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 I 
 Burnett 
 
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 Sara Crei ONLY, and is subject to a fine of FIVE 
 
 CENTS a day thereafter. It was taken out on 
 
 the day indicated below: 
 
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 Lib. lOM-Fe '38 
 
SARA CREWE 
 
 LITTLE SAINT ELIZABETH 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
Mrs. BURNETT'S FAMOUS JUVENILES 
 
 LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY 
 
 SARA CREWE, LITTLE SAINT ELIZABETH, and 
 Other Stories 
 
 GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER 
 
 PICCINO, and Other Child Stories 
 
 TWO LITTLE PILGRIMS' PROGRESS. A Story «f 
 the City Beautiful 
 
 LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY. Illustrated in color 
 A LITTLE PRINCESS. Illustrated in color 
 THE ONE I KNEW THE BEST OF ALL 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2012 with funding from 
 
 University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/saracrewelittlesburnett 
 
" SHE LAID HER DOLL, EMILY, ACROSS HER KNEES, AND PUT HER FACE 
 DOWN UPOX HER, AND HER ARMS AROUND HER, AND SAT THERE, 
 NOT SAYING ONE WORD, NOT MAKING ONE SOUND."' 
 
SARA CREWE 
 
 LITTLE SAINT ELIZABETH 
 
 Bnt> ©tber Stortes 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT 
 
 NEW YORK 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 1923 
 
Copybight, 1888, 1890, 1897, b» 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Copyright, 1916, 1918, by 
 FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT 
 
 [All rights reserved] 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
r-4 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Sara Crewe, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 / 
 
 Z.////«? Stf/tf/ Elizabeth, #5 
 
 Tfo Story of Prince Fairy foot, . . . » 137 
 
 The Proud Little Grain of Wheat, . . . 187 
 
 Behtnd the White Brick, . ., . . . 2li 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 FROM DRA WINGS BY REGINALD B. BIRCH 
 
 PAGE 
 
 " 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 slmvly advanced into the parlor, clutching her 
 
 doll" it 
 
 '■' Eat it" said Sara, " and you will not be so hungry," . jq 
 
 " He was waiting for his Master to come out to the car- 
 riage, and Sara stopped and spoke a few words to 
 him" ......... 4? 
 
 " The monkey seemed much interested in her remarks" . 61 
 
 " He drew her small, dark head down upon his knee and 
 
 stroked her hair," Si 
 
 " There she is," they would cry, 8g 
 
 It was Aunt Clotilde, who had sunk forward while 
 
 kneeling at prayer, ...... 0jr 
 
x List of Illustrations 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Villagers did not stand in awe of her, . . . joj 
 
 " Uncle Bertrand," said the child, clasping her hands, . ioq 
 
 "Why is it that you cry?" she asked gently, . . . 123 
 
 Her strength deserted her — she fell upon her knees in the 
 
 snow, . iji 
 
 " Why," exclaimed Fairy foot, " I'm surprised," . . 14.7 
 
 " What's the matter with the swine? " he asked, . . ijp 
 
 Almost immediately they found themselves in a beautiful 
 
 little dell, 163 
 
 Fairyfoot loved her in a moment, and he knelt on one 
 
 knee, 181 
 
 * There's the cake" he said, 207 
 
 "Eh! Eh!" he said. " What! What! Who's this 
 
 Tootsicums ?" 9SJ 
 
SARA CREWE 
 
 OR 
 WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHISTS 
 
SARA CREWE 
 
 OR 
 
 WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHlN'h 
 
 IN the first place, Miss Minchin lived in Lon. 
 don. 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 Min- 
 chin'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 without reading that door-plate and re« 
 fleeting upon it. By the time she was twelve, she 
 
4 Sara Crewe; or, 
 
 had decided that all her trouble arose because, in 
 the first place, she was not " Select," and in 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 delicate, he had brought her to England and 
 left her with Miss Minchin, to be part of the Se- 
 lect 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 estab- 
 lishment spoken of very highly. The same day, 
 he took Sara out and bought her a great many 
 beautiful 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 everything 
 the most fortunate little girl could have ; and so, 
 
What Happened at Miss Mine kin's 5 
 
 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 wardrobe. 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-fash- 
 ioned 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 Min- 
 chin, who was smooth and dumpy, and lisped, and 
 was evidently afraid of her older sister. Miss 
 
Sara Crewe; or 
 
 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 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 to- 
 gether again. 
 
