Never had such joy reigned in the nursery of the Large Family. Never
had they dreamed of such delights as resulted from an intimate
acquaintance with the little-girl-who-was-not-a-beggar. The mere fact
of her sufferings and adventures made her a priceless possession.
Everybody wanted to be told over and over again the things which had
happened to her. When one was sitting by a warm fire in a big, glowing
room, it was quite delightful to hear how cold it could be in an attic.
It must be admitted that the attic was rather delighted in, and that
its coldness and bareness quite sank into insignificance when
Melchisedec was remembered, and one heard about the sparrows and things
one could see if one climbed on the table and stuck one's head and
shoulders out of the skylight.
Of course the thing loved best was the story of the banquet and the
dream which was true. Sara told it for the first time the day after
she had been found. Several members of the Large Family came to take
tea with her, and as they sat or curled up on the hearth-rug she told
the story in her own way, and the Indian gentleman listened and watched
her. When she had finished she looked up at him and put her hand on his
knee.
"That is my part," she said. "Now won't you tell your part of it,
Uncle Tom?" He had asked her to call him always "Uncle Tom." "I don't
know your part yet, and it must be beautiful."
So he told them how, when he sat alone, ill and dull and irritable, Ram
Dass had tried to distract him by describing the passers by, and there
was one child who passed oftener than any one else; he had begun to be
interested in her--partly perhaps because he was thinking a great deal
of a little girl, and partly because Ram Dass had been able to relate
the incident of his visit to the attic in chase of the monkey. He had
described its cheerless look, and the bearing of the child, who seemed
as if she was not of the class of those who were treated as drudges and
servants. Bit by bit, Ram Dass had made discoveries concerning the
wretchedness of her life. He had found out how easy a matter it was to
climb across the few yards of roof to the skylight, and this fact had
been the beginning of all that followed.
"Sahib," he had said one day, "I could cross the slates and make the
child a fire when she is out on some errand. When she returned, wet
and cold, to find it blazing, she would think a magician had done it."
The idea had been so fanciful that Mr. Carrisford's sad face had
lighted with a smile, and Ram Dass had been so filled with rapture that
he had enlarged upon it and explained to his master how simple it would
be to accomplish numbers of other things. He had shown a childlike
pleasure and invention, and the preparations for the carrying out of
the plan had filled many a day with interest which would otherwise have
dragged wearily. On the night of the frustrated banquet Ram Dass had
kept watch, all his packages being in readiness in the attic which was
his own; and the person who was to help him had waited with him, as
interested as himself in the odd adventure. Ram Dass had been lying
flat upon the slates, looking in at the skylight, when the banquet had
come to its disastrous conclusion; he had been sure of the profoundness
of Sara's wearied sleep; and then, with a dark lantern, he had crept
into the room, while his companion remained outside and handed the
things to him. When Sara had stirred ever so faintly, Ram Dass had
closed the lantern-slide and lain flat upon the floor. These and many
other exciting things the children found out by asking a thousand
questions.
"I am so glad," Sara said. "I am so GLAD it was you who were my friend!"
There never were such friends as these two became. Somehow, they
seemed to suit each other in a wonderful way. The Indian gentleman had
never had a companion he liked quite as much as he liked Sara. In a
month's time he was, as Mr. Carmichael had prophesied he would be, a
new man. He was always amused and interested, and he began to find an
actual pleasure in the possession of the wealth he had imagined that he
loathed the burden of. There were so many charming things to plan for
Sara. There was a little joke between them that he was a magician, and
it was one of his pleasures to invent things to surprise her. She
found beautiful new flowers growing in her room, whimsical little gifts
tucked under pillows, and once, as they sat together in the evening,
they heard the scratch of a heavy paw on the door, and when Sara went
to find out what it was, there stood a great dog--a splendid Russian
boarhound--with a grand silver and gold collar bearing an inscription.
"I am Boris," it read; "I serve the Princess Sara."
There was nothing the Indian gentleman loved more than the recollection
of the little princess in rags and tatters. The afternoons in which
the Large Family, or Ermengarde and Lottie, gathered to rejoice
together were very delightful. But the hours when Sara and the Indian
gentleman sat alone and read or talked had a special charm of their
own. During their passing many interesting things occurred.
