"I was thinking," she answered gravely and
quite 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 Sara, "and I was thinking what
would happen, if I were a princess and you boxed
my ears--what I should do to you. 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 picture so clearly before her eyes,
that she spoke in a manner which had an effect even
on Miss Minchin. It almost seemed for the moment
to her narrow, unimaginative mind that there must
be some real power behind this candid daring.
"What!" she exclaimed, "found out what?"
"That I really was a princess," said Sara, "and
could do anything--anything I liked."
"Go to your room," cried Miss Minchin breathlessly,
this instant. Leave the school-room. Attend to your
lessons, young ladies."
Sara made a little bow.
"Excuse me for laughing, if it was impolite,"
she said, and walked out of the room, leaving
Miss Minchin in a rage and the girls whispering
over their books.
"I shouldn't be at all surprised if she did
turn out to be something," said one of them.
"Suppose she should!"
That very afternoon Sara had an opportunity
of proving to herself whether she was really a
princess or not. It was a dreadful afternoon.
For several days it had rained continuously, the
streets were chilly and sloppy; there was mud
everywhere--sticky London mud--and over
everything a pall of fog and drizzle. Of course
there were several long and tiresome errands to
be done,--there always were on days like this,--
and Sara 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 down-trodden shoes
were so wet they could not hold any more water.
Added to this, she had been deprived of her dinner,
because Miss Minchin wished to punish her. She was
very hungry. She was so cold and hungry and tired
that her little face had a pinched look, and now
and then some kind-hearted person passing her in
the crowded street glanced at her with sympathy.
But she did not know that. She hurried on,
trying to comfort herself in that queer way of
hers by pretending and "supposing,"--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. "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 should eat them
all without stopping."
Some very odd things happen in this world sometimes.
It certainly was an odd thing which happened
to Sara. She had to cross the street just as
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 and the mud,
and in looking down--just as she reached the
pavement--she saw something shining in the gutter.
A piece of silver--a tiny piece trodden upon by
many feet, but still with spirit enough to shine
a little. Not quite a sixpence, but the next
thing to it--a four-penny piece! In one second
it was in her cold, little red and blue hand.
"Oh!" she gasped. "It is true!"
And then, if you will believe me, she looked
straight before her at the shop directly facing her.
And it was a baker's, and a cheerful, stout,
motherly woman, with rosy cheeks, was just
putting into the window a tray of delicious hot
buns,--large, plump, shiny buns, with currants in them.
It almost made Sara feel faint for a few seconds--the
shock and the sight of the buns and the delightful
odors of warm bread floating up through the baker's
cellar-window.
She knew that 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 streams of passing people
who crowded and jostled each other all through
the day.
"But I'll go and ask the baker's woman if she
has lost a piece of money," she said to herself,
rather faintly.
So she crossed the pavement and put her wet
foot on the step of the shop; and as she did so
she saw something which made her stop.
It was a little figure more forlorn than her own
--a little figure which was not much more than a
bundle of rags, from which small, bare, red and
muddy feet peeped out--only because the rags
with which the wearer was trying to cover them
were not long enough. Above the rags appeared
a shock head of tangled hair and a dirty face,
with big, hollow, hungry eyes.
Sara 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 Sara, and shuffled herself aside a little, so
as to give her more room. 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."
Sara clutched her little four-penny piece, and
hesitated 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 jist!" she said, in a hoarse voice.
"Jist ain't I!"
"Haven't you had any dinner?" said Sara.
"No dinner," more hoarsely still and with more
shuffling, "nor yet no bre'fast--nor yet no supper
--nor nothin'."
"Since when?" asked Sara.
"Dun'no. Never got nothin' to-day--nowhere.
I've axed and axed."
Just to look at her made Sara 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.
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 delightfully. The woman was just going
to put more hot buns in the window.
"If you please," said Sara, "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 at her--at her intense
little face and draggled, once-fine clothes.
"Bless us--no," she answered. "Did you find it?"
"In the gutter," said Sara.
"Keep it, then," said the woman. "It may have
been there a week, and goodness knows who lost it.
You could never find out."
"I know that," said Sara, "but I thought I'd ask you."
"Not many would," said the woman, looking puzzled
and interested and good-natured all at once.
"Do you want to buy something?" she added,
as she saw Sara glance toward the buns.
"Four buns, if you please," said Sara; "those
at a penny each."
The woman went to the window and put some in a
paper bag. Sara noticed that she put in six.
"I said four, if you please," she explained.
"I have only the 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 Sara's eyes.