 But about the middle of the third year a letter 
 
What Happened at Miss Mine kin s J 
 
 came bringing 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 ex- 
 actly 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, 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 queerest lit- 
 tle 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, in- 
 teresting 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 
 
£ Sara Crewe', or 
 
 said once, after staring at herself in the giass 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 advanced 
 into the parlor, clutching her doll. 
 
 " Put your doll down ! " said Miss Minchin. 
 
 " No," said the child, " I won't put her down ; 
 I want her with me. She is all 1 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 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 pos- 
 sible. 
 
 "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;. 
 
What Happened at Miss Mine kins 9 
 
 " 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 calm- 
 ness. 
 
 " Now listen to me," she went on, " and re- 
 member what I say. If you work hard and pre- 
 pare to make yourself useful in a few years, 1 
 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 
 
io Sara Crewe* or, 
 
 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 Minchin could not 
 speak French at all, and, indeed, was not in the 
 least a clever person. But she was a hard, grasp- 
 ing business woman ; and, after the first shock of 
 disappointment, had seen that at very little ex- 
 pense to herself she might prepare this clever, 
 determined child to be very useful to her and 
 save her the necessity of paying large salaries to 
 teachers of languages. 
 
 " Don't be impudent, or you will be punished," 
 she said. " You will have to improve your man. 
 ners if you expect to earn your bread. You are 
 not a parlor boarder now. Remember 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 seen again in her face, and she seemed 
 to be trying to control it. 
 
 " What for ? " she said. 
 
 " For my kindness to you," replied Miss Min- 
 chin. " For my kindness in giving you a home/ 
 
'SHE SLOWLY ADVANCED INTO THE PARLOR, CLUTCHING HER DOLL." 
 
What Happened at Miss Minchiris 13 
 
 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 bed- 
 room, 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 but an ob- 
 long piece of dull gray sky, there was a battered 
 old red footstool. 
 
 Sara went to it and sat down. She was a queer 
 
14 Sara Crewe / or 
 
 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. Some- 
 times 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 with- 
 out being taught; she was sent on errands by 
 Miss Minchin, Miss Amelia and the cook. No- 
 body 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 prac- 
 tise at night. She had never been intimate 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 people, accus- 
 tomed to being rich and comfortable ; and Sara, 
 with her elfish cleverness, her desolate life, and 
 her odd habit of fixing her eyes upon them and 
 
What Happened at Miss Mine kins 15 
 
 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 mak- 
 ing 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 inter- 
 fered 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 bed- 
 stead 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 some- 
 thing ? 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 
 
1 6 Sara Crewe; or 
 
 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. 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 pre- 
 tend 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 wain- 
 scot. 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 im- 
 agination ; 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 believed 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, " 1 don't 
 answer very often. I never answer when I can 
 
What Happened at Miss Mine kins 17 
 
 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 Minchin 
 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 they hadn't 
 said afterward. There's nothing so strong as 
 rage, except what makes you hold it in — that's 
 stronger. It's a good thing not to answer your 
 enemies, I scarcely ever do. Perhaps Emily is 
 more like me than I am like myself. Perhaps she 
 would rather not answer her friends, even. She 
 keeps it all in her heart." 
 
 But though she tried to satisfy herself with 
 these arguments, 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 fcarsh 
 words and cold, slighting looks for thanks ; when 
 the cook had been vulgar and insolent ; when 
 Miss Minchin had been in hex worst moods, and 
 s 
 
1 8 Sara Crewe; or 
 
 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. 
 
 " I shall die presently ! " she said at first. 
 
 Emily stared. 
 
 " I can't bear this! " said the poor child, trem- 
 bling. " I know I shall die. I'm cold, I'm wet, I'm 
 starving to death. I've walked a thousand miles 
 to-day, and they have done nothing but scold me 
 from morning until night. And because I could 
 not find 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 ! " 
 
 She looked at the staring glass eyes and com- 
 placent wax face, and suddenly a sort of heart- 
 broken rage seized her. She lifted her little sav- 
 age hand and knocked Emily off the chair, burst- 
 ing into a passion of sobbing. 
 
 a You are nothing but a doll ! " she cried 
 
What Happened at Miss Mine kins 19 
 
 "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 igno- 
 miniously 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 her around the side of one ankle, and 
 actually with a kind of glassy-eyed sympathy. 
 Sara bent and picked her up. Remorse over- 
 took her. 
 
