like two distinct knots on the wall.' "'What is that?' she exclaimed. Sarah got up from the floor and answered quite dramatically, it is the prisoner in the next cell.' "'Becky!' cried Ermengard, enraptured. "'Yes,' said Sarah. "'Listen. The two knocks meant, prisoner, are you there?' She knocked three times on the wall herself as if an answer. That means, yes, I am here, and all is well. Four knocks came from Becky's side of the wall. That means,' explained Sarah, "'then, fellow sufferer, we will sleep in peace. Good night.' Ermengard quite beamed with delight. "'Oh, Sarah!' she whispered joyfully. "'It is like a story.' "'It is a story,' said Sarah. "'Everything is a story. You are a story. I am a story. It is a story.' And she sat down again and talked until Ermengard forgot that she was a sort of escaped prisoner herself, and had to be reminded by Sarah that she could not remain in the Bastille all night, but must steal noiselessly downstairs again and creep back into her deserted bed." CHAPTER 10 THE INDIAN GENTLEMAN But it was a perilous thing for Ermengard and Lottie to make pilgrimages to the attic. They could never be quite sure when Sarah would be there, and they could scarcely ever be certain that Miss Amelia would not make a tour of inspection through the bedrooms after the pupils were supposed to be asleep. So their visits were rare once, and Sarah lived a strange and lonely life. It was a lonelier life when she was downstairs than she was in her attic. She had no one to talk to, and when she was sent out on errands and walked through the streets, a forlorn little figure carrying a basket or a parcel, trying to hold her hat on when the wind was blowing, and feeling the water soaked through her shoes when it was raining, she felt as if the crowd's hurrying pasta made her loneliness greater. When she had been the princess, Sarah, driving through the streets in her broam, or walking attended by Mariette, the sight of her bright, eager little face and picturesque coats and hats had often caused people to look after her. A happy, beautifully cared-for little girl naturally attracts attention. Shabby, poorly dressed children are not rare enough and pretty enough to make people turn around and look at them and smile. No one looked at Sarah in these days, and no one seemed to see her as she hurried along the crowded pavements. She had begun to grow very fast, and as she was dressed only in such clothes as the plainer remnants of her wardrobe would supply, she knew she looked very queer indeed. All her valuable garments had been disposed of, and such as had been left for her use, she was expected to wear so long as she could put them on at all. Sometimes when she passed a shop window with a mirror in it, she almost laughed out right on catching a glimpse of herself, and sometimes her face went red and she bit her lip and turned away. In the evening, when she passed houses whose windows were lighted up, she used to look into the warm rooms and amuse herself by imagining things about the people she saw sitting before the fires or about the tables. It always interested her to catch glimpses of rooms before the shutters were closed. There were several families in the square in which Miss Minchin lived, with which she had become quite familiar in a way of her own. The one she liked best, she called the large family. She called it the large family not because the members of it were big, for indeed most of them were little, but because there were so many of them. There were eight children in the large family, and a stout rosy mother, and a stout rosy father, and a stout rosy grandmother, and any number of servants. The eight children were always either being taken out to walk or to ride in perambulators by comfortable nurses, or they were going to drive with their mama, or they were flying to the door in the evening to meet their papa and kiss him and dance around him and drag off his overcoat and look in the pockets for packages, or they were crowding about the nursery windows and looking out and pushing each other and laughing. In fact, they were always doing something enjoyable and suited to the tastes of a large family. Sarah was quite fond of them, and had given them names out of books, quite romantic names. They called them the Montmorences, when she did not call them the large family. The fat, fair baby with the lace cap was Ethelbert a Beecham Montmorence. The next baby was Violet Colmondley Montmorence. The little boy who could just stagger and who had such round legs was Sidney Cecil Vivian Montmorence, and then came Lillian Evangeline Maude Marion, Rosalind Gladys, Guy Clarence, Veronica Eustasia, and Claude Harold Hector. One evening a very funny thing happened, though perhaps in one sense it was not a funny thing at all. Several of the Montmorences were evidently going to a children's party, and just as Sarah was about to pass the door, they were crossing the pavement to get into the carriage which was waiting for them. Veronica Eustasia and Rosalind Gladys, in white lace frocks and lovely sashes, had just got in, and Guy Clarence, aged five, was following them. He was such a pretty fellow, and had such rosy cheeks and blue eyes and such a darling little round head covered with curls, that Sarah forgot her basket and shabby cloak altogether. In fact, forgot everything, but that she wanted to look at him for a moment. So she paused and looked. It was Christmas time, and the large family had been hearing many stories about children who were poor, and had no mamas and pappas to fill their stockings and take them to the pantomime—children who were, in fact, cold and thinly clad and hungry. In the stories kind people, sometimes little boys and girls with tender hearts, invariably saw the poor children, and gave them money or rich gifts, or took them home to beautiful dinners. Guy Clarence had been affected to tears that very afternoon by the weeding of such a story, and he had burned with a desire to find such a poor child, and give her a certain sixpence he possessed, and thus provide for her for life. An entire sixpence, he was sure, would mean affluence for ever more. As he crossed the strip of red carpet, laid across the pavement from the door to the carriage, he had this very sixpence in the pocket of his very short man-a-war trousers. And just as Rosalind Gladys got into the vehicle, and jumped on the seat in order to feel the cushion spring under her, he saw Sarah standing in the car, standing on the wet pavement in her shabby frock and hat, with her old basket on her arms, looking at him hungrily. He thought that her eyes looked hungry, because she had, perhaps, had nothing to eat for a long time. He did not know that they looked so, because she was hungry for the warm merry life his home held, and his rosy face spoke of, and that she had a hungry wish to snatch him in her arms and kiss him. He only knew that she had big eyes, and a thin face, and thin legs, and a common basket, and poor clothes. So he put his hand in his pocket, and found his sixpence, and walked up to her benignly. Here, poor little girl," he said,--"here is a sixpence, I will give it to you." Sarah started, and all at once realized that she looked exactly like poor children she had seen in her better days, waiting on the pavement to watch her as she got out of her broam. And she had given them pennies many a time. Her face went red, and then it went pale, and for a second she felt as if she could not take the dear little sixpence.--"Oh, no," she said,--"oh, no, thank you, I mustn't take it, indeed." Her voice was so unlike an ordinary street-child's voice, and her manner was so like the manner of a well-bred little person, that Veronica Eustacia, whose real name was Janet, and Rosalyn Gladys, who was really called Nora, leaned forward to listen. But Guy Clarence was not to be thwarted in his benevolence. He thrust the sixpence into her hand.--"Yes, you must take it, poor little girl," he insisted stoutly,--"you can buy things to eat with it. It is a whole sixpence." There was something so honest and kind in his face, and he looked so likely to be heartbrokenly disappointed if she did not take it, that Sarah knew she must not refuse him. To be as proud as that would be a cruel thing. So she actually put her pride in her pocket, though it must be admitted her cheeks burned.--"Thank you," she said,--"you are a kind, kind little darling thing. And as he scrambled joyfully into the carriage, she went away trying to smile, though she caught her breath quickly and her eyes were shining through a mist. She had known that she looked odd and shabby, but until now she had not known that she might be taken for a beggar. As the large family's carriage drove away, the children inside it were talking with interested excitement.--"Oh, Donald!" this was Guy Clarence's name," Janet exclaimed alarmedly.--"Why did you offer that little girl your sixpence? I am sure she is not a beggar."