It was the monkey, sitting up and looking so
like a mite of a child that it really was quite
pathetic; and very soon Sara found out how he
happened to be in her room. The skylight was
open, and it was easy to guess that he had crept
out of his master's garret-window, which was only
a few feet away and perfectly easy to get in and
out of, even for a climber less agile than a monkey.
He had probably climbed to the garret on a tour of
investigation, and getting out upon the roof,
and being attracted by the light in Sara's attic,
had crept in. At all events this seemed
quite reasonable, and there he was; and when
Sara went to him, he actually put out his queer,
elfish little hands, caught her dress, and jumped
into her arms.
"Oh, you queer, poor, ugly, foreign little thing!"
said Sara, caressing him. "I can't help
liking you. You look like a sort of baby, but I
am so glad you are not, because your mother
could not be proud of you, and nobody would dare
to say you were like any of your relations. But I
do like you; you have such a forlorn little look
in your face. Perhaps you are sorry you are so
ugly, and it's always on your mind. I wonder if
you have a mind?"
The monkey sat and looked at her while she talked,
and seemed much interested in her remarks, if one
could judge by his eyes and his forehead, and the
way he moved his head up and down, and held it
sideways and scratched it with his little hand.
He examined Sara quite seriously, and anxiously, too.
He felt the stuff of her dress, touched her hands,
climbed up and examined her ears, and then sat on
her shoulder holding a lock of her hair, looking
mournful but not at all agitated. Upon the whole,
he seemed pleased with Sara.
"But I must take you back," she said to him,
"though I'm sorry to have to do it. Oh, the
company you would be to a person!"
She lifted him from her shoulder, set him on
her knee, and gave him a bit of cake. He sat
and nibbled it, and then put his head on one side,
looked at her, wrinkled his forehead, and then
nibbled again, in the most companionable manner.
"But you must go home," said Sara at last; and
she took him in her arms to carry him downstairs.
Evidently he did not want to leave the room,
for as they reached the door he clung to
her neck and gave a little scream of anger.
"You mustn't be an ungrateful monkey," said Sara.
"You ought to be fondest of your own family.
I am sure the Lascar is good to you."
Nobody saw her on her way out, and very soon
she was standing on the Indian Gentleman's front
steps, and the Lascar had opened the door for her.
"I found your monkey in my room," she said
in Hindustani. "I think he got in through
the window."
The man began a rapid outpouring of thanks;
but, just as he was in the midst of them, a fretful,
hollow voice was heard through the open door of
the nearest room. The instant he heard it the
Lascar disappeared, and left Sara still holding
the monkey.
It was not many moments, however, before he came
back bringing a message. His master had told
him to bring Missy into the library. The Sahib
was very ill, but he wished to see Missy.
Sara thought this odd, but she remembered
reading stories of Indian gentlemen who, having
no constitutions, were extremely cross and full of
whims, and who must have their own way. So she
followed the Lascar.
When she entered the room the Indian Gentleman was
lying on an easy chair, propped up with pillows.
He looked frightfully ill. His yellow face was thin,
and his eyes were hollow. He gave Sara a rather
curious look--it was as if she wakened in him some
anxious interest.
"You live next door?" he said.
"Yes," answered Sara. "I live at Miss Minchin's."
"She keeps a boarding-school?"
"Yes," said Sara.
"And you are one of her pupils?"
Sara hesitated a moment.
"I don't know exactly what I am," she replied.
"Why not?" asked the Indian Gentleman.
The monkey gave a tiny squeak, and Sara
stroked him.
"At first," she said, "I was a pupil and a parlor
boarder; but now--"
"What do you mean by `at first'?" asked the
Indian Gentleman.
"When I was first taken there by my papa."
"Well, what has happened since then?" said the
invalid, staring at her and knitting his brows
with a puzzled expression.
"My papa died," said Sara. "He lost all his money,
and there was none left for me--and there was no
one to take care of me or pay Miss Minchin, so--"
"So you were sent up into the garret and
neglected, and made into a half-starved little
drudge!" put in the Indian Gentleman. That is
about it, isn't it?"
The color deepened on Sara's cheeks.
"There was no one to take care of me, and no
money," she said. "I belong to nobody."
"What did your father mean by losing his money?"
said the gentleman, fretfully.
The red in Sara's cheeks grew deeper, and she
fixed her odd eyes on the yellow face.
"He did not lose it himself," she said. "He had a
friend he was fond of, and it was his friend, who
took his money. I don't know how. I don't understand.