 " You can't help being a doll," she said, with a 
 resigned sigh, " any more than those girls down- 
 stairs 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 
 remarkable for being brilliant ; they were select, 
 but some of them were very dull, and some of 
 them were fond of applying themselves to their 
 lessons. Sara, who snatched her lessons at all 
 sorts of untimely hours from tattered and dis- 
 carded books, and who had a hungry craving 
 
20 Sara Crewe j or 
 
 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 coro- 
 nets ; and Sara often did parts of this maid's 
 work so that she might earn the privilege of read- 
 ing these romantic histories. There was also a 
 fat, dull pupil, whose name was Ermengarde St. 
 John, who wa^ one of her resources. Ermen- 
 garde had an intellectual father, who, in his de- 
 spairing 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, 
 
What Happened at Miss Mine kins 2\ 
 
 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 me 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 re- 
 member ; 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 sud- 
 den 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 every- 
 thing that's in them afterward, 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 
 
22 Sara Crewe ; or 
 
 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 remember, 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 real- 
 ly began to beat fast. 
 
 " I won't do it," she said rather slowly, " if you 
 are going 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 Ermen- 
 garde. 
 
 " He wants you to know what is in them," said 
 Sara ; " and if I can tell it to you in an easy way 
 
What Happened at Miss Minchiris 23 
 
 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 any- 
 thing 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 to 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 interesting. 
 Her imagination helped her to make everything 
 rather like a story, and she managed this matter 
 so well that Miss St. John gained more informa- 
 tion 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 Ermengarde used to sit and re- 
 gard her dramatic gesticulations, her thin little 
 flushed cheeks, and her shining, odd eyes with 
 amazement. 
 
 " It sounds nicer than it seems in the book," she 
 
*4 Sara Crewe ; or 
 
 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. Notwith- 
 standing 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 
 
What Happened at Miss Minchiris 25 
 
 as possible. So she would be as polite as she 
 could to people who in the least deserved polite- 
 ness. 
 
 " 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 in- 
 terested, particularly one to whom the simplest 
 lesson was a trouble and a woe. 
 
 " Do you like me ? " 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- — " 
 
26 Sara Crewe / or 
 
 She pulled herself up quickly. She had oeen 
 going- to say, " that you are stupid." 
 
 " That what ? " asked Ermengarde. 
 
 " That you can't learn things quickly. If you 
 can't, you can't. If I can, why, I can — that's all." 
 She paused a minute, 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 detesta- 
 ble 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 compan- 
 ion's countenance. 
 
 " Do you remember about him ?" she demand- 
 ed. " I believe you've forgotten." 
 
 " Well, I don't remember all of it," admitted 
 Ermengarde. 
 
 " Well," said Sara, with courage and determi- 
 nation, " I'll tell it to you over again." 
 
 And she plunged once more into the gory rec- 
 ords 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 blank- 
 
What Happened at Miss Minchiris 27 
 
 ets when she did go, and shivered until she fell 
 asleep. But afterward she preserved lively rec- 
 ollections 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 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 howl- 
 ing." 
 
 Yes, it was true ; to this imaginative child 
 everything was a story; and the more books she 
 read, the more imaginative 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 grate, wide steel grate 
 here, and a great glowing fire — a glowing fire — 
 with beds of red-hot coal and lots of little danc- 
 ing, 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 
 
28 Sara Crewe; or 
 
 changed by magic as soon as you had read them ; 
 and suppose 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 an- 
 other a roast chicken, and in another some rasp- 
 berry-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 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 blank- 
 ets ! " And she almost forgot that her real pil- 
 lows 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 princess, and then she would go about the house 
 with an expression on her face which was a source 
 of great secret annoyance to Miss Minchin, be- 
 cause 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. Some. 
 
What Happened at Miss Minchiris ?g 
 
 times, while she was hi the midst of some harsh 
 and cruel speech, Miss Minchin would find the 
 ociJ, unchildish eyes fixed upon her with some- 
 thing 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 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, 
 
30 Sara Crewe j or 
 
 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, 
 °jid then broke into a laugh. 
 
 •' What are you laughing at, you bold, impu- 
 dent child ! " exclaimed Miss Minchin. 
 
 It took Sara a few seconds to remember she was 
 a princess. Her cheeks were red and smarting 
 from the blows she had received. 
 
