Sara Crewe; or, What happened at Miss Minchin's

s

<

» -M v

University of California • Berkeley

SARA CREWE

OR

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S

>T THE SAME AUTHOR.

LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY

BEAUTIFULLY ILLUSTRATED BY R. B. BIRCH.
Square 8vo, handsomely bound, - - - $2.OO

" In 'Little Lord Fauntleroy ' we gain another charming child to
add to our gallery of juvenile heroes and heroines ; one who teaches a
great lesson ivith such truth and sweetness, that ive part -with him
ivith real regret -when the episode is over." — LOUISA M. ALCOTT.

SHE LAID HER DOLL, EMILY, ACROSS HER KNEES, AND PUT HER FACE DOWN UPON HER, AND HER
ARMS AROUND HER, AND SAT THERE, NOT SAYING ONE WORD, NOT MAKING ONE SOUND."

SARA CREWE

OR

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S

BY

FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT

NEW YORK

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1888

COPYRIGHT, 1888, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS.

[All rigJits reserved.]

Press of J. J. Little & Co.,
Astor Place, New York.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

FROM DRAWINGS BY REGINALD B. BIRCH.

"She laid her doll, Emily, across her knees, and put her face down upon
her, and her arms around her, and sat there, not saying one word,
not making one sound." Frontispiece.

" She slowly advanced into the parlor, clutching her doll." . Page 15
"Eat it," said Sara, e( and you will not he so hungry." . " 41

" He was waiting for his Master to come out to the carriage,

and Sara stopped and spoke a few words to him." . . "47

" The monkey seemed much interested in her remarks." . "63

"He drew her small, dark head down upon his knee and

stroked her hair." "79

SARA CREWE;

OR,

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S.

IN the first place, Miss Minchin lived in London. Her home
was a large, dull, tall one, in a large, dull square, where all
the houses were alike, and all the sparrows were alike, and
where all the door-knockers made the same heavy sound, and
on still days — and nearly all the days were still — seemed to
resound through the entire row in which the knock was
knocked. On Miss Minchin's door there was a brass plate.
On the brass plate there was inscribed in black letters,

MISS MINCHIN'S
SELECT SEMINARY FOR YOUNG LADIES.

Little Sara Crewe never went in or out of the house with-
out reading that door-plate and reflecting upon it. By the
time she was twelve, she had decided that all her trouble
arose because, in the first place, she was not " Select," and in

io SARA CREWE; OR,

the second, she was not a " Young Lady." When she was
eight years old, she had been brought to Miss Minchin as a
pupil, and left with her. Her papa had brought her all the
way from India. Her mamma had died when she was a baby,
and her papa had kept her with him as long as he could.
And then, finding the hot climate was making her very deli-
cate, he had brought her to England and left her with Miss
Minchin, to be part of the Select Seminary for Young
Ladies. Sara, who had always been a sharp little child, who
remembered things, recollected hearing him say that he had
not a relative in the world whom he knew of, and so he was
obliged to place her at a boarding-school, and he had heard
Miss Minchin's establishment spoken of very highly. The
same day, he took Sara out and bought her a great many beau-
tiful clothes — clothes so grand and rich that only a very young
and inexperienced man would have bought them for a mite
of a child who was to be brought up in a boarding-school.
But the fact was that he was a rash, innocent young man, and
very sad at the thought of parting with his little girl, who
was all he had left to remind him of her beautiful mother,
whom he had dearly loved. And he wished her to have every-
thing the most fortunate little girl could have ; and so, when
the polite saleswomen in the shops said, " Here is our very
latest thing in hats, the plumes are exactly the same as those
we sold to Lady Diana Sinclair yesterday," he immediately
bought what was offered to him, and paid whatever was asked.
The consequence was that Sara had a most extraordinary ward-

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. n

robe. Her dresses were silk and velvet and India cashmere,
her hats and bonnets were covered with bows and plumes,
her small undergarments were adorned with real lace, and she
returned in the cab to Miss Minchin's with a doll almost as
large as herself, dressed quite as grandly as herself, too.

Then her papa gave Miss Minchin some money and went
away, and for several days Sara would neither touch the
doll, nor her breakfast, nor her dinner, nor her tea, and would
do nothing but crouch in a small corner by the window and
cry. She cried so much, indeed, that she made herself ill.
She was a queer little child, with old-fashioned ways and
strong feelings, and she had adored her papa, and could not
be made to think that India and an interesting bungalow were
not better for her than London and Miss Minchin's Select
Seminary. The instant she had entered the house, she had
begun promptly to hate Miss Minchin, and to think little of
Miss Amelia Minchin, who was smooth and dumpy, and
lisped, and was evidently afraid of her older sister. Miss
Minchin was tall, and had large, cold, fishy eyes, and large,
cold hands, which seemed fishy, too, because they were damp
and made chills run down Sara's back when they touched
her, as Miss Minchin pushed her hair off her forehead and
said :

" A most beautiful and promising little girl, Captain
Crewe. She will be a favorite pupil ; quite a favorite pupil,
I see."

For the first year she was a favorite pupil ; at least she

12 SARA CREWE; OR,

was indulged a great deal more than was good for her. And
when the Select Seminary went walking, two by two, she was
always decked out in her grandest clothes, and led by the
hand, at the head of the genteel procession, by Miss Minchin
herself. And when the parents of any of the pupils came,
she was always dressed and called into the parlor with her
doll ; and she used to hear Miss Minchin say that her father
was a distinguished Indian officer, and she would be heiress
to a great fortune. That her father had inherited a great
deal of money, Sara had heard before ; and also that some
day it would be hers, and that he would not remain long in
the army, but would come to live in London. And every
time a letter came, she hoped it would say he was coming,
and they were to live together again.

But about the middle of the third year a letter came bring-
ing very different news. Because he was not a business man
himself, her papa had given his affairs into the hands of a
friend he trusted. The friend had deceived and robbed him.
All the money was gone, no one knew exactly where, and the
shock was so great to the poor, rash young officer, that, being
attacked by jungle fever shortly afterward, he had no strength
to rally, and so died, leaving Sara with no one to take care
of her.

Miss Minchin's cold and fishy eyes had never looked so
cold and fishy as they did when Sara went into the parlor,
on being sent for, a few days after the letter was received.

No one had said anything to the child about mourning,

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN' S. 13

so, in her old-fashioned way, she had decided to find a black
dress for herself, and had picked out a black velvet she had
outgrown, and came into the room in it, looking the queer-
est little figure in the world, and a sad little figure too. The
dress was too short and too tight, her face was white, her eyes
had dark rings around them, and her doll, wrapped in a piece
of old black crape, was held under her arm. She was not a
pretty child. She was thin, and had a weird, interesting little
face, short black hair, and very large, green-gray eyes fringed
all around with heavy black lashes.

" I am the ugliest child in the school," she had said once,
after staring at herself in the glass for some minutes.

But there had been a clever, good-natured little French
teacher who had said to the music-master :

"Zat leetle Crewe. Vat a child ! A so ogly beauty ! Ze
so large eyes ! ze so little spirituelle face. Waid till she grow
up. You shall see ! "

This morning, however, in the tight, small black frock, she
looked thinner and odder than ever, and her eyes were fixed
on Miss Minchin with a queer steadiness as she slowly ad-
vanced into the parlor, clutching her doll.

" Put your doll down ! " said Miss Minchin.

4 No," said the child, " I won't put her down; I want her
with me. She is all I have. She has stayed with me all the
time since my papa died."

She had never been an obedient child. She had had her
own way ever since she was born, and there was about her

i4 SARA CREWE> OR,

an air of silent determination under which Miss Minchin had
always felt secretly uncomfortable. And that lady felt even
now that perhaps it would be as well not to insist on her
point. So she looked at her as severely as possible.

"You will have no time for dolls in future," she said;
"you will have to work and improve yourself, and make
yourself useful."