"Yes," she answered. "I am 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 child was still huddled up on the corner of
the steps. She looked frightful in her wet and
dirty rags. She was staring with a stupid look
of suffering straight before her, and Sara saw her
suddenly draw the back of her 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.
Sara opened the paper bag and took out one of
the hot buns, which had already warmed her cold
hands a little.
"See," she said, putting the bun on the ragged lap,
"that is nice and hot. Eat it, and you will not be
so hungry."
The child started and stared up at her; then
she snatched up the bun and began to cram it
into her mouth with great wolfish bites.
"Oh, my! Oh, my!" Sara heard her say hoarsely,
in wild delight.
"Oh, my!"
Sara took out three more buns and put them down.
"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 starving London savage was still
snatching and devouring when she turned away.
She was too ravenous to give any thanks, even if
she had been taught politeness--which she had not.
She was only a poor little wild animal.
"Good-bye," said Sara.
When she reached the other side of the street
she looked back. The child had a bun in both
hands, and had stopped in the middle of a bite to
watch her. Sara gave her a little nod, and the
child, after another stare,--a curious, longing
stare,--jerked her shaggy head in response, and
until Sara was out of sight she did not take
another bite or even finish the one she had begun.
At that moment the baker-woman glanced out
of her shop-window.
"Well, I never!" she exclaimed. "If that
young'un 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 Sara's vanishing figure.
"What did she say?" inquired the woman.
"Axed me if I was 'ungry," replied the hoarse voice.
"What did you say?"
"Said I was jist!"
"And then she came in and got buns and came out
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, far-away
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 blest if she shouldn't have had a dozen."
Then she turned to the child.
"Are you hungry, yet?" she asked.
"I'm allus 'ungry," was the answer; "but 'tain't
so 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 a tiny back room. "And, look here,--
when you're hard up for a bite of bread, you can
come here and ask for it. I'm blest if I won't give
it to you for that young un's sake."
Sara found some comfort in her remaining bun. It was
hot; and it was a great deal better than nothing.
She broke off small pieces and ate them slowly to
make it last longer.
"Suppose it was a magic bun," she said, "and a bite
was as much as a whole dinner. I should be over-
eating myself if I went on like this."
It was dark when she reached the square in which
Miss Minchin's Select Seminary was situated; the
lamps were lighted, and in most of the windows
gleams of light were to be seen. It always
interested Sara to catch glimpses of the rooms
before the shutters were closed. She liked to
imagine things about people who sat before the
fires in the houses, or who bent over books at
the tables. There was, for instance, the Large
Family opposite. She called these people the Large
Family--not because they were large, 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 grand-mamma,
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
mamma; or they were flying to the door in the
evening to kiss their papa and dance around him
and drag off his overcoat and look for packages
in the pockets of it; or they were crowding about
the nursery windows and looking out and pushing
ach other and laughing,--in fact they were
always doing something which seemed enjoyable
and suited to the tastes of a large family.
Sara was quite attached to them, and had given
them all names out of books. She called them
the Montmorencys, when she did not call them the
Large Family. The fat, fair baby with the lace
cap was Ethelberta Beauchamp Montmorency;
the next baby was Violet Cholmondely Montmorency;
the little boy who could just stagger, and who had
such round legs, was Sydney Cecil Vivian Montmorency;
and then came Lilian Evangeline, Guy Clarence,
Maud Marian, Rosalind Gladys, Veronica Eustacia,
and Claude Harold Hector.
Next door to the Large Family lived the Maiden Lady,
who had a companion, and two parrots, and a King
Charles spaniel; but Sara was not so very fond of her,
because she did nothing in particular but talk to
the parrots and drive out with the spaniel. The most
interesting person of all lived next door to Miss
Minchin herself. Sara called him the Indian Gentleman.
He was an elderly gentleman who was said to have
lived in the East Indies, and to be immensely rich
and to have something the matter with his liver,--
in fact, it had been rumored that he had no liver
at all, and was much inconvenienced by the fact.
At any rate, he was very yellow and he did not look
happy; and when he went out to his carriage, he
was almost always wrapped up in shawls and
overcoats, as if he were cold. He had a native
servant who looked even colder than himself, and
he had a monkey who looked colder than the
native servant. Sara had seen the monkey sitting
on a table, in the sun, in the parlor window, and
he always wore such a mournful expression that
she sympathized with him deeply.
"I dare say," she used sometimes to remark to
herself, "he is thinking all the time of cocoanut
trees and of swinging by his tail under a tropical sun.
He might have had a family dependent on him too,
poor thing!"
The native servant, whom she called the Lascar,
looked mournful too, but he was evidently very
faithful to his master.