--"She didn't speak like a beggar," cried Nora, and her face didn't really look like a beggar's face.--"Besides, she didn't beg," said Janet.--"I was so afraid she might be angry with you. You know, it makes people angry to be taken for beggars when they are not beggars."--"She wasn't angry," said Donald, a trifle dismayed, but still firm. She laughed a little, and said I was a kind, kind little darling thing, and I was—stoutly—it was my whole sixpence." Janet and Nora exchanged glances.--"A beggar girl would never have said that," decided Janet. She would have said, "'Thank you kindly, little gentleman, thank you, sir,' and perhaps she would have bobbed a curtsy." Sarah knew nothing about the fact, but from that time the large family was as profoundly interested in her as she was in it. Faces used to appear at the nursery windows when she passed, and many discussions concerning her were held round the fire. "'She is a kind of servant at the seminary,' Janet said. "'I don't believe she belongs to anybody. I believe she is an orphan. But she is not a beggar, however shabby she looks. And after that she was called by all of them, the little girl who is not a beggar, which was, of course, rather a long name, and sounded very funny sometimes when the youngest one said it in a hurry." Sarah managed to bore a hole in the sixpence and hung it on an old bit of narrow ribbon round her neck. Her affection for the large family increased, as indeed her affection for everything she could love increased. She grew fonder and fonder of Becky, and she used to look forward to the two mornings a week when she went into the school-room to give the little ones their French lesson. Her small pupils loved her, and strove with each other for the privilege of standing close to her, and insinuating their small hands into hers. It fed her hungry heart to feel them nestling up to her. She made such friends with the sparrows that when she stood upon the table, put her head and shoulders out of the attic window and chirped, she heard almost immediately a flutter of wings and answering twitters, and the little flock of dingy town-birds appeared, and alighted on the slates to talk to her, and make much of the crumbs she scattered. With Melchizedek she had become so intimate that he actually brought Mrs. Melchizedek with him sometimes, and now and then one or two of his children. She used to talk to him, and somehow he looked quite as if he understood. There had grown in her mind a rather strange feeling about Emily, who always sat and looked on at everything. It arose in one of her moments of great desolateness. She would have liked to believe, or pretend to believe, that Emily understood and sympathized with her. She did not like to own to herself that her only companion could feel and hear nothing. She used to put her in a chair sometimes, and sit opposite to her, on the old red footstool, and stare and pretend about her until her own eyes would grow large with something which was almost like fear, particularly at night, when everything was so still, when the only sound in the attic was the occasional sudden scurry and squeak of Melchizedek's family in the wall. One of her pretends was that Emily was a kind of good witch who could protect her. Sometimes after she had stared at her until she was wrought up to the highest pitch of fancifulness, she would ask her questions, and find herself almost feeling as if she would presently answer. But she never did. "'As to answering, though,' said Sarah, trying to console herself, I don't answer very often. I never answer when I can help it. When people are insulting you there is nothing so good for them as to not say a word, just to look at them and think. Miss Mention turns pale with rage when I do it. Miss Amelia looks frightened and so do the girls. When you will not fly into a passion, people know you are stronger than they are, because you are strong enough to hold in your rage, and they are not, and they say stupid things they wish they hadn't said afterward. There's nothing so strong as rage, except what makes you hold it in—that's stronger. It's a good thing not to answer your enemies. I scarcely ever do. Perhaps Emily is more like me than I am like myself. Perhaps she would rather not answer her friends even. She keeps it all in her heart." But though she tried to satisfy herself with these arguments, she did not find it easy. When after a long, hard day in which she had been sent here and there, sometimes on long errands, through wind and cold and rain, she came in wet and hungry, and was sent out again because nobody chose to remember that she was only a child, and that her slim legs might be tired and her small body might be chilled. When she had been given only harsh words and cold, slighting looks for thanks, when the cook had been vulgar and insolent, when Miss Minchin had been in her worst mood, and when she had seen the girls sneering among themselves at her shabbiness, then she was not always able to comfort her sore, proud, desolate heart with fancies, when Emily merely sat upright in her old chair and stared. One of these nights, when she came up to the attic, cold and hungry, with a tempest raging in her young breast, Emily's stare seemed so vacant, her sore dust legs and arms so inexpressive, that Sarah lost all control over herself. There was nobody but Emily, no one in the world, and there she sat. "'I shall die presently,' she said at first. Emily simply stared. "'I can't bear this,' said the poor child, trembling, "'I know I shall die. I'm cold, I'm wet, I'm starving to death. I've walked a thousand miles to-day, and they have done nothing but scold me from morning until night. And because I could not find the last thing the cook sent me for, they would not give me any supper. Some men laughed at me because my old shoes made me slip down in the mud. I'm covered with mud now. And they laughed. Do you hear?' She looked at the staring glass eyes and complacent face, and suddenly a sort of heart-broken rage seized her. She lifted her little savage hand and knocked Emily off the chair, bursting into a passion of sobbing. Sarah, who never cried, "'You're nothing but a doll,' she cried. "'Nothing but a doll, doll, doll. You care for nothing. You're stuffed with sore dust. You never had a heart. Nothing could ever make you feel you're a doll!' Emily lay on the floor, with her legs ignominously doubled up over her head, and a new flat place on the end of her nose. But she was calm, even dignified. Sarah hid her face and her arms. The rats in the war began to fight and bite each other and squeak and scramble. Melchizedek was chastising some of his family. Sarah's sobs gradually quieted themselves. It was so unlike her to break down that she was surprised at herself. For a while she raised her face and looked at Emily, who seemed to be gazing at her, round the side of one angle, and somehow, by this time, actually with a kind of glassy-eyed sympathy. Sarah bent and picked her up. Remorse overtook her. She even smiled at herself, a very little smile. "'You can't help being a doll,' she said with a resigned sigh. Any more than Lavinia and Jesse can help not having any sense. We're not all made alike. Perhaps you do your sore dust best.' Then she kissed her, and took her clothes straight, and put her back upon her chair. She had wished very much that someone would take the empty house next door. She wished it because of the attic window which was so near hers. It seemed as if it would be so nice to see it propped open some day, and her head and shoulders rising out of the square aperture. If it looked a nice head, she thought, I might begin by saying good morning, and all sorts of things might happen. But, of course, it's not really likely that any one but underservance would sleep there. One morning, on turning the corner of the square after a visit to the grocers, the butchers, and the bakers, she saw to her great delight that during her rather prolonged absence a van full of furniture had stopped before the next house. The front doors were thrown open, and men in shirt-sleeves were going in and out carrying heavy packages and pieces of furniture. "'It's taken,' she said. It really is taken. Oh, I do hope a nice head will look out of the attic window.' She would almost have liked to join the group of loiterers which stopped on the pavement to watch the things carried in. She had an idea, that if she could see some of the furniture, she could guess something about the people it belonged to. "'Miss Minchin's tables and chairs are just like her,' she thought. I remember thinking that the first minute I saw her, even though I was so little. I told Papa afterward, and he laughed and said it was true. I'm sure the large family had fat, comfortable armchairs and sofas, and I can see that their red flowery wallpaper is exactly like them. It's warm and cheerful and kind-looking and