Sara kept the big odd eyes fixed on her teacher and said
nothing.

" Everything will be very different now," Miss Minchin
went on. " I sent for you to talk to you and make you
understand. Your father is dead. You have no friends.
You have no money. You have no home and no one to
take care of you."

The little pale olive face twitched nervously, but the
green-gray eyes did not move from Miss Minchin's, and
still Sara said nothing.

"What are you staring at?" demanded Miss Minchin
sharply. " Are you so stupid you don't understand what
I mean ? 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."

The truth was, Miss Minchin was in her worst mood.
To be suddenly deprived of a large sum of money yearly
and a show pupil, and to find herself with a little beggar on
her hands, was more than she could bear with any degree
of calmness.

iWut •

" SHE SLOWLY ADVANCED INTO THE PARLOR, CLUTCHING HER DOLL.

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S.

" Now listen to me," she went on, " and remember what
I say. If you work hard and prepare to make yourself use-
ful in a few years, I shall let you stay here. You are only
a child, but you are a sharp child, and you pick up things
almost without being taught. You speak French very well,
and in a year or so you can begin to help with the
younger pupils. By the time you are fifteen you ought
to be able to do that much at least."

" I can speak French better than you, now," said Sara ;
" I always spoke it with my papa in India." Which was
not at all polite, but was painfully true ; because Miss Min-
chin could not speak French at all, and, indeed, was not in
the least a clever person. But she was a hard, grasping
business woman ; and, after the first shock of disappoint-
ment, had seen that at very little expense to herself she
might prepare this clever, determined child to be very use-
ful to her and save her the necessity of paying large sala-
ries to teachers of languages.

" Don't be impudent, or you will be punished," she said.
" You will have to improve your manners if you expect to
earn your bread. You are not a parlor boarder now. Re-
member that if you don't please me, and I send you away,
you have no home but the street. You can go now."

Sara turned away.

"Stay," commanded Miss Minchin, " don't you intend to
thank me?"

Sara turned toward her. The nervous twitch was to be

j 8 SARA CREWE; OR,

seen again in her face, and she seemed to be trying to con-
trol it.

" What for?" she said.

" For my kindness to you," replied Miss Minchin. " For
my kindness in giving you a home."

Sara went two or three steps nearer to her. Her thin little
chest was heaving up and down, and she spoke in a strange,
unchildish voice.

"You are not kind," she said. "You are not kind."
And she turned again and went out of the room, leaving
Miss Minchin staring after her strange, small figure in stony
anger.

The child walked up the staircase, holding tightly to her
doll ; she meant to go to her bedroom, but at the door she
was met by Miss Amelia.

"You are not to go in there," she said. " That is not
your room now."

" Where is my room ? " asked Sara.

" You are to sleep in the attic next to the cook."

Sara walked on. She mounted two flights more, and
reached the door of the attic room, opened it and went in,
shutting it behind her. She stood against it and looked
about her. The room was slanting-roofed and whitewashed ;
there was a rusty grate, an iron bedstead, and some odd
articles of furniture, sent up from better rooms below, where
they had been used until they were considered to be worn
out. Under the skylight in the roof, which showed nothing

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 19

but an oblong piece of dull gray sky, there was a battered
old red footstool.

Sara went to it and sat down. She was a queer child, as
I have said before, and quite unlike other children. She
seldom cried. She did not cry now. She laid her doll,
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 crape, not saying one word, not making
one sound.

From that day her life changed entirely. Sometimes
she used to feel as if it must be another life altogether,
the life of some other child. She was a little drudge
and outcast ; she was given her lessons at odd times
and expected to learn without being taught ; she was sent
on errands by Miss Minchin, Miss Amelia and the cook.
Nobody took any notice of her except when they ordered
her about. She was often kept busy all day and then sent
into the deserted school-room with a pile of books to learn
her lessons or practise at night. She had never been inti-
mate with the other pupils, and soon she became so shabby
that, taking her queer clothes together with her queer little
ways, they began to look upon her as a being of another
world than their own. The fact was that, as a rule, Miss
Minchin's pupils were rather dull, matter-of-fact young peo-
ple, accustomed to being rich and comfortable ; and Sara,
with her elfish cleverness, her desolate life, and her odd

20 SARA CREWE; OR,

habit of fixing her eyes upon them and staring them out of
countenance, was too much for them.

" She always looks as if she was finding you out," said
one girl, who was sly and given to making mischief. '* I am,"
said Sara promptly, when she heard of it. " That's what I
look at them for. I like to know about people. I think
them over afterward."

She never made any mischief herself or interfered with
any one. She talked very little, did as she was told, and
thought a great deal. Nobody knew, and in fact nobody cared,
whether she was unhappy or happy, unless, perhaps, it was
Emily, who lived in the attic and slept on the iron bedstead
at night. Sara thought Emily understood her feelings,
though she was only wax and had a habit of staring herself.
Sara used to talk to her at night.

" You are the only friend I have in the world," she would
say to her. " Why don't you say something ? Why don't
you speak ? Sometimes I am sure you could, if you would
try. It ought to make you try, to know you are the only
thing I have. If I were you, I should try. Why don't you
try?"

It really was a very strange feeling she had about Emily.
It arose from her being so desolate. She did not like to own
to herself that her only friend, her only companion, could
feel and hear nothing. She wanted to believe, or to pretend
to believe, that Emily understood and sympathized with her,
that she heard her even though she did not speak in answer.

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 21

She used to put her in a chair sometimes and sit opposite to
her on the old red footstool, and stare at her and think and
pretend about her until her own eyes would grow large with
something which was almost like fear, particularly at night,
when the garret was so still, when the only sound that was
to be heard was the occasional squeak and scurry of rats in
the wainscot. There were rat-holes in the garret, and Sara
detested rats, and was always glad Emily was with her when
she heard their hateful squeak and rush and scratching. One
of her " pretends" was that Emily was a kind of good witch
and could protect her. Poor little Sara ! everything was
<; pretend " with her. She had a strong imagination ; there
was almost more imagination than there was Sara, and her
whole forlorn, uncared-for child-life was made up of imagin-
ings. She imagined and pretended things until she almost be-
lieved them, and she would scarcely have been surprised at any
remarkable thing that could have happened. So she insisted
to herself that Emily understood all about her troubles and
was really her friend.

"As to answering," she used to say, " 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 not
to say a word — just to look at them and think. Miss Min-
chin turns pale with rage when I do it. Miss Amelia looks
frightened, so do the girls. They 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

22 SARA CREWE ; OR,

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 argu-
ments, Sara 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 ; and, when
she came in wet and hungry, had been sent out again because
nobody chose to remember that she was only a child, and
that her thin little legs might be tired, and her small body,
clad in its forlorn, too small finery, all too short and too tight,
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 moods, and when she had seen the girls sneering at her
among themselves and making fun of her poor, outgrown
clothes — then Sara did not find Emily quite all that her sore,
proud, desolate little heart needed as the doll sat in her little
old chair and stared.

One of these nights, when she came up to the garret cold,
hungry, tired, and with a tempest raging in her small breast,
Emily's stare seemed so vacant, her sawdust legs and arms
so limp and inexpressive, that Sara lost all control over her-
self.

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 23

" I shall die presently ! " she said at first.

Emily stared.

11 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 be-
cause I could not find that last thing they 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 I "

She looked at the staring glass eyes and complacent wax
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.

" You are nothing but a doll ! " she cried. " Nothing but
a doll — doll — doll ! You care for nothing. You are stuffed
with sawdust. You never had a heart. Nothing could ever
make you feel. You are a doll ! "

Emily lay upon the floor, with her legs ignominiously
doubled up over her head, and a new flat place on the end of
her nose ; but she was still calm, even dignified.