 " I was thinking," she said. 
 
 " Beg my pardon immediately," said Miss Min- 
 chin. 
 
 " 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 
 
What Happened at Miss Mine kins 31 
 
 girls looked up from their books to listen. It al 
 ways 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 leaot frightened now, though her 
 boxed ears were scarlet, and her eyes were as 
 bright as stars. 
 
 " 1 was thinking," she answered gravely and 
 quite politely, " that you did not know what you 
 were doing." 
 
 " That I did not know what I was doing ! " Miss 
 Minchin fairly gasped. 
 
 " Yes," said Sara, " and I was thinking what 
 would happen, if I were a princess and you boxed 
 my ears — what I should do to you. And I was 
 thinking that if I were one, you would never dare 
 to do it, whatever I said or did. And I was think- 
 ing how surprised and frightened you would be 
 if you suddenly found out -" 
 
 She had the imagined picture so clearly be- 
 fore her eyes, that she spoke in a manner which 
 had an effect even on Miss Minchin. It almost 
 seemed for the moment to her narrow, unimag- 
 inative 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 breath- 
 
32 Sara Crewe; or 
 
 lessly, " this instant. Leave the school - room. 
 Attend to your lessons, young ladies." 
 
 Sara made a little bow. 
 
 " Excuse me for laughing, if it was impolite," 
 she said, and walked out of the room, leaving 
 Miss Minchin in a rage and the girls whispering 
 over their books. 
 
 " I shouldn't be at all surprised if she did turn 
 out to be something," said one of them. " Sup- 
 pose she should ! " 
 
 That very afternoon Sara had an opportunity 
 of proving to herself whether she was really a 
 princess or not. It was a dreadful afternoon. 
 For several days it had rained continuously, the 
 streets were chilly and sloppy ; there was mud 
 everywhere — sticky London mud — and over 
 everything a pall of fog and drizzle. Of course 
 there were several long and tiresome errands to 
 be done, — there always were on days like this, — 
 and Sara was sent out again and again, until her 
 shabby clothes were damp through. The absurd 
 old feathers on her forlorn hat were more drag- 
 gled and absurd than ever, and her down-trodden 
 shoes were so wet they could not hold any more 
 water. Added to this, she had been deprived of 
 her dinner, because Miss Minchin wished to pun- 
 ish her. She was very hungry. She was so cold 
 and hungry and tired that her little ^ce had a 
 
What Happened at Miss Mine kin s 33 
 
 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 withouf 
 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 
 3 
 
34 Sara Crewe; or 
 
 upon by many feet, but still with spirit enough to 
 shine a little. Not quite a sixpence, but the next 
 thing to it — a four-penny piece ! In one second it 
 was in her cold, little red and blue hand. 
 
 " Oh ! " she gasped. " It is true ! " 
 
 And then, if you will believe me, she looked 
 straight before her at the shop directly facing 
 her. And it was a baker's, and a cheerful, stout, 
 motherly woman, with rosy cheeks, was just put- 
 ting 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 de- 
 lightful 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 ly- 
 ing in the mud for some time, and its owner was 
 completely lost in the streams of passing people 
 who crowded and jostled each other all through 
 the day. 
 
 " But I'll go and ask the baker's woman if she 
 has lost a piece of money," she said to herself, 
 rather faintly. 
 
 So she crossed the pavement and put her wet 
 foot on the step of the shop ; and as she did so 
 she saw something which made her stop. 
 
 It was a little figure more forlorn than her own 
 — a little figure which was not much more than a 
 
What Happened at Miss Minchiris 35 
 
 bundle of rags, from which small, bare, red and 
 muddy feet peeped out — only because the rags 
 with which the wearer was trying to cover them 
 were not long enough. Above the rags appeared 
 a shock head of tangled hair and a dirty face, 
 with big, hollow, hungry eyes. 
 
 Sara knew they were hungry eyes the moment 
 she saw them, and she felt a sudden sympathy. 
 
 " This," she said to herself, with a little sigh, 
 "is one of the Populace — and she is hungrier 
 than I am." 
 
 The child — this " one of the Populace " — stared 
 up at Sara, and shuffled herself aside a little, so 
 as to give her more room. She was used to be- 
 ing made to give room to everybody. She knew 
 that if a policeman chanced to see her, he would 
 tell her to " move on." 
 