happy." She was sent out for parsley to the greengrocer's later in the day, and when she came up the area's steps her heart gave quite a quick beat of recognition. Several pieces of furniture had been set out of a van upon the pavement. There was a beautiful table of elaborately wrought teakwood and some chairs and a screen covered with rich oriental embroidery. The sight of them gave her a weird, homesick feeling. She had seen things so like them in India. One of the things Miss Minchin had taken from her was a carved teakwood desk her father had sent her. They're beautiful things, she said. They look as if they ought to belong to a nice person. All the things look rather grand. I suppose it is a rich family. The vans of furniture came and were unloaded and gave place to others all the day. Several times it so happened that Sarah had an opportunity of seeing things carried in. It became plain that she had been right in guessing that the newcomers were people of large means. All the furniture was rich and beautiful, and a great deal of it was oriental. Beautiful rugs and draperies and ornaments were taken from the vans, many pictures and books enough for a library. Among other things was a superb God Buddha in a splendid shrine. Someone in the family must have been in India, Sarah thought. They've got used to Indian things and like them. I am glad. I shall feel as if they were friends, even if her head never looks out of the attic window. When she was taking in the evening's milk for the cook, there was really no odd job she was not called upon to do. She saw something occur which made the situation more interesting than ever. The handsome, rosy man, who was the father of the large family, walked across the square in the most matter-of-fact manner, and ran up the stairs of the next door house. He ran up them as if he felt quite at home and expected to run up and down them many a time in the future. He stayed inside quite a long time, and several times came out and gave directions to the workmen as if he had a right to do so. It was quite certain that he was in some intimate way connected with the newcomers and was acting for them. If the new people have children, Sarah speculated, the large family will be sure to come and play with them, and they might come up into the attic just for fun. At night, after her work was done, Becky came in to see her fellow prisoner and bring her news. It's an Indian gentleman that's coming to live next door, miss, she said. I don't know whether he's a black gentleman or not, but he's an Indian one. He's very rich, and he's ill, and the gentleman of the large family's is lawyer. He's had a lot of trouble, and it's made him ill and low in his mind. He worships idols, miss. He's an even and bows down to wooden stone. I've seen an idol being carried in for him to worship. Somebody had ought to send him a track. You can get a track for a penny." Sarah laughed a little. I don't believe he worships that idol, she said. Some people like to keep them to look at, because they're interesting. My papa had a beautiful one, and he did not worship it. But Becky was rather inclined to prefer to believe that the new neighbor was an even. It sounded so much more romantic than that he should merely be the ordinary kind of gentleman who went to church with a prayer-book. She sat and talked long that night of what he would be like, of what his wife would be like if he had one, and of what his children would be like if they had children. Sarah saw that privately she could not help hoping very much that they would all be black and would wear turbans, and above all, that, like their parent, they would all be evens. I'll never live next door to know evens, miss," she said. I should like to see what sorts of ways they'd have. It was several weeks before her curiosity was satisfied, and then it was revealed that the new occupant had neither wife nor children. He was a solitary man with no family at all, and it was evident that he was shattered in health and unhappy in mind. A carriage drove up one day and stopped before the house. When the footman dismounted from the box and opened the door, the gentleman who was the father of the large family got out first. After him there descended a nurse in uniform, then came down the steps to men's servants. They came to assist their master, who, when he was helped out of the carriage, proved to be a man with a haggard, distressed face, and a skeleton body wrapped in furs. He was carried up the steps, and the head of the large family went with him, looking very anxious. Shortly afterward a doctor's carriage arrived, and the doctor went in, plainly to take care of him. There is such a yellow gentleman next door, Sarah—Lotty whispered at the French class afterward—do you think he's a Chinese? The geography says the Chinese men are yellow. No, he's not Chinese, Sarah whispered back. He's very ill. Go on with your exercise, Lotty. No, monsieur, je n'ai pas le gainif de mon oncle. That was the beginning of the story of the Indian gentleman. End of CHAPTER X CHAPTER XI OF A LITTLE PRINCESS by Francis Hodgson Burnett. Read for LibraVox.org by Karen Savage in September 2007. CHAPTER XI. RAMDAS. There were fine sunsets, even in the square sometimes. One could only see parts of them, however, between the chimneys and over the roofs. From the kitchen windows one could not see them at all, and could only guess that they were going on because the bricks looked warm in the air rosy or yellow for a while, or perhaps one saw a blazing glow strike a particular pane of glass somewhere. There was, however, one place from which one could see all the splendour of them—the piles of red or gold clouds in the west, or the purple ones edged with dazzling brightness, or the little fleecy floating ones tinged with rose-colour, and looking like flights of pink doves scurrying across the blue in a great hurry if there was a wind. The place where one could see all this, and seem at the same time to breathe a purer air, was, of course, the attic window. When the square suddenly seemed to begin to glow in an enchanted way, and look wonderful in spite of its sooty trees and railings, Sarah knew something was going on in the sky. And when it was at all possible to leave the kitchen without being missed or called back, she invariably stole away and crept up the flights of stairs, and, climbing on the old table, got her head and body as far out of the window as possible. When she had accomplished this, she always drew a long breath and looked all around her. It used to seem as if she had all the sky and the world to herself. No one else ever looked out of the other attics. Generally the skylights were closed, but even if they were propped open to admit air, no one seemed to come near them. And there Sarah would stand, sometimes turning her face upward to the blue, which seemed so friendly and near, just like a lovely vaulted ceiling, sometimes watching the west and all the wonderful things that happened there, the clouds melting or drifting or waiting softly to be changed pink or crimson or snow white or purple or pale dove gray. Sometimes they made islands or great mountains enclosing lakes of deep turquoise blue or liquid amber or chrysoprace green. Sometimes dark headlands jutted into strange lost seas. Sometimes slender strips of wonderful lands joined other wonderful lands together. There were places where it seemed that one could run or climb or stand and wait to see what was coming next, until, perhaps as it all melted, one could float away. At least it seemed so to Sarah, and nothing had ever been quite so beautiful to her as the things she saw as she stood on the table, her body half out of the skylight, the sparrows twittering with sunset softness on the slates. The sparrows always seemed to her to twitter with a sort of subdued softness, just when these marvels were going on. There was such a sunset as this, a few days after the Indian gentleman was brought to his new home, and, as it fortunately happened that the afternoon's work was done in the kitchen, and nobody had ordered her to go anywhere or perform any task, Sarah found it easier than usual to slip away and go upstairs. She mounted her table and stood looking out. It was a wonderful moment. There were floods of molten gold covering the west, as if a glorious tide was sweeping over the world. A deep, rich, yellow light filled the air. The birds flying across the tops of the houses showed quite black against it. It's a splendid one, said Sarah, softly to herself. It makes me feel almost afraid, as if something strange was just going to happen. The splendid ones always make me feel like that. She suddenly turned her head, because she heard a sound a few yards away from her. It was an odd sound, like a queer little squeaky chattering. It came from the window of the next attic. Someone had come to look at the sunset as she had. There was a head and a part of