Sara hid her face on her arms and sobbed. Some rats in
the wall began to fight and bite each other, and squeak and
scramble. But, as I have already intimated, Sara was not in
the habit of crying. After a while she stopped, and when she
stopped she looked at Emily, who seemed to be gazing at

24 SARA CREWE ; OR,

her around the side of one ankle, and actually with a kind of
glassy-eyed sympathy. Sara bent and picked her up. Re-
morse overtook her.

" You can't help being a doll," she said, with a resigned
sigh, "any more than those girls downstairs can help not
having any sense. We are not all alike. Perhaps you do
your sawdust best."

None of Miss Minchin's young ladies were very remark-
able for being brilliant ; they were select, but some of them
were very dull, and some of them were fond of applying them-
selves to their lessons. Sara, who snatched her lessons at all
sorts of untimely hours from tattered and discarded books,
and who had a hungry craving for everything readable, was
often severe upon them in her small mind. They had books
they never read ; she had no books at all. If she had always
had something to read, she would not have been so lonely.
She liked romances and history and poetry ; she would read
anything. There was a sentimental housemaid in the estab-
lishment who bought the weekly penny papers, and subscribed
to a circulating library, from which she got greasy volumes
containing stories of marquises and dukes who invariably fell
in love with orange-girls and gypsies and servant-maids, and
made them the proud brides of coronets ; and Sara often did
parts of this maid's work so that she might earn the privilege
of reading these romantic histories. There was also a fat,
dull pupil, whose name was Ermengarde St. John, who was
one of her resources. Ermengarde had an intellectual father

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 2$

who, in his despairing desire to encourage his daughter, con-
stantly sent her valuable and interesting books, which were a
continual source of grief to her. Sara had once actually found
her crying over a big package of them.

"What is the matter with you?" she asked her, perhaps
rather disdainfully.

And it is just possible she would not have spoken to her,
if she had not seen the books. The sight of books always
gave Sara a hungry feeling, and she could not help drawing
near to them if only to read their titles.

" What is the matter with you ?" she asked.

" My papa has sent rne some more books," answered
Ermengarde woefully, " and he expects me to read
them."

" Don't you like reading ? " said Sara.

" I hate it!" replied Miss Ermengarde St. John. "And
he will ask me questions when he sees me : he will want to
know how much I remember; how would you like to have to

read all those ? "

•

" I'd like it better than anything else in the world," said
Sara.

Ermengarde wiped her eyes to look at such a prodigy.

" Oh, gracious ! " she exclaimed.

Sara returned the look with interest. A sudden plan
formed itself in her sharp mind.

" Look here !" she said. " If you'll lend me those books,
I'll read them and tell you everything that's in them after-

26 SARA CREWE; OR,

ward, and I'll tell it to you so that you will remember it. I
know I can. The ABC children always remember what I
tell them."

"Oh, goodness !" said Ermengarde. " Do you think you
could?"

" I know I could," answered Sara. " I like to read, and I
always remember. I'll take care of the books, too ; they will
look just as new as they do now, when I give them back to
you."

Ermengarde put her handkerchief in her pocket.

" If you'll do that," she said, " and if you'll make me re-
member, I'll give you — I'll give you some money."

" I don't want your money," said Sara. " I want your books
— I want them." And her eyes grew big and queer, and her
chest heaved once.

"Take them, then," said Ermengarde ; "I wish I wanted
them, but I am not clever, and my father is, and he thinks I
ought to be."

Sara picked up the books and marched off with them.
But when she was at the door, she stopped and turned
around.

" What are you going to tell your father?" she asked.

" Oh," said Ermengarde, " he needn't know ; he'll think
I've read them."

Sara looked down at the books ; her heart really began
to beat fast.

" I won't do it," she said rather slowly, " if you are going

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 27

to tell him lies about it — I don't like lies. Why can't you
tell him I read them and then told you about them ?"

" But he wants me to read them," said Ermengarde.

" He wants you to know what is in them," said Sara ; " and
if I can tell it to you in an easy way and make you remember,
I should think he would like that.''

" He would like it better if I read them myself," replied
Ermengarde.

" He will like it, I dare say, if you learn anything in any
way," said Sara. " I should, if I were your father."

And though this was not a flattering way of stating the
case, Ermengarde was obliged tc admit it was true, and, after
a little more argument, gave in. And so she used afterward
always to hand over her books to Sara, and Sara would carry
them to her garret and devour them ; and after she had read
each volume, she would return it and tell Ermengarde about
it in a way of her own. She had a gift for making things in-
teresting. Her imagination helped her to make everything
rather like a story, and she managed this matter so well that
Miss St. John gained more information from her books than
she would have gained if she had read them three times over
by her poor stupid little self. When Sara sat down by her
and began to tell some story of travel or history, she made
the travellers and historical people seem real ; and Ermen-
garde used to sit and regard her dramatic gesticulations, her
thin little flushed cheeks, and her shining, odd eyes with
amazement.

28 SARA CREWE; OR,

"It sounds nicer than it seems in the book," she would say.
" I never cared about Mary, Queen of Scots, before, and I
always hated the French Revolution, but you make it seem
like a story."

"It is a story," Sara would answer. " They are all stories.
Everything is a story — everything in this world. You are a
story — I am a story— Miss Minchin is a story. You can make
a story out of anything."

" I can't," said Ermengarde.

Sara stared at her a minute reflectively.

" No," she said at last. " I suppose you couldn't. You are
a little like Emily "

" Who is Emily?"

Sara recollected herself. She knew she was sometimes
rather impolite in the candor of her remarks, and she did not
want to be impolite to a girl who was not unkind — only stupid.
Notwithstanding all her sharp little ways she had the sense
to wish to be just to everybody. In the hours she spent
alone, she used to argue out a great many curious questions
with herself. One thing she had decided upon was, that a
person who was clever ought to be clever enough not to be
unjust or deliberately unkind to any one. Miss Minchin was
unjust and cruel, Miss Amelia was unkind and spiteful, the
cook was malicious and hasty-tempered — they all were stupid,
and made her despise them, and she desired to be as unlike
them as possible. So she would be as polite as she could to
people who in the least deserved politeness.

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 29

" Emily is — a person — I know," she replied.

" Do you like her ? " asked Ermengarde.

" Yes, I do," said Sara.

Ermengarde examined her queer little face and figure
again. She did look odd. She had on, that day, a
faded blue plush skirt, which barely covered her knees, a
brown cloth sacque, and a pair of olive-green stockings which
Miss Minchin had made her piece out with black ones, so
that they would be long enough to be kept on. And yet
Ermengarde was beginning slowly to admire her. Such a
forlorn, thin, neglected little thing as that, who could read
and read and remember and tell you things so that they did
not tire you all out ! A child who could speak French, and
who had learned German, no one knew how ! One could not
help staring at her and feeling interested, particularly one to
whom the simplest lesson was a trouble and a woe.

" Do you like me f " said Ermengarde, finally, at the end
of her scrutiny.

Sara hesitated one second, then she answered :

" I like you because you are not ill-natured — I like you
for letting me read your books — I like you because you don't
make spiteful fun of me for what I can't help. It's not your
fault that—

She pulled herself up quickly. She had been going to
say, " that you are stupid."

" That what ? " asked Ermengarde.

"That you can't learn things quickly. If you can't, you

30 SARA CREWE; OR,

can't. If I can, why, I can — that's all." She paused a min-
ute, looking at the plump face before her, and then, rather
slowly, one of her wise, old-fashioned thoughts came to her.

" Perhaps," she said, " to be able to learn things quickly
isn't everything. To be kind is worth a good deal to other
people. If Miss Minchin knew everything on earth, which
she doesn't, and if she was like what she is now, she'd still
be a detestable thing, and everybody would hate her. Lots
of clever people have done harm and been wicked. Look at
Robespierre-
She stopped again and examined her companion's coun-
tenance.

" Do you remember about him ? " she demanded. " I
believe you've forgotten."