"Perhaps he saved his master's life in the Sepoy
rebellion," she thought. "They look as if they might
have had all sorts of adventures. I wish I could
speak to the Lascar. I remember a little Hindustani."
And one day she actually did speak to him, and his
start at the sound of his own language expressed
a great deal of surprise and delight. He was
waiting for his master to come out to the carriage,
and Sara, who was going on an errand as usual,
stopped and spoke a few words. She had a special
gift for languages and had remembered enough
Hindustani to make herself understood by him.
When his master came out, the Lascar spoke to him
quickly, and the Indian Gentleman turned and looked
at her curiously. And afterward the Lascar always
greeted her with salaams of the most profound description.
And occasionally they exchanged a few words. She learned
that it was true that the Sahib was very rich--that he
was ill--and also that he had no wife nor children,
and that England did not agree with the monkey.
"He must be as lonely as I am," thought Sara.
"Being rich does not seem to make him happy."
That evening, as she passed the windows, the Lascar
was closing the shutters, and she caught a glimpse of
the room inside. There was a bright fire glowing in
the grate, and the Indian Gentleman was sitting
before it, in a luxurious chair. The room was richly
furnished, and looked delightfully comfortable, but
the Indian Gentleman sat with his head resting on his
hand, and looked as lonely and unhappy as ever.
"Poor man!" said Sara; "I wonder what you are `supposing'?"
When she went into the house she met Miss Minchin
in the hall.
"Where have you wasted your time?" said
Miss Minchin. "You have been out for hours!"
"It was so wet and muddy," Sara answered.
"It was hard to walk, because my shoes were so
bad and slipped about so."
"Make no excuses," said Miss Minchin, "and tell
no falsehoods."
Sara went downstairs to the kitchen.
"Why didn't you stay all night?" said the cook.
"Here are the things," said Sara, and laid her
purchases on the table.
The cook looked over them, grumbling. She was in
a very bad temper indeed.
"May I have something to eat?" Sara asked
rather faintly.
"Tea's over and done with," was the answer.
"Did you expect me to keep it hot for you?
Sara was silent a second.
"I had no dinner," she said, and her voice was
quite low. She made it low, because she was
afraid it would tremble.
"There's some bread in the pantry," said the cook.
"That's all you'll get at this time of day."
Sara went and found the bread. It was old and
hard and dry. The cook was in too bad a humor
to give her anything to eat with it. She had just
been scolded by Miss Minchin, and it was always
safe and easy to vent her own spite on Sara.
Really it was hard for the child to climb the
three long flights of stairs leading to her garret.
She often found them long and steep when she
was tired, but to-night it seemed as if she would
never reach the top. Several times a lump rose
in her throat and she was obliged to stop to rest.
"I can't pretend anything more to-night," she
said wearily to herself. "I'm sure I can't.
I'll eat my bread and drink some water and then go
to sleep, and perhaps a dream will come and pretend
for me. I wonder what dreams are."
Yes, when she reached the top landing there were
tears in her eyes, and she did not feel like a
princess--only like a tired, hungry, lonely, lonely child.
"If my papa had lived," she said, "they would
not have treated me like this. If my papa had
lived, he would have taken care of me."
Then she turned the handle and opened the garret-door.
Can you imagine it--can you believe it? I find
it hard to believe it myself. And Sara found it
impossible; for the first few moments she thought
something strange had happened to her eyes--to
her mind--that the dream had come before she
had had time to fall asleep.
"Oh!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "Oh! it isn't true!
I know, I know it isn't true!" And she slipped into
the room and closed the door and locked it, and stood
with her back against it, staring straight before her.
Do you wonder? In the grate, which had been
empty and rusty and cold when she left it, but
which now was blackened and polished up quite
respectably, there was a glowing, blazing fire.
On the hob was a little brass kettle, hissing and
boiling; spread upon the floor was a warm, thick
rug; before the fire was a folding-chair, unfolded
and with cushions on it; by the chair was a small
folding-table, unfolded, covered with a white
cloth, and upon it were spread small covered
dishes, a cup and saucer, and a tea-pot; on the
bed were new, warm coverings, a curious wadded
silk robe, and some books. The little, cold,
miserable room seemed changed into Fairyland.
It was actually warm and glowing.
"It is bewitched!" said Sara. "Or I am bewitched.
I only think I see it all; but if I can only keep
on thinking it, I don't care--I don't care--
if I can only keep it up!"
She was afraid to move, for fear it would melt away.
She stood with her back against the door and looked
and looked. But soon she began to feel warm, and
then she moved forward.