a body emerging from the skylight, but it was not the head or body of a little girl or a housemaid. It was the picturesque, white-swayed form and dark-faced, gleaming-eyed, white-turbant head of a native Indian man-servant. Alaska, Sarah said to herself quickly, and the sound she had heard came from a small monkey he held in his arms, as if he were fond of it, and which was snuggling and chattering against his breast. As Sarah looked toward him, he looked toward her. The first thing she thought was that his dark face looked sorrowful and homesick. She felt absolutely sure that he had come up to look at the sun, because he had seen it so seldom in England that he longed for a sight of it. She looked at him interestedly for a second, and then smiled across the slates. She had learned to know how comforting a smile, even from a stranger, may be. Hers was evidently a pleasure to him. His whole expression altered, and he showed such gleaming white teeth as he smiled back that it was as if a light had been illuminated in his dusky face. The friendly look in Sarah's eyes was always very effective when people felt tired or dull. It was perhaps in making his salute to her that he loosened his hold on the monkey. He was an impish monkey and always ready for adventure, and it is probable that the sight of a little girl excited him. He suddenly broke loose, jumped onto the slates, ran across them chattering, and actually leapt onto Sarah's shoulder, and from there down into her attic room. It made her laugh and delighted her, but she knew he must be restored to his master—if Thalaska was his master—and she wondered how this was to be done. Would he let her catch him, or would he be naughty and refuse to be caught, and perhaps get away and run off over the roofs and be lost? That would not do at all. Perhaps he belonged to the Indian gentleman, and the poor man was fond of him. She turned to Thalaska, feeling glad that she remembered still some of the Hindustani she had learned when she lived with her father. She could make the man understand. She spoke to him in the language he knew. Will he let me catch him? she asked. She thought she had never seen more surprise and delight than the dark face expressed when she spoke in the familiar tongue. The truth was that the poor fellow felt as if his gods had intervened, and the kind little voice came from heaven itself. At once Sarah saw that he had been accustomed to European children. He poured forth a flood of respectful thanks. He was the servant of Mississaib. The monkey was a good monkey, and would not bite. But unfortunately he was difficult to catch. He would flee from one spot to another, like the lightning. He was disobedient, though not evil. Ram Dass knew him as if he were his child, and Ram Dass he would sometimes obey, but not always. If Mississaib would permit Ram Dass, he himself could cross the roof to her room, enter the windows, and regain the unworthy little animal. But he was evidently afraid Sarah might think he was taking a great liberty, and perhaps would not let him come. But Sarah gave him leave at once. Can you get across? she inquired. In a moment, he answered her. Then come, she said, he is flying from side to side of the room as if he was frightened. Ram Dass slipped through his attic window and crossed to hers as steadily and lightly as if he had walked on roofs all his life. He slipped through the skylight and dropped upon his feet without a sound. Then he turned to Sarah and salamed again. The monkey saw him and uttered a little scream. Ram Dass hastily took the precaution of tutting the skylight, and then went in chase of him. It was not a very long chase. The monkey prolonged it a few minutes evidently for the mere fun of it, but presently he sprang chattering onto Ram Dass's shoulder and sat there chattering and clinging to his neck with a weird little skinny arm. Ram Dass thanked Sarah profoundly. She had seen that his quick native eyes had taken in at a glance all the bare shabbiness of the room, but he spoke to her as if he was speaking to the little daughter of Raja and pretended that he observed nothing. He did not presume to remain more than a few moments after he had caught the monkey, and those moments were given to further deep and grateful abasins to her in return for her indulgence. This little evil one, he said, stroking the monkey, was in truth not so evil as he seemed, and his master, who was ill, was sometimes amused by him. He would have been made sad if his favourite had run away and been lost. Then he salamed once more and got through the skylight and crossed the slates again with as much agility as the monkey himself had displayed. When he had gone Sarah stood in the middle of her attic and thought of many things his face and his manner had brought back to her. The sight of his native costume and the profound reverence of his manner stirred all her past memories. It seemed a strange thing to remember that she, the drudge whom the cook had said insulting things to an hour ago, had only a few years ago been surrounded by people who all treated her as Ram Dass had treated her, who salamed when she went by, whose foreheads almost touched the ground when she spoke to them, who were her servants and her slaves. It was like a sort of dream. It was all over, and it could never come back. It certainly seemed that there was no way in which any change could take place. She knew what Miss Minchin intended that her future should be. So long as she was too young to be used as a regular teacher, she would be used as an errant girl and servant, and yet expected to remember what she had learned, and in some mysterious way to learn more. For the greater number of her evenings she was supposed to spend at study, and at various indefinite intervals she was examined, and knew that she would have been severely admonished if she had not advanced as was expected of her. The truth, indeed, was that Miss Minchin knew that she was too anxious to learn to require teachers. Give her books, and she would devour them and end by knowing them by heart. She might be trusted to be equal to teaching a good deal in the course of a few years. This was what would happen. When she was older she would be expected to drudge in the schoolroom as she drudged now in various parts of the house. They would be obliged to give her more respectable clothes, but they would be sure to be plain and ugly and to make her look somehow like a servant. That was all there seemed to be to look forward to, and Sarah stood quite still for a several minutes and thought it over. Then a thought came back to her which made the colour rise in her cheek, and a spark light itself in her eyes. She straightened her thin little body and lifted her head. Whatever comes, she said, cannot alter one thing. If I am a princess in rags and tatters, I can be a princess inside. It would be easy to be a princess if I were dressed in cloth of gold, but it is a great deal more of a triumph to be one all the time when no one knows it. There was Marie Antoinette when she was in prison, and her throne was gone, and she had only a black gown on, and her hair was white, and they insulted her and called her the widow capée. She was a great deal more like a queen then, than when she was so gay and everything was so grand. I like her best, then. Those howling mobs of people did not frighten her. She was stronger than they were, even when they cut her head off. This was not a new thought, but quite an old one by this time. It had consoled her through many a bitter day, and she had gone about the house with an expression in her face which Miss Minchin could not understand, and which was a source of great annoyance to her, as it seemed as if the child were mentally living a life which held her above the rest of the world. It was as if she scarcely heard the rude and acid things said to her, or if she heard them, she did not care for them at all. Sometimes when she was in the midst of some harsh, domineering speech, Miss Minchin would find the still, unchildish eyes fixed upon her with something like a proud smile in them. At such times she did not know that Sarah was saying to herself, "'You don't know that you are saying these things to a princess, and that if I chose I could wave my hand and order you to execution. I only spare you, because I am a princess, and you are a poor, stupid, unkind, vulgar old thing, and don't know any better.' This used to interest and amuse her more than anything else, and queer and fanciful as it was, she found comfort in it, and it was a good thing for her. While the thought held possession of her, she could not be made rude and malicious by the rudeness and malice of those about her. "'A princess must be polite,' she said to herself. And so when the servants, taking their tone from their mistress, were insolent and ordered her about, she would hold her head erect and reply to them with a quaint civility