" Well, I don't remember all of it," admitted Ermen-
garde.

" Well," said Sara, with courage and determination, "I'll
tell it to you over again."

And she plunged once more into the gory records of the
French Revolution, and told such stories of it, and made such
vivid pictures of its horrors, that Miss St. John was afraid to
go to bed afterward, and hid her head under the blankets
when she did go, and shivered until she fell asleep. But
afterward she preserved lively recollections of the character
of Robespierre, and did not even forget Marie Antoinette
and the Princess de Lamballe.

^ You know they put her head on a pike and danced around

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 31

it," Sara had said ; " and she had beautiful blonde hair ; and
when I think of her, I never see her head on her body,
but always on a pike, with those furious people dancing and
howling."

Yes, it was true ; to this imaginative child everything
was a story ; and the more books she read, the more im-
aginative she became. One of her chief entertainments was
to sit in her garret, or walk about it, and " suppose " things.
On a cold night, when she had not had enough to eat, she
would draw the red footstool up before the empty grate, and
say in the most intense voice :

" Suppose there was a great, wide steel grate here, and
a great glowing fire — a glowing fire — with beds of red-hot
coal and lots of little dancing, flickering flames. Suppose
there was a soft, deep rug. and this was a comfortable chair,
all cushions and crimson velvet ; and suppose I had a crimson
velvet frock on, and a deep lace collar, like a child in a picture ;
and suppose all the rest of the room was furnished in lovely
colors, and there were book-shelves full of books, which
changed by magic as soon as you had read them ; and sup-
pose there was a little table here, with a snow-white cover
on it, and little silver dishes, and in one there was hot, hot
soup, and in another a roast chicken, and in another some
raspberry-jam tarts with criss-cross on them, and in another
some grapes ; and suppose Emily could speak, and we could
sit and eat our supper, and then talk and read ; and then
suppose there was a soft, warm bed in the corner, and when

32 SARA CREWE; OR,

we were tired we could go to sleep, and sleep as long as
we liked."

Sometimes, after she had supposed things like these for
half an hour, she would feel almost warm, and would creep
into bed with Emily and fall asleep with a smile on her face.

" What large, downy pillows ! " she would whisper. " What
white sheets and fleecy blankets ! " And she almost forgot
that her real pillows had scarcely any feathers in them at all,
and smelled musty, and that her blankets and coverlid were
thin and full of holes.

At another time she would " suppose " she was a prin-
cess, and then she would go about the house with an ex-
pression on her face which was a source of great secret an-
noyance to Miss Minchin, because it seemed as if the child
scarcely heard the spiteful, insulting things said to her, or,
if she heard them, did not care for them at all. Sometimes,
while she was in the midst of some harsh and cruel speech,
Miss Minchin would find the odd, unchildish eyes fixed upon
her with something like a proud smile in them. At such
times she did not know that Sara 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, old, vulgar thing, and don't know
any better."

This used to please and amuse her more than anything
else ; and queer and fanciful as it was, she found comfort in

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S, 3$

it, and it was not a bad thing for her. It really kept her from
being 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, who took their tone from their mistress,
were insolent and ordered her about, she would hold her
head erect, and reply to them sometimes in a way which
made them stare at her, it was so quaintly civil.

" I am a princess in rags and tatters," she would think,
" but I am a princess, inside. It would be easy to be a
princess if I were dressed in cloth-of-gold ; 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 Capet, — she was a great deal more like a queen
then than when she was so gay and had everything 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."

Once when such thoughts were passing through her
mind the look in her eyes so enraged Miss Minchin that she
flew at Sara and boxed her ears.

Sara awakened from her dream, started a little, and then
broke into a laugh.

" What are you laughing at, you bold, impudent child !"
exclaimed Miss Minchin.

34 SARA CREWE; OR,

It took Sara a few seconds to remember she was a prin-
cess. Her cheeks were red and smarting from the blows she
had received.

" I was thinking," she said.

" Beg my pardon immediately," said Miss Minchin.

" I will beg your pardon for laughing, if it was rude," said
Sara ; " but I won't beg your pardon for thinking."

" What were you thinking?" demanded Miss Minchin.
" How dare you think ? What were you thinking ? "

This occurred in the school-room, and all the girls looked
up from their books to listen. It always interested them
when Miss Minchin flew at Sara, because Sara always said
something queer, and never seemed in the least 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 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 hap-
pen, 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

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN1 S. 35

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 les-
sons, 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 con-
tinuously, 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

36 SARA CRElVEj OR,

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

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN' S. 37

many feet, but still with spirit enough left 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 be-
fore 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 pass-
ing 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

38 SARA CREWE; OR,

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 every-
body. 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 prin-

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 39

cess — ! 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 '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."

40 SARA CREWE; OR,

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

"EAT IT," SAID SARA, "AND YOU WILL NOT BE so HUNGRY."

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 43

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, long-
ing 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

44 SARA CREWE; OR,

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 alms 'ungry," was the answer; "but 'tain't so bad
as it was."

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 45

" 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 im-
agine 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

46 SARA CREWE; OR,

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 grandmamma, and any number of ser-
vants. 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 crowd-
ing about the nursery windows and looking out and pushing
each 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 Mont-
morencys, when she did not call them the Large Family.
The fat, fair baby with the lace cap was Ethelberta Beau-
champ 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 Mont-
morency ; 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

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 47

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 swing-
ing 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 mas-
ter.

" 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 re-
member 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

48 SARA CREWEj OR,

of surprise and delight. He was waiting for his master to
come out to the carnage, 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 luxuri-
ous chair. The room was richly furnished, and looked de-
lightfully 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 ' suppos-
ing'?"

When she went into the house she met Miss Minchin in
the hall.

'HE WAS WAITING FOR HIS MASTER TO COME OUT TO THE CARRIAGE, AND SARA STOPPED AND

SPOKE A FEW WORDS TO HIM."

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN' S. 5!

" Where have you wasted your time ? " said Miss Min-
chin. " 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 false-
hoods."

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.

52 SARA CREWE; OR,

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 hap-
pened 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

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS M INCHING. 53

and rusty and cold when she left it, but which now was black-
ened 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 / 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 for-
ward.

" 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 deli-
cious. 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

54 SARA CREWEj OR,

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 even-
ing 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

. WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 55

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 hap-
pened. 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

5 6 SARA CREWE; OR,

asleep, beneath the soft white blanket, she dreamed all night
of this magnificent personage, and talked to him in Hindu-
stani, 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 ex-
cited 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 cov-
ered 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

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIJV'S. 57

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 ap-
pear ! 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 con-
tinued. 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

58 SARA CREWE; OR,

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 de-
lightful 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."

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN' S. 59

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."

60 SARA CREWE; OR,

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 magi-
cian 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

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 61

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 ?"

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 sky-
light 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

62 SARA CRElVEj OR,

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

o

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 Las-
car 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 Las-
car had opened the door for her.

" I found your monkey in my room," she said in Hindu-
stani. " I think he got in through the window."

"THE MONKEY SEEMED MUCH INTERESTED IN HER REMARKS.

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 65

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 stones
of Indian gentlemen who, having no constitutions, were ex-
tremely 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.

66 SARA CREWE; OR,

"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 foftd 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 :

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 67

"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 gor-
geous 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 them-
selves 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

68 SARA 'CREWE ; OR,

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, address-
ing 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

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 69

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. Car-
michael, 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. Car-
risford 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

70 SARA CREWE ; OR,

Mr. Carrisford had been very unhappy. He had truly loved
his poor, handsome, generous young friend, and the knowl-
edge 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 con-
nected her with the child of his friend, perhaps because he
was too languid to think much about anything. But the Las-
car 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

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 71

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 Las-
car, 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 in-
valid'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.