He trusted his friend too much."
She saw the invalid start--the strangest start--
as if he had been suddenly frightened. Then he
spoke nervously and excitedly:
"That's an old story," he said. "It happens
every day; but sometimes those who are blamed
--those who do the wrong--don't intend it, and
are not so bad. It may happen through a mistake
--a miscalculation; they may not be so bad."
"No," said Sara, "but the suffering is just as
bad for the others. It killed my papa."
The Indian Gentleman pushed aside some of
the gorgeous wraps that covered him.
"Come a little nearer, and let me look at you,"
he said.
His voice sounded very strange; it had a more
nervous and excited tone than before. Sara had
an odd fancy that he was half afraid to look at her.
She came and stood nearer, the monkey clinging to her
and watching his master anxiously over his shoulder.
The Indian Gentleman's hollow, restless eyes
fixed themselves on her.
"Yes," he said at last. "Yes; I can see it.
Tell me your father's name."
"His name was Ralph Crewe," said Sara. "Captain Crewe.
Perhaps,"--a sudden thought flashing upon her,--
"perhaps you may have heard of him? He died in India."
The Indian Gentleman sank back upon his pillows.
He looked very weak, and seemed out of breath.
"Yes," he said, "I knew him. I was his friend.
I meant no harm. If he had only lived he would
have known. It turned out well after all. He was
a fine young fellow. I was fond of him. I will
make it right. Call--call the man."
Sara thought he was going to die. But there
was no need to call the Lascar. He must have
been waiting at the door. He was in the room
and by his master's side in an instant. He seemed
to know what to do. He lifted the drooping head,
and gave the invalid something in a small glass.
The Indian Gentleman lay panting for a few minutes,
and then he spoke in an exhausted but eager voice,
addressing the Lascar in Hindustani:
"Go for Carmichael," he said. Tell him to come
here at once. Tell him I have found the child!"
When Mr. Carmichael arrived (which occurred
in a very few minutes, for it turned out that he
was no other than the father of the Large Family
across the street), Sara went home, and was allowed
to take the monkey with her. She certainly did
not sleep very much that night, though the monkey
behaved beautifully, and did not disturb her in
the least. It was not the monkey that kept her
awake--it was her thoughts, and her wonders as to
what the Indian Gentleman had meant when he said,
"Tell him I have found the child." "What child?"
Sara kept asking herself.
"I was the only child there; but how had he
found me, and why did he want to find me?
And what is he going to do, now I am found?
Is it something about my papa? Do I belong
to somebody? Is he one of my relations?
Is something going to happen?"
But she found out the very next day, in the
morning; and it seemed that she had been living
in a story even more than she had imagined.
First, Mr. Carmichael came and had an interview
with Miss Minchin. And it appeared that Mr.
Carmichael, besides occupying the important
situation of father to the Large Family was a
lawyer, and had charge of the affairs of Mr.
Carrisford--which was the real name of the Indian
Gentleman--and, as Mr. Carrisford's lawyer, Mr.
Carmichael had come to explain something curious
to Miss Minchin regarding Sara. But, being
the father of the Large Family, he had a very
kind and fatherly feeling for children; and so,
after seeing Miss Minchin alone, what did he do
but go and bring across the square his rosy,
motherly, warm-hearted wife, so that she herself
might talk to the little lonely girl, and tell
her everything in the best and most motherly way.
And then Sara learned that she was to be a poor
little drudge and outcast no more, and that
a great change had come in her fortunes; for all
the lost fortune had come back to her, and a great
deal had even been added to it. It was Mr. Carrisford
who had been her father's friend, and who had made
the investments which had caused him the apparent
loss of his money; but it had so happened that
after poor young Captain Crewe's death one of the
investments which had seemed at the time the very
worst had taken a sudden turn, and proved to be
such a success that it had been a mine of wealth,
and had more than doubled the Captain's lost
fortune, as well as making a fortune for Mr.