which often made them stare at her. "'She's got more heirs and graces than if she'd come from Buckingham Palace that young one,' said the cook, chuckling a little sometimes. I lose my temper with her often enough, but I will say she never forgets her manners. "'If you please cook, will you be so kind, cook? I beg your pardon, cook. May I trouble you, cook?' She dropped some about the kitchen as if there was nothing. The morning after the interview with Ram Dass and his monkey, Sarah was in the schoolroom with her small pupils. Having finished giving them their lessons, she was putting the French exercise books together and thinking as she did it, of the various things royal personages in disguise were called upon to do. Alfred the Great, for instance, burning the cakes and getting his ears boxed by the wife of the neat-herd—how frightened she must have been when she found out what she had done! If Miss Minchin should find out that she, Sarah, whose toes were almost sticking out of her boots, was a princess, a real one—the look in her eyes was exactly the look which Miss Minchin most disliked. She would not have it. She was quite near her, and was so enraged that she actually flew at her and boxed her ears, exactly as the neat-herd's wife had boxed King Alfred's. It made Sarah start. She wakened from her dream at the shock, and catching her breath stood still a second. Then, not knowing she was going to do it, she broke into a little laugh. "'What are you laughing at, you bold, impudent child?' Miss Minchin exclaimed. It took Sarah a few seconds to control herself sufficiently to remember that she was a princess. Her cheeks were red and smarting from the blows she had received. "'I was thinking,' she answered. "'Beg my pardon immediately,' said Miss Minchin. Sarah hesitated a second before she replied. "'I will beg your pardon for laughing, if it was rude,' she said then. "'But I won't beg your pardon for thinking.' "'What were you thinking?' demanded Miss Minchin. "'How dare you think! What were you thinking?' Jesse tittered, and she and Lavinia nudged each other in unison. All the girls looked up from their books to listen. Suddenly it always interested them a little when Miss Minchin attacked Sarah. Sarah always said something queer, and never seemed the least bit frightened. She was not in the least frightened now, though her boxed ears were scarlet and her eyes were as bright as stars. "'I was thinking,' she answered grandly and politely, that you did not know what you were doing. "'That I did not know what I was doing,' Miss Minchin fairly gasped. "'Yes,' said Sarah, and I was thinking what would happen if I were a princess and you boxed my ears, what I should do to them. And I was thinking that if I were one you would never dare to do it, whatever I said or did. And I was thinking how surprised and frightened you would be if you suddenly found out—' She had the imagined future so clearly before her eyes that she spoke in a manner which had an effect even upon Miss Minchin. It almost seemed for the moment to her narrow, unimaginative mind that there must be some real power hidden behind this candid daring. "'What?' she exclaimed, found out what. "'That I really was a princess,' said Sarah, and could do anything—anything I liked. Every pair of eyes in the room widened to its full limit. LaVinia leaned forward on her seat to look. "'Go to your room,' cried Miss Minchin breathlessly, "'this instant! Leave the schoolroom. Attend to your lessons, young ladies.' Sarah made a little bow. "'Excuse me for laughing if it was impolite,' she said, and walked out of the room, leaving Miss Minchin struggling with her rage, and the girls whispering over their books. "'Did you see her? Did you see how queer she looked?' Jesse broke out. I shouldn't be at all surprised if she did turn out to be something. Suppose she should.' CHAPTER XII. THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WALL. When one lives in a row of houses, it is interesting to think of the things which are being done and said on the other side of the wall, of the very rooms one is living in. Sarah was fond of amusing herself by trying to imagine the things hidden by the wall, which divided the select seminary from the Indian gentleman's house. She knew that the schoolroom was next to the Indian gentleman's study, and she hoped that the wall was thick, so that the noise made sometimes after lessen hours would not disturb him. "'I'm grown quite fond of him,' she said to Ermengard. "'I should not like him to be disturbed. I have adopted him for a friend. You can do that with people you never speak to at all. You can just watch them, and think about them, and be sorry for them, until they seem almost like relations. I'm quite anxious sometimes when I see the doctor call twice a day.' "'I have very few relations,' said Ermengard reflectively, and I'm very glad of it. I don't like those I have. My two aunts are always saying, dear me, Ermengard, you are very fat, you shouldn't eat sweets, and my uncle is always asking me things like, when did Edward III ascend the throne, and who died of a surfeit of lampries?' Sarah laughed. "'People you never speak to can't ask you questions like that,' she said, and I'm sure the Indian gentleman wouldn't, even if he was quite intimate with you. I am fond of him.' She had grown fond of the large family because they looked happy, but she had become fond of the Indian gentleman because he looked unhappy. He had evidently not fully recovered from some very severe illness. In the kitchen where, of course, the servants, through some mysterious means, knew everything, there was much discussion of his case. He was not an Indian gentleman really, but an Englishman who had lived in India. He had met with great misfortunes which had for a time so imperiled his whole fortune that he had thought himself ruined and disgraced for ever. The shock had been so great that he had almost died of brain fever, and ever since he had been shattered in health, though his fortunes had changed, and all his possessions had been restored to him. His trouble and peril had been connected with minds." And minds with diamonds in them, said the cook. No savings of mine never goes into no minds, particularly diamond ones, with a side glance at Sarah. We all know something of them." He felt as my Papa felt, Sarah thought. He was ill as my Papa was, but he did not die. So her heart was more drawn to him than before. When she was sent out at night she used sometimes to feel quite glad, because there was always a chance that the curtains of the house next door might not yet be closed, and she could look into the warm room and see her adopted friend. When no one was about, she used sometimes to stop and holding into the iron railings, wish him good night, as if he could hear her. Perhaps you can feel, if you can't hear, was her fancy. Perhaps kind thoughts reach people somehow, even through windows and doors and walls. Perhaps you feel a little warm and comforted, and don't know why, when I am standing here in the cold and hoping you will get well and happy again. I am so sorry for you," she would whisper in an intense little voice. I wish you had a little missus, who could pet you as I used to pet Papa when he had a headache. I should like to be your little missus myself, poor dear. Good night. Good night. God bless you." She would go away, feeling quite comforted, and a little warmer herself. Her sympathy was so strong that it seemed as if it must reach him somehow as he sat alone in his armchair by the fire, nearly always in a great dressing-gown, and nearly always with his forehead resting in his hand as he gazed hopelessly into the fire. He looked to Sarah like a man who had a trouble on his mind still, not merely like one whose troubles lay all in the past. He always seemed as if he were thinking of something that hurts him now," she said to herself, but he has got his money back, and he will get over his brain-fever in time, so he ought not to look like that. I wonder if there is something else. If there was something else, something even servants did not hear of, she could not help believing that the father of the large family knew it. The gentleman she called Mr. Montmorency. Mr. Montmorency went to see him often, and Mrs. Montmorency and all the little Montmorences went to, though less often. He seemed particularly fond of the two elder little girls, the Janet and Nora who had been so alarmed when their small brother, Donald, had given Sarah his sixpence. He had, in fact, a very tender place in his heart for all children, and particularly for little girls. Janet and Nora were as fond of him as he was of them, and looked forward with the greatest pleasure to the afternoons when they were allowed to cross the square and make their well-behaved little visits to him. They were extremely decorous little visits, because he was an invalid. He is a poor thing, said