 Sara clutched her little four-penny piece, and 
 hesitated a few seconds. Then she spoke to her. 
 
 " Are you hungry ? " she asked. 
 
 The child shuffled herself and her rags a little 
 more. 
 
 " Ain't I jist ! " she said, in a hoarse voice. 
 " Jist ain't I ! " . 
 
 " Haven't you had any dinner ? " said Sara. 
 
 " No dinner," more hoarsely still and with more 
 shuffling, " nor yet no bre'fast — nor yet no supper 
 — nor nothin'." 
 
 " Since when ? " asked Sara. 
 
35 Sara Crewe / or 
 
 " Dun'no. Never got nothin' to-day— nowhere 
 I've axed and axed." 
 
 Just to look at her made Sara more hungry and 
 faint. But those queer little thoughts were at 
 work in her brain, and she was talking to herself 
 though she was sick at heart. 
 
 " If I'm a princess," she was saying — "if I'm a 
 princess — ! When they were poor and driven 
 from their thrones — they always shared — with the 
 Populace — if they met one poorer and hungrier. 
 They always shared. Buns are a penny each. 
 If it had been sixpence ! I could have eaten six. 
 It won't be enough for either of us — but it will 
 be better than nothing." 
 
 " Wait a minute," she said to the beggar-child. 
 She went into the shop. It was warm and smelled 
 delightfully. The woman was just going to put 
 more hot buns in the window. 
 
 " If you please," said Sara, " have you lost four- 
 pence — 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 in- 
 tense 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." 
 
What Happened at Miss Mine kin s 2>7 
 
 " 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." 
 
 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 hun- 
 gry?" 
 
 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 mo- 
 ment 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 
 suddemy draw the back of her roughened, black 
 
38 Sara Crewe; or 
 
 hand across her eyes to rub away the tears which 
 seemed to have surprised her by forcing their 
 way from under her lids. She was muttering to 
 herself. 
 
 Sara opened the paper bag and took out one of 
 the hot buns, which had already warmed her cold 
 hands a little. 
 
 " See," she said, putting the bun on the ragged 
 lap, " that is nice and hot. Eat it, and you will 
 not be so hungry." 
 
 The child started and stared up at her; then 
 she snatched up the bun and began to cram it 
 into her mouth with great wolfish bites. 
 
 " Oh, my ! Oh, my ! " Sara heard her say 
 hoarsely, in wild delight. 
 
 " Oh, my ! " 
 
 Sara took out three more buns and put them 
 down. 
 
 " She is hungrier than I am," she said to her- 
 seif. " She's starving." But her hand trembled 
 when she put down the fourth bun. " I'm not 
 sta> " : ng." she said — and she put down the fifth. 
 
 fhe uttie starving London savage was still 
 snatching anc. 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-bve," said Sara. 
 
 When she reached the other side o( the street 
 

 
 
 -tftfff IT." -uJ b aA, "AND YOU ViLL NOT BE SO HUNGRY- 
 
What Happened at Miss Mine kins 41 
 
 she looked back. The child had a bun in both 
 hands, and had stopped in the middle of a bite to 
 watch her. Sara gave her a little nod, and the 
 child, after another stare, — a curious, longing 
 stare, — jerked her shaggy head in response, and 
 until Sara was out of sight she did not take 
 another bite or even finish the one she had begun. 
 
 At that moment the baker-woman glanced out 
 of her shop-window. 
 
 " Well, I never ! " she exclaimed. " If that 
 young 'un hasn't given her buns to a beggar-child ! 
 It wasn't because she didn't want them, either- 
 well, well, she looked hungry enough. I'd give 
 something to know what she did it for." She 
 stood behind her window for a few moments and 
 pondered. Then her curiosity got the better of 
 her. She went to the door and spoke to the beg- 
 gar-child. 
 
 " Who gave you those buns ? " she asked her. 
 
 The child nodded her head toward Sara's van- 
 ishing 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. 
 
42 Sara Crewe; or 
 
 "jBjw many?" 
 
 " Five. 
 
 The womar 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 alius 'ungry," was the answer ; "but 'tain't 
 so bad as it was." 
 
 " Come in here," said the woman, and she held 
 open the shop-door. 
 
 The child got up and shuffled in. To be invited 
 into a warm place full of bread seemed an incred- 
 ible 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. 
 