"A fire that I only thought I saw surely wouldn't
feel warm," she said. "It feels real--real."
She went to it and knelt before it. She touched
the chair, the table; she lifted the cover of one
of the dishes. There was something hot and savory
in it--something delicious. The tea-pot had tea
in it, ready for the boiling water from the little
kettle; one plate had toast on it, another, muffins.
"It is real," said Sara. "The fire is real enough
to warm me; I can sit in the chair; the things are
real enough to eat."
It was like a fairy story come true--it was heavenly.
She went to the bed and touched the blankets and the wrap.
They were real too. She opened one book, and on the
title-page was written in a strange hand, "The little
girl in the attic."
Suddenly--was it a strange thing for her to do?
--Sara put her face down on the queer, foreign
looking quilted robe and burst into tears.
"I don't know who it is," she said, "but somebody
cares about me a little--somebody is my friend."
Somehow that thought warmed her more than the fire.
She had never had a friend since those happy,
luxurious days when she had had everything; and
those days had seemed such a long way off--so far
away as to be only like dreams--during these last
years at Miss Minchin's.
She really cried more at this strange thought of
having a friend--even though an unknown one--
than she had cried over many of her worst troubles.
But these tears seemed different from the others,
for when she had wiped them away they did not seem
to leave her eyes and her heart hot and smarting.
And then imagine, if you can, what the rest of
the evening was like. The delicious comfort of
taking off the damp clothes and putting on the
soft, warm, quilted robe before the glowing fire--
of slipping her cold feet into the luscious little
wool-lined slippers she found near her chair.
And then the hot tea and savory dishes, the
cushioned chair and the books!
It was just like Sara, that, once having found the
things real, she should give herself up to the
enjoyment of them to the very utmost. She had
lived such a life of imagining, and had found her
pleasure so long in improbabilities, that she was
quite equal to accepting any wonderful thing
that happened. After she was quite warm and
had eaten her supper and enjoyed herself for an
hour or so, it had almost ceased to be surprising
to her that such magical surroundings should be hers.
As to finding out who had done all this, she knew
that it was out of the question. She did not know
a human soul by whom it could seem in the least
degree probable that it could have been done.
"There is nobody," she said to herself, "nobody."
She discussed the matter with Emily, it is true,
but more because it was delightful to talk about it
than with a view to making any discoveries.
"But we have a friend, Emily," she said; "we have
a friend."
Sara could not even imagine a being charming enough
to fill her grand ideal of her mysterious benefactor.
If she tried to make in her mind a picture of him
or her, it ended by being something glittering and
strange--not at all like a real person, but bearing
resemblance to a sort of Eastern magician, with
long robes and a wand. And when she fell asleep,
beneath the soft white blanket, she dreamed all
night of this magnificent personage, and talked to
him in Hindustani, and made salaams to him.
Upon one thing she was determined. She would not
speak to any one of her good fortune--it should
be her own secret; in fact, she was rather
inclined to think that if Miss Minchin knew,
she would take her treasures from her or in
some way spoil her pleasure. So, when she
went down the next morning, she shut her door
very tight and did her best to look as if nothing
unusual had occurred. And yet this was rather
hard, because she could not help remembering,
every now and then, with a sort of start, and her
heart would beat quickly every time she repeated
to herself, "I have a friend!"
It was a friend who evidently meant to continue
to be kind, for when she went to her garret the
next night--and she opened the door, it must be
confessed, with rather an excited feeling--she
found that the same hands had been again at work,
and had done even more than before. The fire
and the supper were again there, and beside
them a number of other things which so altered
the look of the garret that Sara quite lost
her breath. A piece of bright, strange, heavy
cloth covered the battered mantel, and on it
some ornaments had been placed. All the bare,
ugly things which could be covered with draperies
had been concealed and made to look quite pretty.
Some odd materials in rich colors had been
fastened against the walls with sharp, fine
tacks--so sharp that they could be pressed into
the wood without hammering. Some brilliant
fans were pinned up, and there were several
large cushions. A long, old wooden box was covered
with a rug, and some cushions lay on it, so that it
wore quite the air of a sofa.
Sara simply sat down, and looked, and looked again.
"It is exactly like something fairy come true,"
she said; "there isn't the least difference. I feel
as if I might wish for anything--diamonds and bags
of gold--and they would appear! That couldn't be
any stranger than this. Is this my garret?
Am I the same cold, ragged, damp Sara? And to
think how I used to pretend, and pretend, and
wish there were fairies! The one thing I always
wanted was to see a fairy story come true. I am
living in a fairy story! I feel as if I might be
a fairy myself, and be able to turn things into
anything else!"