Janet, and he says we cheer him up. We try to cheer him up very quietly. Janet was the head of the family, and kept the rest of it in order. It was she who decided, when it was discreet to ask the Indian gentleman to tell stories about India, and it was she who said when he was tired, and it was time to steal quietly away and tell Ram Dass to go to him. They were very fond of Ram Dass. He could have told any number of stories if he had been able to speak anything but Hindustani. The Indian gentleman's real name was Mr. Karisford, and Janet told Mr. Karisford about the encounter with the little girl who was not a beggar. He was very much interested, and all the more so when he heard from Ram Dass of the adventure of the monkey on the roof. Ram Dass made for him a very clear picture of the attic, and its desolateness, of the bare floor and broken plaster, the rusty empty grate, and the hard, narrow bed. Carmichael, he said to the father of a large family, after he had heard this description, I wonder how many of the attics in this square are like that one, and how many wretched little servant-girls sleep on such beds, while I toss on my down pillows, loaded and harassed by wealth that is, most of it, not mine. My dear fellow, Mr. Carmichael answered cheerily, the sooner you cease tormenting yourself, the better it will be for you. If you possessed all the wealth of all the Indies, you could not set right all the discomforts in the world, and if you began to refurnish all the attics in this square, there would still remain all the attics in all the other squares and streets to put in order. And there you are." Mr. Karisford sat and bit his nails as he looked into the glowing bed of coals in the grate. "'Do you suppose,' he said slowly, after a pause, "'do you think it is possible that the other child, the child I never cease thinking of, I believe, could be—could possibly be reduced to any such condition as the poor little soul next door?' Mr. Carmichael looked at him uneasily. He knew that the worst thing the man could do for himself, for his reason and his health, was to begin to think in that particular way of this particular subject. "'If the child of Madame Pascal's school in Paris was the one you are in search of,' he answered soothingly, she would seem to be in the hands of people who can afford to take care of her. They adopted her because she had been the favourite companion of their little daughter who died. They had no other children, and Madame Pascal said that they were extremely well-to-do Russians. "'And the wretched woman actually did not know where they had taken her,' exclaimed Mr. Karisford. Mr. Carmichael shrugged his shoulders. She was a shrewd, worldly French woman, and was evidently only too glad to get the child so comfortably off her hands when the father's death left her totally unprovided for. Women of her type do not trouble themselves about the futures of children who might prove burdens. The adopted parents apparently disappeared and left no trace. "'But you say IF the child was the one I am in search of. You say IF. We are not sure. There was a difference in the name.' Madame Pascal pronounced it as if it were carous instead of crue. But that might be merely a matter of pronunciation. The circumstances were curiously similar. An English officer in India had placed his motherless little girl at the school. He had died suddenly after losing his fortune. Mr. Carmichael paused a moment as if a new thought had occurred to him. "'Are you sure the child was left at a school in Paris? Are you sure it was Paris?' My dear fellow broke forth Carasford with restless bitterness. I am sure of nothing. I never saw either the child or her mother. Ralph Crue and I loved each other as boys, but we had not met since our school days until we met in India. I was absorbed in the magnificent promise of the minds. He became absorbed too. The whole thing was so huge and glittering that we half lost our heads. When we met we scarcely spoke of anything else. I only know that the child had been sent to school somewhere. I do not even remember now how I knew it.' He was beginning to be excited. He always became excited when his still weakened brain was stirred by memories of the catastrophes of the past. Mr. Carmichael watched him anxiously. It was necessary to ask some questions, but they must be put quietly and with caution. But you had reason to think the school was in Paris? Yes, was the answer. Because her mother was a French woman, and I had heard that she wished her child to be educated in Paris, it seemed only likely that she would be there. Yes, Mr. Carmichael said. It seems more than probable. The Indian gentleman leaned forward and struck the table with a long, wasted hand. Carmichael, he said, I must find her. If she is alive, she is somewhere. If she is friendless and penniless, it is through my fault. How is a man to give back his nerve with a thing like that on his mind? This sudden change of luck at the mines has made realities of all our most fantastic dreams, and poor crew's child may be begging in the street. No, no, said Carmichael, try to be calm. Consol yourself with the fact that when she is found you have a fortune to hand over to her. Why was I not man enough to stand in my ground when things looked black? Charisfant groaned in petulant misery. I believe I should have stood my ground if I had not been responsible for other people's money as well as my own. Poor crew had put into the scheme every penny that he owned. He trusted me. He loved me. And he died thinking I had ruined him. I, Tom Charisfant, who played cricket at Eden with him. What a villain he must have thought me. Don't reproach yourself so bitterly. I don't reproach myself because the speculation threatened to fail. I reproach myself for losing my courage. I ran away like a swindler in a thief because I could not face my best friend and tell him I had ruined him and his child. The good-hearted father of the large family put his hand on his shoulder comfortingly. You ran away because your brain had given way under the strain of mental torture, he said. You were half delirious already. If you had not been, you would have stayed and fought it out. You were in a hospital, strapped down in bed, raving with brain-fever two days after you left the place. Remember that?" Carasford dropped his forehead in his hands. Good God! Yes! he said. I was driven mad with dread and horror. I had not slept for weeks. The night I staggered out of my house, all the air seemed full of hideous things mocking and mouthing at me. That is explanation enough in itself, said Mr. Carmichael. How could a man on the verge of brain-fever judge sanely? He had shook his drooping head. And when I returned to consciousness, poor crew was dead, and buried. And I seemed to remember nothing. I did not remember the child for months and months. Even when I began to recall her existence, everything seemed in a sort of haze. He stopped a moment and rubbed his forehead. It sometimes seems so now when I try to remember. Surely I must some time have heard crew speak of the school she was sent to. Don't you think so? He might not have spoken of it definitely. You never even seem to have heard her real name. He used to call her by an odd pet name he had invented. He called her his little missus. But the wretched minds drove everything else out of our heads. We talked of nothing else. If he spoke of the school I forgot—I forgot!—and now I shall never remember. Come, come! said Carmichael. We shall find her yet. We will continue to search for Madame Pascal's good-natured Russians. She seemed to have a vague idea that they lived in Moscow. We will take that as a clue. I will go to Moscow. If I were able to travel I would go with you, said Carousford, but I can only sit here wrapped in furs and stare at the fire. And when I look into it I seem to see crew's gay young face gazing back at me. He looks as if he were asking me a question. Sometimes I dream of him at night, and he always stands before me and asks the same question in words. Can you guess what he says, Carmichael? Mr. Carmichael answered him in a rather low voice. Not exactly, he said. He says, Tom, old man, Tom, where is the little missus? He caught at Carmichael's hand and clung to it. I must be able to answer him. I must, he said, help me to find her. Help me. On the other side of the wall Sarah was sitting in her garret talking to Melchizedek, who had come out for his evening meal. It has been hard to be a princess to-day, Melchizedek, she said. It has been harder than usual. It gets harder as the weather grows colder and the streets get more sloppy. When Lavinia laughed at my muddy skirt as I passed her in the hall, I thought of something to say all in a flash, and I only just stopped myself in time. You can't sneer back at people like that if you're a princess. But you have to bite your tongue to hold yourself in. I bit mine. It