What Happened at Miss Mine kins 43 
 
 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 sit- 
 uated ; the lamps were lighted, and in most of the 
 windows gleams of light were to be seen. It 
 always interested Sara to catch glimpses of the 
 rooms before the shutters were closed. She liked 
 to imagine things about people who sat before the 
 fires in the houses, or who bent over books at the 
 tables. There was, for instance, the Large Family 
 opposite. She called these people the Large 
 Family — not because they were large, for indeed 
 most of them were little, — but because there were 
 so many of them. There were eight children in 
 the Large Family, and a stout, rosy mother, and 
 a stout, rosy father, and a stout, rosy grand- 
 mamma, and any number of servants. The eight 
 children were always either being taken out to 
 walk, or to ride in perambulators, by comfortable 
 nurses ; or they were going to drive with their 
 mamma ; or they were flying to the door in the 
 evening to kiss their papa and dance around hirr 
 and drag off his overcoat and look for packages 
 in the pockets of it ; or they were crowding about 
 
44 Sara Crewe; or 
 
 the 'nursery windows and looking out and push, 
 ing 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 
 Montmorencys, when she did not call them the 
 Large Family. The fat, fair baby with the lace 
 cap was Ethelberta Beauchamp Montmorency ; 
 the next baby was Violet Cholmondely Mont- 
 morency ; the little boy who could just stagger, 
 and who had such round legs, was Sydney Cecil 
 Vivian Montmorency ; and then came Lilian 
 Evangeline, Guy Clarence, Maud Marian, Rosa- 
 lind Gladys, Veronica Eustacia, and Claude 
 Harold Hector. 
 
 Next door to the Large Family lived the Maid- 
 en Lady, who had a companion, and two par- 
 rots, and a King Charles spaniel ; but Sara was 
 not so very fond of her, because she did nothing 
 in particular but talk to the parrots and drive out 
 with the spaniel. The most interesting person of 
 all lived next door to Miss Minchin herself. Sara 
 called him the Indian Gentleman. He was an 
 elderly gentleman who was said to have lived in 
 the East Indies, and to be immensely rich and to 
 have something the matter with his liver, — in fact, 
 it had been rumored that he had no liver at all, 
 and was much inconvenienced by the fact. At 
 
What Happened at Miss Mine kins 45 
 
 any rate, he was very yellow and he did not look 
 happy ; and when he went out to his carriage, he 
 was almost always wrapped up in shawls and 
 overcoats, as if he were cold. He had a native 
 servant who looked even colder than himself, and 
 he had a monkey who looked colder than the 
 native servant. Sara had seen the monkey sitting 
 on a table, in the sun, in the parlor window, and 
 'he always wore such a mournful expression that 
 she sympathized with him deeply. 
 
 " I dare say," she used sometimes to remark to 
 herself, " he is thinking all the time of cocoanut 
 trees and of swinging by his tail under a tropical 
 sun. He might have had a family dependent on 
 him too, poor thing ! " 
 
 The native servant, whom she called the Lascar, 
 looked mournful too, but he was evidently very 
 faithful to his master. 
 
 " Perhaps he saved his master's life in the Sepoy 
 rebellion," she thought. " They look as if they 
 might have had all sorts of adventures. I wish I 
 could speak to the Lascar. I remember a little 
 Hindustani." 
 
 And one day she actually did speak to him, 
 and his start at the sound of his own language ex- 
 pressed a great deal of surprise and delight. He 
 was waiting for his master to come out to the car- 
 riage, and Sara, who was going on an errand as 
 usual, stopped and spoke a few words. She had a 
 
46 Sara Crewe; or 
 
 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 after- 
 ward the Lascar always greeted her with salaams 
 of the most profound description. And occasion- 
 ally 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 Gentle- 
 man was sitting before it, in a luxurious chair. 
 The room was richly furnished, and looked de- 
 lightfully comfortable, but the Indian Gentle- 
 man sat with his head resting on his hand, and 
 looked as lonely and unhappy as ever. 
 
 " Poor man ! " said Sara ; " I wonder what you 
 are ' supposing ' ? " 
 
 When she went into the house she met Miss 
 Minchin in the hall. 
 
 " Where have you wasted your time ? " said 
 Miss Minchin. " You have been out for hours ! " 
 
J0T0J& 
 
 HE WAS WAITING FOR HIS MASTER TO COME OUT TO THE CAHWACR ANI> 
 SARA STOPPED AND SPOKE A FEW WORDS TO HIM." 
 