72 SARA CREWE; OR.

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 ac-
quaintance 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 un-
kindly ; 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

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 73

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 couldrit 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 hus-
band, 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, in-
deed, 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 pop-
ular than that particular one ; and there was no one of whom
the Large Family were so fond as of Sara. Mr. Carrisford

74 SARA CREWE; OR,

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 magi-
cian, 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

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 75

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 col-
lar. 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 mo-
ment's notice, but that she could help with lessons, and speak
French and German, and discourse with the Lascar in Hindu-
stani.

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

76 SARA CREWE; OR,

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 opin-
ion 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,

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 77

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 In-
dian 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 in-
deed, 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 wrould 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?"

78 SARA CREWE; OR,

" 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 foot-
stool near my knee, and only remember you are a prin-

cess."

" Yes," said Sara, "and I can give buns and bread to the
Populace." And she went and sat on the stool, and the In-
dian 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 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 that sure I remember you, miss," she said. "And
yet- -"

" Yes," said Sara, " once you gave me six buns for four-
pence, and—

"And you gave five of 'em to a beggar-child," said the

HE DREW HER SMALL DARK HEAD DOWN UPON HIS KNEE AND STROKED HER HAIR.

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S. 81

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 work-
ing woman, myself, and can't afford to do much on my own ac-
count, 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."

82 SARA CREWE; OR,

"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 de-
cent, 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 thank-
ful 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. " Per-
haps 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."

WHAT HAPPENED A 7" MISS M INCHING. 83

" 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.

THE END.

FORTY-THIRD THOUSAND.

LITTLE LORD FABNTLEROY^

BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT.

^Beautifully illustrated by R. fB. 'Birch.

One volume, square 8vo, luiiiclsomely bound.,

$2.00

The extraordinary popularity which this story has achieved
is a mystery only to those who have not read it. The author
has presented a picture of child-life such as we have never had
before ; she has not only taken a subject quite new but she
has written with such exquisite delicacy and sweetness the
story of the little American boy's career that even were the
situations old the story would be a notable one. The character
of Fauntleroy is worthy of study : it is, without a suspicion

of the goody-good, the most winning and
lovable that we have among all the boy
heroes in our literature. Of Mr. Birch's
illustrations it need only be sa:d that
artistically they are most admirable, but
what is even of more importance they
illustrate the text in the best sense.

" In l Little Lord Fauntleroy ' we gain another
charming child to add to our gallery of juvenile
heroes and heroines ; one who teaches a great
lesson with such truth and sweetness, that we part
with him with real regret when the episode is
over."— LOUISA M. ALCOTT.

"Nothing could have been more happily con-
ceived than the notion of a little boy, the son of an
English earl's younger son , living with his widowed
American mother in humble circumstances in New
York ; then, by the death of relatives, coming into
the direct succession of the earldom, and carrying
with him to England all the frank simplicity, kind-
ness, and indifference to caste distinctions which
his half-American blood and wholly American
training had implanted in him." — GEORGE PARSONS
LATHROP.

SCRIBNER'S T3OOKS FOT{ THE YOUNG..

THE AMERICAN GIRL'S HANDY BOOK

HOW TO AMUSE YOURSELF AND OTHERS.

BY LINA AND ADELIA B. BEARD.
With nearly 500 Illustrations by the Authors.

One volume, square 8vo,

$3*00.

Full of information upon the thousand and one things that interest every girl, this volume
forms a notable companion to the book for boys by Daniel C. Beard, brother of the present
authors, published last year. Everything that girls want to know about their sports, games, and
winter afternoon and evening work, is told clearly and simply in this helpful and entertaining
volume. Beginning with April Fool's Day, the authors take their readers through the circuit of
the year, dwelling upon the sports, games, etc., appropriate to each season and to all the holidays,
and furnishing welcome instruction regarding the many little accomplishments that girls like to

become proficient in. The volume is fully and
handsomely illustrated from drawings by the
authors, whose designs are in the best sense illus-
trative of the text.

/How to
f/fff Amuse

\ \burself

and
Others

BY

Lina Beard

and
Adelia RBe«

^ Charles
Scribnerts
K, Sons

SUMMARY OF CONTENTS.

First of April — Wild Flowers and Their
Preservation— The Walking Club — Easter-
Egg; Games — How to Make a Lawn -Tennis
Net — May- Day Sports — Midsummer- Eve
Games and Sports— Sea-side Cottage Deco-
ration— A Girl's Fourth of July — An Impres-
sion Album — Picnics, Burgoos, and Corn-
Roasts — Botany as applied to Art — Quiet
Games for Hot Weather— How to Make a
Hammock — Corn-Husk and Flower Dolls —
How to Make Fans— All Hallow Eve— Na-
ture's Fall Decorations and how to Use Them
— Nutting Parties — How to Draw, Paint in
Oil-colors, and Model in Clay and Wax — China
Painting— Christmas Festivities, and Home-
made Christmas Gifts — Amusements and
Games for the Holidays.

FROM THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE.

One of our objects is to impress upon the minds of the girls the fact that they all possess talent and ability to
achieve more than they suppose possible, and we would encourage a belief in the remark made by a famous French-
man : " When you Americans undertake anything you never stop to ascertain if it be possible, you simply do it. "

We desire also to help awaken the inventive faculty, usually uncultivated in girls, and, by giving detailed methods
of new work and amusement, to put them on the road which they can travel and explore alone.

We know well the feeling of hopelessness wh-ch accompanies vague directions, and, to make our explanations
plain and lucid, we have ourselves, with very few exceptions, made all of the articles, played the games, and solved
the problems described.

The materials employed in the construction of the various articles are within easy reach of all, and the outlay, i*
most cases, little or nothing.

SCRIBNER'S 'BOOKS FOT{ THE YOUNG.

LIVING LIGHTS.

A Papular Accnunt of PhnephnrEHCEnt Animala and YeptatilEe.

BY CHARLES F. HOLDER.

WITH

28 full-page Illustrations.

Square 8vo, $2.00.

Mr. Holder gives in this book a
wonderful fund of popular and en-
tertaining facts concerning the mys-
terious light-giving animals and
plants of the sea and land. Most
of his information is fresh, having
been acquired by his personal in-
vestigation and o. servadon, and
the readers of the volume will be
surprised to learn how fascinating
is the story of these strange forms
of life. One is astonished at learn-
ing the number of light-giving fish
of all varieties that live in the sea;
and what could be more interesting
than to follow the discussion as to
the use to which these submarine
lanterns are put by their owners?
Mr. Holder also takes one among
the land insects that hang out their
lamps at nightfall, explaining how
the lights are generated and the pe-
culiar uses to which they are put.
The author writes in a pleasant,
easy style, giving many curious and
instructive anecdotes, based upon
his personal experiences, which
throw additional light upon the
subjects of discussion, and the
book is well supplied with superb
illustrations.

<BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

MARVELS OF ANIMAL LIFE.* THE IVORY KING.

Square 8vo, with 32 full-page Illustrations,
$2.00.

" One of the most remarkable of recent publications.
. . . The kind of book that ought to find its place in
libraries for boys and girls of a thoughtful and inquiring
turn of mind. It not only satisfies a healthful curiosity
but it furnishes a world of substantial information." —
The Christian Union.

A popular history of the elephant and its al-
lies. Square Svo, with 24 full-page Illus-
trations, $2.00.

" The book contains a surprising mass of information,
and the author has woven the whole into a most enter-
taining narrative." — The Chicago Times.

THE ABOYE THREE VOLUMES IN A VOX, $6.00.

SCRIBNER'S T3OOKS

THE YOUNG.

THE MAKING OF THE GREAT WEST.

1512-1853.
BY SAMUEL ADAMS DRAKE.

it]) 145 Illustrations and Maps.

One volume, 12x110,

Mr. Drake's volume is similar in purpose to his other popular work,
" The Making of New England," and like that, presents in a clear and
attractive form, most likely to hold the attention of the young readers
for whom the book was written, as well as to interest adults, suggestive
phases of historical research often overlooked. After discussing in
detail and by topics the original explorations of the Spaniards, the
French, and the English, the author traces the development of America
as a nation by conquest, annexation, and by exploration. The volume
is admirably arranged, is popular in style, and is fully illustrated.