was a cold afternoon, Melchizedek, and it's a cold night. Quite suddenly she put her black head down in her arms, as she often did when she was alone. Oh! Papa! She whispered. What a long time it seemed since I was your little missus! This was what happened that day on both sides of the wall. CHAPTER XIII. One of the populace. The winter was a wretched one. There were days on which Sarah tramped through snow when she went on her errands. There were worse days when the snow melted and combined itself with mud to form slush. There were others when the fog was so thick that the lamps in the street were lighted all day, and London looked as it had looked the afternoon, several years ago, when the cab had driven through the thoroughfares with Sarah tucked up on its seat, leaning against her father's shoulder. On such days the windows of the house of the large family always looked delightfully cosy and alluring, and the study in which the Indian gentlemen sat glowed with warmth and rich colour, but the attic was dismal beyond words. There were no longer sunsets or sunrises to look at, and scarcely ever any stars it seemed to Sarah. The clouds hung low over the skylight, and were either grey or mud-colour, or dropping heavy rain. At four o'clock in the afternoon, even when there was no special fog, the daylight was at an end. If it was necessary to go to her attic for anything, Sarah was obliged to light a candle. The women in the kitchen were depressed, and that made them more ill-tempered than ever. Becky was driven like a little slave. "'Twant for you, Miss,' she said hoarsely to Sarah one night, when she had crept into the attic. "'Twant for you and the Bastille and being the prisoner in the next cell, I should die. That there does seem real now, doesn't it? The Mrs. is more like the head jailer every day she lives. I can just see them big keys, you says she carries. The cook, she's like one of them under-jailers. Tell me some more, please, Miss. Tell me about the subterranean passage we've dug under the walls." "'I'll tell you something warmer,' shivered Sarah. Get your coverlet and wrap it around you, and I'll get mine, and we will huddle close together on the bed, and I'll tell you about the tropical forest where the Indian gentleman's monkey used to live. When I see him sitting on the table near the window and looking out into the street with that mournful expression, I always feel sure that he is thinking about the tropical forest where he used to swing by his tail from coconut trees. I wonder who caught him, and if he left a family behind who had depended on him for coconuts." "'That is warmer, Miss,' said Becky, gratefully, but some ways, even the Bastille is sort of heathen when you get to tellin' about it. "'That is because it makes you think of something else,' said Sarah, wrapping the coverlet round her, until only her small, dark face was to be seen looking out of it. I've noticed this. What you have to do with your mind when your body is miserable is to make it think of something else." "'Can you do it, Miss?' faulted Becky, regarding her with admiring eyes. Sarah knitted her brows a moment. Sometimes I can, and sometimes I can't,' she said stoutly. "'But when I can, I'm all right, and what I believe is that we always could, if we practised enough. I've been practising a good deal lately, and it's beginning to be easier than it used to be. When things are horrible, just horrible, I think as hard as ever I can of being a princess. I say to myself, I am a princess, and I am a fairy one, and because I am a fairy, nothing can hurt me or make me uncomfortable. You don't know how that makes you forget, with a laugh.' She had many opportunities of making her mind think of something else, and many opportunities of proving to herself whether or not she was a princess. But one of the strongest tests she was ever put to came on a certain dreadful day which, she often thought afterward, would never quite fade out of her memory, even in the years to come. For several days it had rained continuously. The streets were chilly and sloppy and full of dreary, cold mist. There was mud everywhere, sticky London mud, and over everything the pool of drizzle and fog. Of course there were several long and tiresome errands to be done. There always were on days like this, and Sarah was sent out again and again, until her shabby clothes were damp through. The absurd old feathers on her forlorn hat were more draggled and absurd than ever, and her downtrodden shoes were so wet that they could not hold any more water. Added to this, she had been deprived of her dinner because Miss Minchin had chosen to punish her. She was so cold and hungry and tired that her face began to have a pinched look, and now and then some kind-hearted person passing her in the street glanced at her with sudden sympathy. But she did not know that. She hurried on, trying to make her mind think of something else. It was really very necessary. Her way of doing it was to pretend and suppose with all the strength that was left in her. But really this time it was harder than she had ever found it, and once or twice she thought it almost made her more cold and hungry instead of less so. But she persevered obstinately, and as the muddy water squelched through her broken shoes, and the wind seemed to be trying to drag her thin jacket from her, she talked to herself as she walked, though she did not speak aloud or even move her lips. Suppose I had dry clothes on, she thought. Suppose I had good shoes and a long thick coat and merino stockings and a whole umbrella, and suppose—suppose—just when I was near a baker's, where they sold hot buns, I should find sixpence, which belonged to nobody. Suppose if I did, I should go into the shop and buy six of the hottest buns and eat them all without stopping. Some very odd things happen in this world sometimes. It certainly was an odd thing that happened to Sarah. She had to cross the street just when she was saying this to herself. The mud was dreadful—she almost had to wade. She picked her way as carefully as she could, but she could not save herself much. Only in picking her way she had to look down at her feet in the mud, and in looking down, just as she reached the pavement, she saw something shining in the gutter. It was actually a piece of silver—a tiny piece trodden upon by many feet, but still, with spirit enough, left to shine a little. Not quite a sixpence, but the next thing to it—a fourpenny piece. In one second it was in her cold little red and blue hand. Oh! She gasped. It's true! It is true! And then, if you will believe me, she looked straight at the shop directly facing her. And it was a baker's shop, and a cheerful, stout, motherly woman with rosy cheeks was putting into the window a tray of delicious, newly baked buns, fresh from the oven, large, plump, shiny buns with currents in them. It almost made Sarah feel faint for a few seconds, the shock and the sight of the buns, and the delightful odours of warm bread floating up through the baker's cellar window. She knew she need not hesitate to use the little piece of money. It had evidently been lying in the mud for some time, and its owner was completely lost in the stream of passing people who crowded and jostled each other all day long. But I'll go and ask the baker woman if she has lost anything," she said to herself, rather faintly. So she crossed the pavement, and put her wet foot on the step. As she did so, she saw something that made her stop. It was a little figure more for lawn even than herself. A little figure which was not much more than a bundle of rags, from which small, bare, red, muddy feet peeped out, only because the rags with which their owner was trying to cover them were not long enough. Of the rags appeared a shock head of tangled hair, and a dirty face with big, hollow, hungry eyes. Sarah knew they were hungry eyes the moment she saw them, and she felt a sudden sympathy. This, she said to herself with a little sigh, is one of the populace, and she is hungrier than I am. The child, this one of the populace, stared up at Sarah, and shuffled herself a little aside so as to give her room to pass. She was used to being made to give room to everybody. She knew that if a policeman chanced to see her, he would tell her to move on. Sarah clutched her little four-penny-piece and hesitated for a few seconds. Then she spoke to her. "'Are you hungry?' she asked. The child shuffled herself and her rags a little more. "'Ain't I just?' she said in a hoarse voice. "'Just ain't I. "'Haven't you had any dinner?' said Sarah. "'No dinner!' more hoarsely still, and with more shuffling. Not yet no breakfast, not yet no supper, no nothing. "'Since when?' asked Sarah. "'Don't know. Never got nothing to-day, nowhere, have axed and axed.' Just to look at her made Sarah more hungry and faint, but those queer little thoughts were at work in her brain, and she was talking to