Carrisford himself. But Mr. Carrisford had
been very unhappy. He had truly loved his poor,
handsome, generous young friend, and the
knowledge that he had caused his death
had weighed upon him always, and broken both
his health and spirit. The worst of it had been
that, when first he thought himself and Captain
Crewe ruined, he had lost courage and gone
away because he was not brave enough to face
the consequences of what he had done, and so he
had not even known where the young soldier's
little girl had been placed. When he wanted to
find her, and make restitution, he could discover
no trace of her; and the certainty that she was
poor and friendless somewhere had made him
more miserable than ever. When he had taken
the house next to Miss Minchin's he had been
so ill and wretched that he had for the time
given up the search. His troubles and the Indian
climate had brought him almost to death's door--
indeed, he had not expected to live more than a
few months. And then one day the Lascar had
told him about Sara's speaking Hindustani, and
gradually he had begun to take a sort of interest
in the forlorn child, though he had only caught a
glimpse of her once or twice and he had not
connected her with the child of his friend,
perhaps because he was too languid to think much
about anything. But the Lascar had found out
something of Sara's unhappy little life, and about
the garret. One evening he had actually crept out
of his own garret-window and looked into hers, which
was a very easy matter, because, as I have said,
it was only a few feet away--and he had told his
master what he had seen, and in a moment of
compassion the Indian Gentleman had told him to
take into the wretched little room such comforts
as he could carry from the one window to the other.
And the Lascar, who had developed an interest in,
and an odd fondness for, the child who had
spoken to him in his own tongue, had been
pleased with the work; and, having the silent
swiftness and agile movements of many of his
race, he had made his evening journeys across
the few feet of roof from garret-window to garret-
window, without any trouble at all. He had
watched Sara's movements until he knew exactly
when she was absent from her room and when
she returned to it, and so he had been able to
calculate the best times for his work. Generally he
had made them in the dusk of the evening; but
once or twice, when he had seen her go out on
errands, he had dared to go over in the daytime,
being quite sure that the garret was never entered
by any one but herself. His pleasure in the work
and his reports of the results had added to the
invalid's interest in it, and sometimes the master
had found the planning gave him something to
think of, which made him almost forget his weariness
and pain. And at last, when Sara brought home the
truant monkey, he had felt a wish to see her,
and then her likeness to her father had done the rest.
"And now, my dear," said good Mrs. Carmichael,
patting Sara's hand, "all your troubles are over,
I am sure, and you are to come home with me and
be taken care of as if you were one of my own
little girls; and we are so pleased to think of
having you with us until everything is settled,
and Mr. Carrisford is better. The excitement of
last night has made him very weak, but we really
think he will get well, now that such a load is
taken from his mind. And when he is stronger,
I am sure he will be as kind to you as your own
papa would have been. He has a very good heart,
and he is fond of children--and he has no family
at all. But we must make you happy and rosy,
and you must learn to play and run about,
as my little girls do--"
"As your little girls do?" said Sara. "I wonder if
I could. I used to watch them and wonder what it
was like. Shall I feel as if I belonged to somebody?"
"Ah, my love, yes!--yes!" said Mrs. Carmichael;
"dear me, yes!" And her motherly blue eyes grew
quite moist, and she suddenly took Sara in her
arms and kissed her. That very night, before
she went to sleep, Sara had made the acquaintance
of the entire Large Family, and such excitement
as she and the monkey had caused in that joyous
circle could hardly be described. There was not
a child in the nursery, from the Eton boy who
was the eldest, to the baby who was the youngest,
who had not laid some offering on her shrine.
All the older ones knew something of her
wonderful story. She had been born in India;
she had been poor and lonely and unhappy, and
had lived in a garret and been treated unkindly;
and now she was to be rich and happy, and be
taken care of. They were so sorry for her, and
so delighted and curious about her, all at once.
The girls wished to be with her constantly, and
the little boys wished to be told about India;
the second baby, with the short round legs, simply
sat and stared at her and the monkey, possibly
wondering why she had not brought a hand-organ
with her.
"I shall certainly wake up presently," Sara kept
saying to herself. "This one must be a dream.
The other one turned out to be real; but this
couldn't be. But, oh! how happy it is!"
And even when she went to bed, in the bright,
pretty room not far from Mrs. Carmichael's own,
and Mrs. Carmichael came and kissed her and
patted her and tucked her in cozily, she was not
sure that she would not wake up in the garret in
the morning.
"And oh, Charles, dear," Mrs. Carmichael said
to her husband, when she went downstairs to him,
"We must get that lonely look out of her eyes!
It isn't a child's look at all. I couldn't bear to
see it in one of my own children. What the poor
little love must have had to bear in that dreadful
woman's house! But, surely, she will forget it in time."
But though the lonely look passed away from
Sara's face, she never quite forgot the garret at
Miss Minchin's; and, indeed, she always liked to
remember the wonderful night when the tired
princess crept upstairs, cold and wet, and opening
the door found fairy-land waiting for her.