*' The author's aim in these books is that they shall occupy a place between the larger and lesser histories of the
lands and the periods of which they ireat, and that each topic therein shall be treated as a unit, and worked out to a
clear understanding of its objects and results before passing to another topic. In the furtherance of this method each
•object has its own descriptive notes, maps, plans, and illustrations, the whole contributing to a thorough though
condensed knowledge of the subject iu hand." — The New York Mail and Express.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

THE MAKING OF NEW ENGLAND

1580-1643.
Witlo 148 Illustrations and Maps.

One volume, 121110, $1.50.

«»I have read * The Making of New England,' and like it
exceedingly. The matter is well chosen and well arranged.
I particularly like the presentation of the various minor settle-
ments between the coming of the Pilgrims and the great
Massachusetts Emigrati
are almost ignorant. The
and excellent."— FRANCIS

*k The book seems to me admirably adapted for its purpose,
and tells the story of our fathers' migration and settlement
in the most lucid way." — Prof. H. B. ADAMS, Johns Hopkins
University.

iming 01 tne rugrims ana me great
tion — a matter of which many people
"he picture of early colonial life is clear
:is PARKMAN.

FIRST CHURCH OF BOSTON.

SCRIBNER'S 'BOOKS FOT^ THE YOUNG.

A NEW EDITION. ILLUSTRATED.

KIDNAPPED.

Being Memoirs of the Adventures of David Balfour in the year 1751

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

With 1 6 full-page Illustrations.

One volume, 121110,

<l Mr. Stevenson has never appeared
to greater advantage than in ' Kid-
napped.' . . . No better book of its
kind than those 'Memoirs of the Adven-
tures of David Balfour ' has ever been
written." — The Nation.

"The suggestion and comparison
with the immortal works of the author
of 'Waverly,' in scenery, style and char-
acter, is natural, and indeed inevitable.
It is no small praise to say that the
book is meritoriously high even on this
standard."— The Boston Post. ^

" Mr. Stevenson is a master of lan-
guage, and cultivates assiduously those
phrases which are known as idiomatic.
Often blunt and direct of speech, he
imagines every scene, conversation, and
event with such clearness, that he can
so bring it before us as to make it
perfectly real. He rejoices in a train of
exciting incidents, and has no other
object than to follow it out and make
his characters appear as real as the
incidents. Yet there is a daintiness of
touch, a dreamy freedom of invention
in his amiable fabrications which lend
them a charm somewhat more ideal
than that of Defoe." — George Parsons
Lathrop.

A CHILD'S GARDEN OF VERSES.

•One volume, 121110, Gilt Top,

$1.00.

"These verses are simply exquisite. They are the
-child's thought in the child's language, and yet altogether
poetical. We do not know anything in the whole range
of English literature to equal them in their own peculiar
charm. There is a subtle beauty in them which is in-
describable and unequalled." — The Churchman.

"A more exquisite and dainty art than Mr. Steven-
son's has not come to the service of children and their
interpretation."— 7^* Springfield Republican.

"To our thinking, Mr. Stevenson has made a book
which will become a classic in the not overcrowded field
of children's poetry." — The Brooklyn Union.

"A dainty little volume crowded with gems which will
be appreciated by children. Mr. Stevenson has caught
the spirit of childhood, and his little songs are elegant,
graceful, appropriate, and musical."— The Chicago In-
ter-Ocean.

SCRfBNER'S ^BOOKS FOT{ THE YOUNG.

THE BOY'S LIBRARY OF PLUCK AND ACTION.

Kour volumes, i2mo, lit a box, illustrated,
Sold separately, price per volume, -

1.50

A JOLLY FELLOWSHIP.

BY FRANK R. STOCKTON.

HANS BRINKER;
OR, THIS SII/VKR. SKATH

A Story of Life in Holland,
BY MRS. MARY MAPE5 DODGE.

THE

BOY EMIGRANTS.

BY NOAH BROOKS.

PHAETON ROGERS.

BY ROSSITER JOHNSON.

In the " Boy's Library of Pluck and Action," the design was to bring together the repre-
sentative and most popular books of four of the best known writers for young people. The
volumes are beautifully illustrated and uniformly bound in a most attractive form.

ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY OF TRAVEL

BY BAYARD TAYLOR.

I"er set, six volumes, 121110, $6.00. Each with many illustrations.

Sold separately, per volume, - - $1.25.

JAPAN IN OUR DAY.
TRAVELS IN ARABIA.
TRAVELS IN SOUTH AFRICA.
CENTRAL ASIA.
THE LAKE REGION OF CENTRAL

AFRICA.
SIAM, THE LAND OF THE WHITE

ELEPHANT.

Each volume is complete in itself, and
contains, first, a brief preliminaiy sketch of
the country to which it is devoted ; next, such
an outline of previous explorations as maybe
necessary to explain what has been achieved1
by later ones ; and finally, a condensation of
one or more of the most important narratives of recent travel, accompanied with illustrations of
the scenery, architecture, and life of the races, drawn only from the most authentic sources.

44 Authenticated accounts of countries, peoples, modes of living and being, curiosities in natural history, and
personal adventure in travels and explorations, suggest a rich fund of solid instruction combined with delightful
entertainment. The editorship by one of the most observant and well-travelled men of modern times, at once secures,
the high character of the ' Library ' in every particular,"— The Sunday School Times.

SCRIBNER'S 'BOOKS FOT^ THE YOUNG.

A NEW AND CHEAPER EDITION IN THREE PARTS.

JULES VERNE'S GREATEST WORK.

" THE EXPLORATION OF THE WORLD."

" M. Verne's scheme in this work is to tell fully how man has made
acquaintance with the world in which he lives, to combine into a single
work in three volumes the wonderful stories of all the great explorers,
navigators, and travellers, who have sought out, one after another, the
once uttermost parts of the earth." — The New York Evening Post.

The three vols. in a set, $7.50 ;

, $2.50.

FAMOUS TRAVELS AND TRAVELLERS.

With over 100 full-page Illustrations, Maps, etc., 8vo, $2.50

THE GREAT NAVIGATORS OF THE XVIIITH CENTURY.

With 96 full-page Illustrations and Nineteen Maps,8vo, $2.50

THE GREAT EXPLORERS OF THE XIXTH CENTURY,

With over TOO full-page Illus'ns, Fac-similes, etc., 8vo, $2.50

" The Prince of Story Tellers."— THE LONDON TIMES.

JULES VERNE'S STORIES.

UNIFORM ILLUSTRATED EDITION.

9 vols., 8vo, extra cloth, -with over 750 full-page Illustrations.

•rice, per set, in a box, $17.50.

Sold also in separate volumes.

Michael Strogoff ; or, The Courier of
the Czar $2.00

A Floating City and the Blockade
Runners 2.00

Hector Servadac 2.00

Dick Sands 2.00

From the Earth to the Moon Direct
in Ninety-seven Hours, Twenty
Minutes ; and a Journey Around

it $2.00

The Steam House 2.00

The Giant Raft 2.00

A Journey to the Centre of the Earth. 200 I The Mysterious Island 2.50

SCR/BNER'S 'BOOKS FOT{ THE YOUNG.

TKE MERRY
ADVENTURES OF R0BIN HOOB.

Of Great Renown in Nottinghamshire.

WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED BY

HOWARD PYLE.

One volume, quarto, full embossed leather, $4.50 ; cloth,

$3.00.