herself, though she was sick at heart. "'If I'm a princess,' she was saying. "'If I'm a princess, when they were poor and driven from their thrones, they always shared with the populace. If they met one poorer and hungrier than themselves, they always shared. Buns are a penny each. If it had been sixpence, I could have eaten six. It won't be enough for either of us, but it will be better than nothing.' "'Wait a minute,' she said to the beggar-child. She went into the shop. It was warm and smelled deliciously. The woman was just going to put some more hot buns into the window. "'If you please,' said Sarah, "'have you lost fourpence, a silver fourpence?' and she held the forlorn little piece of money out to her. The woman looked at it, and then at her, at her intense little face and draggled once fine clothes. "'Bless us, no,' she answered. "'Did you find it?' "'Yes,' said Sarah. "'In the gutter.' "'Keep it, then,' said the woman. "'It may have been there for a week, and goodness knows who lost it. You could never find out.' "'I know that,' said Sarah. "'But I thought I would ask you.' "'Not many would,' said the woman, looking puzzled and interested in good-natured all at once. "'Do you want to buy something?' she added, as she saw Sarah glance at the buns. "'Four buns, if you please,' said Sarah. "'Those are to penny each.' The woman went to the window and put some in a paper bag. Sarah noticed that she put in six. "'I said four, if you please,' she explained. "'I have only fourpence. "'I'll throw in two for make-weight,' said the woman, with her good-natured look. "'I dare say you can eat them some time. Aren't you hungry?' A mist rose before Sarah's eyes. "'Yes,' she answered. "'I'm very hungry, and I am much obliged to you for your kindness, and,' she was going to add, "'there is a child outside who is hungrier than I am. But just at that moment, two or three customers came in at once, and each one seemed in a hurry, so she could only thank the woman again and go out.' The beggar girl was still huddled up in the corner of the step. She looked frightful in her wet and dirty rags. She was staring straight before her with a stupid look of suffering, and Sarah saw her suddenly draw the back of a roughened black hand across her eyes, to rub away the tears which seemed to have surprised her by forcing their way from under her lids. She was muttering to herself. Sarah opened the paper bag, and took out one of the hot buns, which had already warmed her own cold hands a little. "'See,' she said, putting the bun in the ragged lap, "'this is nice and hot. Eat it, and you will not feel so hungry.' The child started and stared up at her, as if such sudden, amazing good luck almost frightened her. Then she snatched up the bun and began to cram it into her mouth with great wolfish bites. "'Oh, my! Oh, my!' Sarah heard her say hoarsely and wild delight. "'Oh, my!' Sarah took out three more buns and put them down. The sound in the horse-ravenous voice was awful. "'She is hungrier than I am,' she said to herself. "'She's starving.' But her hand trembled when she put down the fourth bun. "'I'm not starving,' she said, and she put down the fifth.' The little, ravening London savage was still snatching and devouring when she turned away. She was too ravenous to give any thanks, even if she had ever been taught politeness, which she had not. She was only a poor little wild animal. "'Good-bye,' said Sarah. When she reached the other side of the street, she looked back. The child had a bun in each hand, and had stopped in the middle of a bite to watch her. Sarah gave her a little nod, and the child, after another stare, a curious lingering stare, jerked her shaggy head in response, and until Sarah was out of sight, she did not take another bite, or even finish the one she had begun. At that moment the baker woman looked out of her shop window. "'Well, I never,' she exclaimed, if that youngan hasn't given her buns to a beggar-child. It wasn't because she didn't want them either. Well, well, she looked hungry enough. I'd give something to know what she did it for.' She stood behind her window for a few moments and pondered. Then her curiosity got the better of her. She went to the door and spoke to the beggar-child. "'Who gave you those buns?' she asked her. The child nodded her head toward Sarah's vanishing figure. "'What did she say?' inquired the woman. "'Asked me if I was hungry,' replied the horse, voice. "'What did you say?' said I, was gist. "'And then she came in and got the buns and gave them to you, did she?' the child nodded. "'How many?' "'Five.'" The woman thought it over. "'Left just one for herself,' she said in a low voice. And she could have eaten the whole six. I saw it in her eyes.' She looked after the little, draggled, faraway figure, and felt more disturbed in her usually comfortable mind than she had felt for many a day. "'I wish she hadn't gone so quick,' she said. "'I'm blessed if she shouldn't have had a dozen.' Then she turned to the child. "'Are you hungry yet?' she said. "'I'm all as hungry,' was the answer. But taint as bad as it was.' "'Come in here,' said the woman, and she held open the shop door. The child got up and shuffled in. To be invited into a warm place full of bread seemed an incredible thing. She did not know what was going to happen. She did not care even. "'Get yourself warm,' said the woman, pointing to a fire in the tiny back room, and look here. When you are hard up for a bit of bread, you can come in here and ask for it. I'm blessed if I won't give it to you for that young one's sake." Sarah found some comfort in her remaining bun. At all events it was very hot, and it was better than nothing. As she walked along she broke off small pieces and ate them slowly to make them last longer. "'Suppose it was a magic bun,' she said, and a bite was as much as a whole dinner. I should be overeating myself if I went on like this.' It was dark when she reached the square where the select seminary was situated. The lights in the houses were all lighted. The blinds were not yet drawn in the windows of the room where she nearly always caught glimpses of members of the large family. Frequently at this hour she could see the gentleman she called Mr. Montmorency, sitting in a big chair with a small swarm round him, talking, laughing, perching on the arms of his seeker on his knees or leaning against them. This evening the swarm was about him, but he was not seated. On the contrary, there was a good deal of excitement going on. It was evident that a journey was to be taken, and it was Mr. Montmorency who was to take it. A broam stood before the door, and a big portmanteau had been strapped upon it. The children were dancing about, chattering and hanging on to their father. The pretty, rosy mother was standing near him, talking as if she was asking final questions. Sarah paused a moment to see the little ones lifted up and kissed, and the bigger ones bent over and kissed also. "'I wonder if you will stay away long,' she thought. The portmanteau was rather big. "'Oh, dear! How they will miss him. I shall miss him myself, even though he doesn't know I am alive.' When the door opened she moved away, remembering the six months, but she saw the traveller come out and stand against the background of the warmly lighted hall, the older children still hovering about him. "'Will Moscow be covered with snow?' said the little girl, Janet. "'Will there be ice everywhere?' "'Shall you drive in a drosky?' cried another. "'Shall you see the Tsar?' "'I will write and tell you all about it,' he answered, laughing, "'and I will send you pictures of musics and things. Run into the house. It is a hideous damp night. I would rather stay with you than go to Moscow. Good night! Good night, duckeys! God bless you!' And he ran down the steps and jumped into the broam. "'If you find the little girl, give her our love,' shouted Guy Clarence, jumping up and down on the door-mat. Then they went in and shut the door. "'Did you see?' said Janet and Nora, as they went back to the room. The little girl, who was not a beggar, was passing. She looked all cold and wet, and I saw her turn her head over her shoulder and look at us. Mama says her clothes always look as if they had been given her by someone who was quite rich, someone who only let her have them because they were too shabby to wear. The people at the school always send her out on errands on the horridest days and nights there are." Zara crossed the square to misminch and Zarya steps, feeling faint and shaky. "'I wonder who the little girl is,' she thought. "'The little girl he is going to look for.' And she went down the Zarya steps, lugging her basket, and finding it very heavy indeed, as the father of the large family drove quickly on his way to the station to take the train, which was to carry him to Moscow, where he was to make his best efforts to search for the lost little daughter of Captain