It was like a fairy story, and, what was best of all,
it continued. Almost every day something new was
done to the garret. Some new comfort or ornament
appeared in it when Sara opened her door at night,
until actually, in a short time it was a bright
little room, full of all sorts of odd and
luxurious things. And the magician had taken
care that the child should not be hungry, and that
she should have as many books as she could read.
When she left the room in the morning, the remains
of her supper were on the table, and when she
returned in the evening, the magician had removed them,
and left another nice little meal. Downstairs Miss
Minchin was as cruel and insulting as ever, Miss
Amelia was as peevish, and the servants were as vulgar.
Sara was sent on errands, and scolded, and driven
hither and thither, but somehow it seemed as if she
could bear it all. The delightful sense of romance
and mystery lifted her above the cook's temper
and malice. The comfort she enjoyed and could
always look forward to was making her stronger.
If she came home from her errands wet and tired,
she knew she would soon be warm, after she had
climbed the stairs. In a few weeks she began
to look less thin. A little color came into her
cheeks, and her eyes did not seem much too big
for her face.
It was just when this was beginning to be so
apparent that Miss Minchin sometimes stared at
her questioningly, that another wonderful
thing happened. A man came to the door and left
several parcels. All were addressed (in large
letters) to "the little girl in the attic."
Sara herself was sent to open the door, and she
took them in. She laid the two largest parcels
down on the hall-table and was looking at the
address, when Miss Minchin came down the stairs.
"Take the things upstairs to the young lady to
whom they belong," she said. "Don't stand there
staring at them."
"They belong to me," answered Sara, quietly.
"To you!" exclaimed Miss Minchin. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know where they came from," said Sara,
"but they're addressed to me."
Miss Minchin came to her side and looked at
them with an excited expression.
"What is in them?" she demanded.
"I don't know," said Sara.
"Open them!" she demanded, still more excitedly.
Sara did as she was told. They contained pretty
and comfortable clothing,--clothing of different
kinds; shoes and stockings and gloves, a warm
coat, and even an umbrella. On the pocket of
the coat was pinned a paper on which was written,
"To be worn every day--will be replaced by others
when necessary."
Miss Minchin was quite agitated. This was an
incident which suggested strange things to her
sordid mind. Could it be that she had made a
mistake after all, and that the child so neglected
and so unkindly treated by her had some powerful
friend in the background? It would not be very
pleasant if there should be such a friend,
and he or she should learn all the truth about the
thin, shabby clothes, the scant food, the hard work.
She felt queer indeed and uncertain, and she gave a
side-glance at Sara.
"Well," she said, in a voice such as she had
never used since the day the child lost her father
--"well, some one is very kind to you. As you
have the things and are to have new ones when
they are worn out, you may as well go and put
them on and look respectable; and after you are
dressed, you may come downstairs and learn your
lessons in the school-room."
So it happened that, about half an hour afterward,
Sara struck the entire school-room of pupils
dumb with amazement, by making her appearance
in a costume such as she had never worn since
the change of fortune whereby she ceased to be
a show-pupil and a parlor-boarder. She scarcely
seemed to be the same Sara. She was neatly
dressed in a pretty gown of warm browns and
reds, and even her stockings and slippers were
nice and dainty.
"Perhaps some one has left her a fortune," one
of the girls whispered. "I always thought something
would happen to her, she is so queer."
That night when Sara went to her room she carried
out a plan she had been devising for some time.
She wrote a note to her unknown friend. It ran
as follows:
"I hope you will not think it is not polite that I
should write this note to you when you wish to keep
yourself a secret, but I do not mean to be impolite,
or to try to find out at all, only I want to thank
you for being so kind to me--so beautiful kind, and
making everything like a fairy story. I am so
grateful to you and I am so happy! I used to be so
lonely and cold and, hungry, and now, oh, just think
what you have done for me! Please let me say just
these words. It seems as if I ought to say them.
Thank you--thank you--thank you!
"THE LITTLE GIRL IN THE ATTIC."
The next morning she left this on the little table,
and it was taken away with the other things;
so she felt sure the magician had received it,
and she was happier for the thought.
A few nights later a very odd thing happened.
She found something in the room which she certainly
would never have expected. When she came in as
usual she saw something small and dark in her chair,--
an odd, tiny figure, which turned toward her a little,
weird-looking, wistful face.
"Why, it's the monkey!" she cried. "It is the Indian
Gentleman's monkey! Where can he have come from?"