In this book, undoubtedly the most original and elaborate ever produced by an American
artist, Mr. Pyle has gathered Irom the old ballads and legends, and told with pencil and pen, the
complete and consecutive story of Robin Hood and his merry men in their haunts in Sherwood
forest. There is something thoroughly English and home-bred in these episodes in the life of
the bold outlaw. His sunny, open-air nature, his matchless skill at archery, his generous dispo-
sition, his love of fair play, and his ever-present courtesy to women, form a picture that has no
counterpart in the folk-lore of any other people.

Mr. Pyle has taken the most characteristic of these old ballads, and has turned them into
his own fresh, simple, idiomatic prose, and has illustrated them as no other man in America
could have done." — New York Mail "*4 Express.

SCRiBNER'S -BOOKS FOT{ THE YOUNG.

A NEW EDITION AT REDUCED PRICE.

THE

AMERICAN Boys HANBY BeoK

OR, WHAT TO DO AND HOW TO DO IT.

BY DANIEL C. BEARD.

One volume, octavo, fully Illustrated by the Author,

$2.00.

Mr, Beard's book is the first to tell the active, inventive and practical American boy the things
he really wants to know; the thousand things he wants to do, and the ten thousand ways in
which he can do them, with the helps and ingenious contrivances which every boy can either
procure or make. The author divides the book among the sports of the four seasons ; and he
has made an almost exhaustive collection of the cleverest modern devices, besides himself
inventing an immense number of capital and practical ideas.

SUMMARY OF CONTENTS.

Kite Time— War Kites— Novel Modes of
Fishing— Home-made Fishing Tackle— How
to Stock, Make and Keep a Fresh-Water
Aquarium— How to Stock and Keep a Ma-
rine Aquarium — Knots, Bends and Hitches —
Dredge, Tangle and Trawl Fishing— Home-
made Boats— How to Rig and Sail Small
Boats— How to Camp Out Without a Tent

— How to Rear Wild Birds — Home-made
Hunting Apparatus — Traps and Trapping —
Dogs — Practical Taxidermy for Boys —
Snow Houses and Statuary — Winged Skaters

— Winter Fishing — Indoor Amusements —
How to Make a Magic Lantern— Puppet
Shows — Home-made Masquerade and The-
atrical Costumes — With many other subjects
of a kindred nature.

" It is the memory of the longing that used to possess myself and my boy friends of a few years ago for a real
practical American boy's book that has induced me to offer this volume. Of course such a book cannot, in the nature
of things, be exhaustive, nor is it, indeed, desirable that it should be. Its use and principal purpose are to stimulate
the inventive faculties in boys, to bring them face to face with practical emergencies when no book can supply the
place of their own common sense and the exercise of personal intelligence and ingenuity." — From the Author's
Preface.

" Each particular department is minutely illustrated, and the whole is a complete treasury, invaluable not only
to the boys themselves, but to parents and guardians who have at heart their happiness and healthful development
of mind and muscle." — Pittsburgh Telegraph.

'^The boy_who has learned to play all the games and make all the toys of which it teaches, has unconsciously
exercised the inventive faculty that is in him, has acquired skill with his hands, and has become a good mechanic
and an embryo inventor without knowing it."— Milwaukee Evening Wisconsin.

SCRIBNER'S 'BOOKS FOT^ THE YOUNG.

A STORY OF THE GOLDEN AGE

BY JAMES BALDWIN.

With a Series of Superb Full-page Illustrations by
Howard Pyle.

One volume, square 121110, $2.00.

In this book the author turns from the Northern myths and Me-
diaeval romances which engaged his attention, respectively, in "The
Story of Siegfried" and "The Story of Roland," and seeks to interest
young people in the Homeric poems by weaving into a continuous
narrative the legends relating to the causes of the Trojan War. Thus
the romantic and stirring events which led to that War are set forth in
a form most attractive to young people, and of no little interest to
their elders as well. Mr. Pyle's illustrations are of extraordinary
beauty, revealing grace, spirit, and vigor in the drawing and being'
in perfect harmony with the antique flavor of the story.

THE STORY OF SIEGFRIED.

BY JAMES BALDWIN.
Witb a Series of Illustrations by Howard Pyle.

One volume, square i2mo, $2.00.

"To wise parents who strive, as all parents should do, to regulate and supervise
their children's reading, this book is most earnestly commended. Would there were
more of its type and excellence. It has our most hearty approval and recommendation
in every way, not only for beauty of illustration, which is of the highest order, but
for the fascinating manner in which the old Norse legend is told." — The Churchman.

" No more delightful reading for the young can be imagined than that provided
in this interesting book." — The Boston Saturday Evening Gazette.

THE STORY OF ROLAND,

BY JAMES BALDWIN.
Witb a Series of Illustrations by R. B. Birch.

One volume, square 121110, $2.00.

'* Mr. Baldwin enjoys his task and puts it before his readers so crisply and
vividly that his boys' book is good meat for men.'*— The New York Times.

" The story is told in the simple language of the old legends and will be read
with keen interest by youth who enjoy the romance of history without its wearisome
details. There is no modern language in which the exploits of Charlemagne and
Roland have not been told. Prof. Baldwin here presents them for the first time to
our American youth in a form which is sure to entertain and instruct his readers."
— The Boston Herald.

THE ABOVE THREE VOLUMES IN A BOX. $6.00-

SCR/BNERS 'BOOKS FO*R_ THE YOUNG.

THE MODERN VIKINGS. '

STORIES OF LIFE AND SPORT IN THE NORSELAND.

BY HJALMAR H. BOYESEN.
Wifb many full-page Illustrations.

One Volume, 121110,
$2.00.

Every boy who enjoys
reading stories of adventure
and of hair-breadth escapes
from all kinds of perils on
sea and land will want to
possess a copy of this book,
in which Professor Boyesen
has pictured some of the
novel and exciting incidents
in boys' lives in Norway,
Iceland, and other regions
of the Norseland. The
cold, invigorating air of the
North blows through these
pages, but warm, red blood
runs in the veins of the
brave lads who are the he-
roes of the tales. Whether
they are beset by wolves,
are suspended by a single
strand of rope 'twixt sky
and sea, are buried beneath
the snow with starvation
staring at them, are fishing
for salmon with a tame
otter, or are wrecked on a
rocky coast, the boys will
be sure to follow their fort-
unes with zest and the
keenest pleasure. The vigor
and the spirit of the narra-
tives are happily matched
by similar qualities in the
numerous full- page illustra-
tions in the book.

BETWEEN 8EA AND SKY.

CONTENTS:

Tharald's Otter— Between Sea and Sky— Mikkel— The Famine Among the Gnomes— How Bernt
Went Whaling— The Cooper and the Wolves— Magnie's Dangerous Ride— Thorwald and the Star
Children— Big Hans and Little Hans— A New Winter Sport— The Skerry of Shrieks— Fiddle -John's
Family.

SCRIBNER'S HOOKS FOT^ THE YOUNG.

CHILDREN'S STORIES OF AMERICAN PROGRESS.

BY HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT.

With twelve full-page Illustrations front Drawings by J. Steeple Davis.
One volume, lamo, ...... ..... $1.50.

Miss Wright
in dealing with
the remote and
partially legend-
ary episodes of
the earlier his-
tory of our coun-
try in her Chil-
dren's Stories in
American His-
tory displayed a
remarkable tal-
ent for vivid and
picturesque nar-
ration, which in-
sures for her n - w
volume a cordial
reception.

" The Stories
of A m eric an
Progresscontnin
a series of pic-
tures of events
of the first half
of the present
century, and the
scope of the book
comprehends all
the prominent
steps by which
we have reached
our present

position both as regards extent of country and industrial prosperity. They include an account of the first Steam-
boat, the Railroad, and the Telegraph, as well as of the purchase of Florida, the War of 1812, and the discovery
of Gold. It will be found that no event of importance has been omitted and any child fond of story telling will
gain from these two books an amount of knowledge which may far exceed that which is usually acquired from the
rigid instruction of the School-room."

CHILDREN'S STORIES IN AMERICAN HISTORY.