And there was no one of the many stories she was
always being called upon to tell in the nursery
of the Large Family which was more popular than
that particular one; and there was no one of
whom the Large Family were so fond as of Sara.
Mr. Carrisford did not die, but recovered, and
Sara went to live with him; and no real princess
could have been better taken care of than she was.
It seemed that the Indian Gentleman could not
do enough to make her happy, and to repay her for
the past; and the Lascar was her devoted slave.
As her odd little face grew brighter, it grew so
pretty and interesting that Mr. Carrisford used
to sit and watch it many an evening, as they
sat by the fire together.
They became great friends, and they used to
spend hours reading and talking together; and,
in a very short time, there was no pleasanter
sight to the Indian Gentleman than Sara sitting
in her big chair on the opposite side of the
hearth, with a book on her knee and her soft,
dark hair tumbling over her warm cheeks.
She had a pretty habit of looking up at him
suddenly, with a bright smile, and then he
would often say to her:
"Are you happy, Sara?"
And then she would answer:
"I feel like a real princess, Uncle Tom."
He had told her to call him Uncle Tom.
"There doesn't seem to be anything left to
`suppose,'" she added.
There was a little joke between them that he
was a magician, and so could do anything he
liked; and it was one of his pleasures to invent
plans to surprise her with enjoyments she had not
thought of. Scarcely a day passed in which he
did not do something new for her. Sometimes she
found new flowers in her room; sometimes a
fanciful little gift tucked into some odd corner,
sometimes a new book on her pillow;--once as
they sat together in the evening they heard the
scratch of a heavy paw on the door of the room,
and when Sara went to find out what it was, there
stood a great dog--a splendid Russian boar-hound
with a grand silver and gold collar. Stooping to
read the inscription upon the collar, Sara was
delighted to read the words: "I am Boris; I serve
the Princess Sara."
Then there was a sort of fairy nursery arranged
for the entertainment of the juvenile members of
the Large Family, who were always coming to see
Sara and the Lascar and the monkey. Sara was
as fond of the Large Family as they were of her.
She soon felt as if she were a member of it,
and the companionship of the healthy, happy
children was very good for her. All the children
rather looked up to her and regarded her as the
cleverest and most brilliant of creatures--
particularly after it was discovered that she not
only knew stories of every kind, and could invent
new ones at a moment's notice, but that she could
help with lessons, and speak French and German,
and discourse with the Lascar in Hindustani.
It was rather a painful experience for Miss
Minchin to watch her ex-pupil's fortunes, as she
had the daily opportunity to do, and to feel that
she had made a serious mistake, from a business
point of view. She had even tried to retrieve it
by suggesting that Sara's education should be
continued under her care, and had gone to the
length of making an appeal to the child herself.
"I have always been very fond of you," she said.
Then Sara fixed her eyes upon her and gave her
one of her odd looks.
"Have you?" she answered.
"Yes," said Miss Minchin. "Amelia and I have
always said you were the cleverest child we had
with us, and I am sure we could make you happy
--as a parlor boarder."
Sara thought of the garret and the day her ears
were boxed,--and of that other day, that dreadful,
desolate day when she had been told that she
belonged to nobody; that she had no home and
no friends,--and she kept her eyes fixed on Miss
Minchin's face.
"You know why I would not stay with you,"
she said.
And it seems probable that Miss Minchin did,
for after that simple answer she had not the
boldness to pursue the subject. She merely sent
in a bill for the expense of Sara's education and
support, and she made it quite large enough.
And because Mr. Carrisford thought Sara would wish
it paid, it was paid. When Mr. Carmichael paid
it he had a brief interview with Miss Minchin in
which he expressed his opinion with much clearness
and force; and it is quite certain that Miss
Minchin did not enjoy the conversation.
Sara had been about a month with Mr. Carrisford,
and had begun to realize that her happiness was not
a dream, when one night the Indian Gentleman saw
that she sat a long time with her cheek on her hand
looking at the fire.
"What are you `supposing,' Sara?" he asked.
Sara looked up with a bright color on her cheeks.
"I was `supposing,'" she said; "I was remembering
that hungry day, and a child I saw."
"But there were a great many hungry days,"
said the Indian Gentleman, with a rather sad tone
in his voice. "Which hungry day was it?"
"I forgot you didn't know," said Sara. "It was
the day I found the things in my garret."
And then she told him the story of the bun-shop,
and the fourpence, and the child who was hungrier
than herself; and somehow as she told it, though
she told it very simply indeed, the Indian Gentleman
found it necessary to shade his eyes with his hand
and look down at the floor.