One evening, Mr. Carrisford, looking up from his book, noticed that his
companion had not stirred for some time, but sat gazing into the fire.
"What are you 'supposing,' Sara?" he asked.
Sara looked up, with a bright color on her cheek.
"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 rather a sad tone in his voice. "Which hungry day was it?"
"I forgot you didn't know," said Sara. "It was the day the dream came
true."
Then she told him the story of the bun shop, and the fourpence she
picked up out of the sloppy mud, and the child who was hungrier than
herself. She told it quite simply, and in as few words as possible;
but somehow the Indian gentleman found it necessary to shade his eyes
with his hand and look down at the carpet.
"And I was supposing a kind of plan," she said, when she had finished.
"I was thinking I should like to do something."
"What was it?" said Mr. Carrisford, in a low tone. "You may do
anything you like to do, princess."
"I was wondering," rather hesitated Sara--"you know, you say I have so
much money--I was wondering if I could go to 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. Could I do that?"
"You shall do it tomorrow 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 cannot even PRETEND it away."
"Yes, yes, my dear," said the Indian gentleman. "Yes, 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, smiling; "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) drew her small
dark head down on his knee and stroked her hair.
The next morning, Miss Minchin, in looking out of her window, saw the
things she perhaps least enjoyed seeing. The Indian gentleman's
carriage, with its tall horses, drew up before the door of the next
house, and its owner and a little figure, warm with soft, rich furs,
descended the steps to get into it. The little figure was a familiar
one, and reminded Miss Minchin of days in the past. It was followed by
another as familiar--the sight of which she found very irritating. It
was Becky, who, in the character of delighted attendant, always
accompanied her young mistress to her carriage, carrying wraps and
belongings. Already Becky had a pink, round face.
A little later the carriage drew up before the door of the baker's
shop, and its occupants got out, oddly enough, just as the bun-woman
was putting a tray of smoking-hot buns 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 sure that 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," the woman broke in on
her. "I've always remembered it. I couldn't make it out at first." She
turned round to the Indian gentleman and spoke her next words to him.
"I beg your 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,"--to Sara--"but you look rosier and--well, better
than you did that--that--"
"I am better, thank you," said Sara. "And--I am much happier--and I
have come to ask you to do something for me."
"Me, miss!" exclaimed the bun-woman, smiling cheerfully. "Why, bless
you! Yes, miss. What can I do?"
And then Sara, leaning on the counter, made her little proposal
concerning the dreadful days and the hungry waifs and the buns.
The woman watched her, and listened with an astonished face.
"Why, bless me!" she said again when she had heard it all; "it'll be a
pleasure to me to do it. I am a working-woman myself and cannot 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 away many a
bit of bread since that wet afternoon, just along o' thinking of
you--an' how wet an' cold you was, an' how hungry you looked; an' yet
you gave away your hot buns as if you was a princess."
The Indian gentleman smiled involuntarily at this, and Sara smiled a
little, too, remembering what she had said to herself when she put the
buns down on the ravenous child's ragged lap.
"She looked so hungry," she said. "She was even 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?"
"Yes, I do," answered the woman, smiling more good-naturedly than ever.
"Why, she's in that there back room, miss, an' has been for a month;
an' a decent, well-meanin' girl she's goin' to turn out, an' such a
help to me in the shop an' in the kitchen as you'd scarce believe,
knowin' 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. 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 when she was hungry, and
when she'd come I'd give her odd jobs to do; an' I found she was
willing, and somehow I got to like her; and the end of it was, I've
given her a place an' a home, and she helps me, an' behaves well, an'
is as thankful as a girl can be. Her name's Anne. She has no other."
The children stood and looked at each other for a few minutes; and then
Sara took her hand out of her muff and held it out across the counter,
and Anne took it, and they looked straight into each other's eyes.
"I am so glad," Sara said. "And I have just thought of something.
Perhaps Mrs. Brown will let you be the one to 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 she said so
little, and only stood still and looked and looked after her as she
went out of the shop with the Indian gentleman, and they got into the
carriage and drove away.