BY HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT.

With twelve full-page Illustrations from Drawings by J. Steeple Davis.
One volume, izmo,

$1.50.

" To the teacher or parent endeavoring to convey to her pupil's understanding the fact that there is some-
thing worth remembering about America before the battle of Bunker Hill, the Children's Stories will prove a
boon. Sketches of the Mound Builders, of De Soto,of Columbus, Cortes, Pocahontas and Pizarro, so clearly and
charmingly told as these, will surely rivet the attention of a little leader even when there is a book of fairy tales
to follow." — Mrs. Burton Harrison.

SCRIBNER'S 'BOOKS FO1{ THE YOUNG.

THE B9Y'S
LIBRARY OF L2E6ENB & GHIVALRY

EDITED BY SIDNEY LANIER,
And Richly Illustrated by Fredericks, Bensell, and Kappes.

Four volumes, cloth, uniform binding, price, per set,
Sold separately, price, per volume,

Mr. Lanier's books, in which he presents to boy
readers the old English classics of history and
legend in such attractive form, are now issued in
four uniform volumes, well made and well illus-
trated. While they are stories of action and stir-
ring incident, which make them extremely exciting,
they teach those lessons which manly, honest boys
ought to learn. The oath of the young fourteenth
century knight made him vow to speak the truth,
to perform a promise to the utmost, to reverence
all women, to maintain right and honesty, to help
the weak, to treat high and low with courtesy, to be
fair to a bitter foe, and to pursue simplicity, mod
esty and gentleness of heart and bearing; and the
nineteenth century knight is he who takes the same
oath of fidelity to truth, honesty and purity of
heart. The illustrations are full of fire and spirit,
and add very much to one's enjoyment of the book.

$7.00.
$2.00.

THE BOY'S KING ARTHUR.

BEING SIR THOMAS MALLORY'S HISTORY OF KING ARTHUR
AND His KNIQHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE.

THE BOY'S FROISSART.

BEING SIR JOHN FROISSART'S CHRONICLES OF ADVENTURE,
BATTLE, AND CUSTOM IN ENGLAND, FRANCE, SPAIN, ETC.

THE BOY'S PERCY.

THE

KNIGHTLY LEGENDS OF WALES;
OR, THE BOY'S MABINOGION.

"Amid all the strange and fanciful scenery of these stories, character and the ideals of character remain at the
simplest and purest. The romantic h'story transpires in the healthy atmosphere of the open air on the green earth
beneath the open sky. * * * The figures of Right, Truth, Justice, Hono^ Purity, Courage Reverence for Law,
are always in the background ; and the grand passion inspired by the book is for strength to do well and nobly IB
the world." — The Independent.

"It is quite the beau ideal of a book for a present to an intelligent boy or girl."— Baltimore Gagettt.

SCR/BtfER'S 'BOOKS

THE YOUNG.

STOCKTON'S P0PBI2AR ST0RIES

"Stockton has the knack, perhaps genius would be a better word, of writing in the easiest of
colloquial English without descending to the plane of the vulgar or common-place. The very
perfection of his "work hinders the reader from perceiving at once how good of its kind it is. *

With the added charm of a most delicate humor — a real humor, mellow ', tender, and informed by
a singularly quaint and racy fancy — his stories become irresistibly attractive." — PHILADELPHIA

TIMES.

THE STORY OF VITEAU.

With sixteen full-page illustrations by R. B. Birch.
One volume, 1 2mo, extra cloth, - $1.50.

A JOLLY FELLOWSHIP.

One volume, I2mo, illustrated, extra cloth,

$1.50.

NEW EDITIONS OF OLD FA VORITES.

THE FLOATING PRINCE,

AND OTHER FAIRY TALES.

With illustrations by Bensell and others. One volume,
quarto, boards. Price reduced to - - $1.50.

ROUNDABOUT RAMBLES IN LANDS OF
FACT AND FICTION.

One volume, quarto, boards, with very attractive litho-
graphed cover, 370 pages, 200 illustrations. A new
edition. Price reduced from $3.00 to - $1.50.

1 TALES OUT OF SCHOOL.

One volume, quarto, boards, with hand-
some lithographed cover, 350 pages,
nearly 200 i llustrations. A new edition.
Price reduced from $3.00 to $1.50.

THE TING-A-LING TALES.

Illustrated by E. Bensell.
One volume, I2mo, - $1.00

SCRIBNER'S ^BOOKS FOT^ THE YOUNG.

Twe JavcNiLES -BV EBV ARD Esei2EsT0N

THE HOOS1ER SCHOOL-BOY.

one Volume, 121110. Witli full-page illustrations, -

$1.00,

•ill

P.2

m

" NOT THERE, NOT THERE, MY CHILD ! "

^ Mr. Eggleston is one of the very few American writers who have succeeded in giving to
their work a genuine savor of the soil, a distinctively American Character. The scene of his
stories is the Western Reserve , and the characters are types of the early part of this century, in
the territory now comprised in Indiana and Ohio. The Hoosier School-boy depicts some charac-
teristics of boy life, years ago, on the Ohio, characteristics, however, that were not peculiar to the
section only. The story presents a vivid and interesting picture of the difficulties which in those
days beset the path of the youth aspiring for an education.

"Nobody has pictured boy-life with greater power or more fidelity than Mr. Eggleston. This story is one of his
best— it should be in the hands of every boy."— Hartford Times.

QUEER STORIES FOR BOYS AND GIRLS.

One volume, 121110, ...-.---~. $x.oo.

This is a book of such stories as all boys and girls like to tell and to hear, and yet they
contain as much wisdom and as many lessons of good conduct, of noble bearing and of self-
respecting independence, as might be contained in volumes of sermons and reams of "good
advice," that would not penetrate skin deep nor remain five minutes in the memory of the young
people who were aimed at.

SCRIBNER'S 'BOOKS FOT^ THE YOUNG.

WHITE COCKADES,

AN INCIDENT OF THE "FORT Y-F I VE."

BY EDWARD IREN>EUS STEVENSON.

One volume, 1-21110,

. 00.

A Scotch story of the Second Rebellion of the Jacobites, replete
with exciting incidents, and told in a manner remarkable for its
freshness and vigor. A refugee, who is supposed to be a young Jaco-
bite nobleman, but who turns out to be something very different, is
the hero of some strange adventures in the house of an honest Highland
Jacobite, where he has secured shelter from his pursuers. A vivid and
faithful picture is given of the conflicts between the King's soldiers
and the rebell ous Highlanders, which, with the narrow escape of the
disguised refugee, and other stirring incidents, make up a tale that
every boy will heartily enjoy. One is carried irresistibly to the con-
clusion of the romance by the art of the author, the nervous energy of
whose narrative is in the happiest accord with the rapid action an*'
dramatic arrangement of the story.

A SN£W ^ND CHEAPER EDITION.

MY KALULU.

Prince, King, and Slave. A Story of Central Africa.

BY HENRY M. STANLEY.

One volume, 1 21110, -with many Illustrations, $1.50.

Mr. Stanley's African romance for boys is based upon knowledge
acquired during his journey in search of Dr. Livingstone, which began
in 1871 and ended in 1872. It is a fascinating story of strange scenes,
incidents, and adventures among the tribes of Central Africa, and of
encounters with the wild animals that make their home there. One feat-
ure of the book is its vivid description of the evils of the Slave trade.
The popularity of the story was great, and as it has been out of print,
the publishers have issued a new and cheaper edition, which will no
doubt meet with the same hearty reception accorded to the first.

41 A fresh, breezy, stirring story for youths, interesting in itself and^ full of information regarding life
interior of the continent in which its scenes are laid." — 1"

The New York Times.

the

" If the young reader is fond of strange adventures, he will find enough in this volume to delight him all winter,
and he will be hard to please who is not charmed by its graphic pages."— The Boston Journal.

.2

L.S8
I 888 J»