"And I was `supposing' a kind of plan," said
Sara, when she had finished; "I was thinking I
would like to do something."
"What is it?" said her guardian in a low tone.
"You may do anything you like to do, Princess."
"I was wondering," said Sara,--"you know you
say I have a great deal of money--and I was
wondering if I could go and see the bun-woman
and tell her that if, when hungry children--
particularly on those dreadful days--come and
sit on the steps or look in at the window, she
would just call them in and give them something
to eat, she might send the bills to me and I
would pay them--could I do that?"
"You shall do it to-morrow morning," said the
Indian Gentleman.
"Thank you," said Sara; "you see I know what it
is to be hungry, and it is very hard when one
can't even pretend it away."
"Yes, yes, my dear," said the Indian Gentleman.
"Yes, it must be. Try to forget it. Come and
sit on this footstool near my knee, and only
remember you are a princess."
"Yes," said Sara, "and I can give buns and
bread to the Populace." And she went and
sat on the stool, and the Indian Gentleman (he
used to like her to call him that, too, sometimes,
--in fact very often) drew her small, dark head
down upon his knee and stroked her hair.
The next morning a carriage drew up before
the door of the baker's shop, and a gentleman
and a little girl got out,--oddly enough, just as
the bun-woman was putting a tray of smoking
hotbuns into the window. When Sara entered
the shop the woman turned and looked at her and,
leaving the buns, came and stood behind the counter.
For a moment she looked at Sara very hard indeed,
and then her good-natured face lighted up.
"I'm that sure I remember you, miss," she said.
"And yet--"
"Yes," said Sara, "once you gave me six buns for
fourpence, and--"
"And you gave five of 'em to a beggar-child,"
said the woman. "I've always remembered it.
I couldn't make it out at first. I beg pardon,
sir, but there's not many young people that
notices a hungry face in that way, and I've
thought of it many a time. Excuse the liberty,
miss, but you look rosier and better than you did
that day."
"I am better, thank you," said Sara, "and--and
I am happier, and I have come to ask you to do
something for me."
"Me, miss!" exclaimed the woman, "why, bless you,
yes, miss! What can I do?"
And then Sara made her little proposal, and the
woman listened to it with an astonished face.
"Why, bless me!" she said, when she had heard
it all. "Yes, miss, it'll be a pleasure to me to
do it. I am a working woman, myself, and can't
afford to do much on my own account, and there's
sights of trouble on every side; but if you'll
excuse me, I'm bound to say I've given many a bit
of bread away since that wet afternoon, just along
o' thinkin' of you. An' how wet an' cold you was,
an' how you looked,--an' yet you give away your
hot buns as if you was a princess."
The Indian Gentleman smiled involuntarily,
and Sara smiled a little too. "She looked so
hungry," she said. "She was hungrier than I was."
"She was starving," said the woman. "Many's the
time she's told me of it since--how she sat there
in the wet, and felt as if a wolf was a-tearing at
her poor young insides."
"Oh, have you seen her since then?" exclaimed Sara.
"Do you know where she is?"
"I know!" said the woman. "Why, she's in
that there back room now, miss, an' has been for
a month, an' a decent, well-meaning girl she's
going to turn out, an' such a help to me in the
day shop, an' in the kitchen, as you'd scarce believe,
knowing how she's lived."
She stepped to the door of the little back parlor
and spoke; and the next minute a girl came out
and followed her behind the counter. And actually
it was the beggar-child, clean and neatly clothed,
and looking as if she had not been hungry for a
long time. She looked shy, but she had a nice face,
now that she was no longer a savage; and the wild
look had gone from her eyes. And she knew Sara in
an instant, and stood and looked at her as if she
could never look enough.
"You see," said the woman, "I told her to
come here when she was hungry, and when she'd
come I'd give her odd jobs to do, an' I found she
was willing, an' somehow I got to like her; an'
the end of it was I've given her a place an' a home,
an' she helps me, an' behaves as well, an' is as
thankful as a girl can be. Her name's Anne--she
has no other."
The two children stood and looked at each
other a few moments. In Sara's eyes a new
thought was growing.
"I'm glad you have such a good home," she said.
"Perhaps Mrs. Brown will let you give the buns
and bread to the children--perhaps you would
like to do it--because you know what it is to
be hungry, too."
"Yes, miss," said the girl.
And somehow Sara felt as if she understood her,
though the girl said nothing more, and only stood
still and looked, and looked after her as she
went out of the shop and got into the carriage
and drove away.