What Happened at Miss Mine kins 49 
 
 " It was so wet and muddy," Sara answered. 
 " It was hard to walk, because my shoes were so 
 bad and slipped about so." 
 
 " Make no excuses," said Miss Minchin, " and 
 tell no falsehoods." 
 
 Sara went downstairs to the kitchen. 
 
 " Why didn't you stay all night ? " said the 
 cook. 
 
 " Here are the things," said Sara, and laid her 
 purchases on the table. 
 
 The cook looked over them, grumbling. She 
 was in a very bad temper indeed. 
 
 "May I have something to eat?" Sara asked 
 rather faintly. 
 
 " Tea's over and done with," was the answer. 
 " Did you expect me to keep it hot for you ? " 
 
 Sara was silent a second. 
 
 " I had no dinner," she said, and her voice was 
 quite low. She made it low, because she was 
 afraid it would tremble. 
 
 " There's some bread in the pantry," said the 
 cook. " That's all you'll get at this time of day." 
 
 Sara went and found the bread. It was old and 
 hard and dry. The cook was in too bad a humor 
 to give her anything to eat with it. She had just 
 been scolded by Miss Minchin, and it Was always 
 safe and easy to vent her own spite on Sara. 
 
 Really it was hard for the child to climb the 
 three long flights of stairs leading to her garret, 
 3 
 
50 Sara Crewe / or 
 
 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 pre- 
 tend for mc. I wonder what dreams are." 
 
 Yes, when she reached the top landing there 
 were tears in her eyes, and she did not feel like a 
 princess — only like a tired, hungry, lonely, lonely 
 child. 
 
 " If my papa had lived," she said, " they would 
 not have treated me like this. If my papa had 
 lived, he would have taken care of me." 
 
 Then she turned the handle and opened the 
 garret-door. 
 
 Can you imagine it — can you believe it? I find 
 it hard to believe it myself. And Sara found it 
 impossible ; for the first few moments she thought 
 something strange had happened to her eyes — to 
 her mind — that the dream had come before she 
 had had time to fall asleep. 
 
 " Oh ! " she exclaimed breathlessly. " Oh ! It 
 isn't true! I know, I know it isn't true!" And 
 she slipped into the room and closed the door and 
 locked it, and stood with her back against it, star- 
 ing straight before her. 
 
What Happened at Miss Mine kins 51 
 
 Do you wonder? In the grate, which had been 
 empty and rusty and cold when she left it, but 
 which now was blackened and polished up quite 
 respectably, there was a glowing, blazing fire. 
 On the hob was a little brass kettle, hissing and 
 boiling ; spread upon the floor was a warm, thick 
 rug ; before the fire was a folding-chair, unfolded 
 and with cushions on it ; by the chair was a small 
 folding-table, unfolded, covered with a white 
 cloth, and upon it were spread small covered 
 dishes, a cup and saucer, and a tea-pot ; on the 
 bed were new, warm coverings, a curious wadded 
 silk robe, and some books. The little, cold, miser- 
 able room seemed changed into Fairyland. It 
 was actually warm and glowing. 
 
 " It is bewitched ! " said Sara. " Or 7" am be- 
 witched. I only think I see it all ; but if I can 
 only keep on thinking it, I don't care — I don't 
 care — if I can only keep it up ! " 
 
 She was afraid to move, for fear it would melt 
 away. She stood with her back against the door 
 and looked and looked. But soon she began to 
 feel warm, and then she moved forward. 
 
 " A fire that I only thought I saw surely wouldn't 
 feel warm," she said. " It feels real — real." 
 
 She went to it and knelt before it. She touched 
 the chair, the table ; she lifted the cover of one of 
 the dishes. There was something hot and savory 
 in it — something delicious. The tea-pot had tea 
 
5 2 Sara Crewe / or 
 
 in it, ready for the boiling water from the little 
 kettle ; one plate had toast on it, another, muf- 
 fins. 
 
 " It is real," said Sara. " The fire is real enough 
 to warm me; I can sit in the chair ; the things are 
 real enough to eat." 
 
 It was like a fairy story come true — it was 
 heavenly. She went to the bed and touched the 
 blankets and the wrap. They were real too. She 
 opened one book, and on the title-page was writ- 
 ten 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 some- 
 body 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 every- 
 thing ; 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 troub- 
 les. 
 
 But these tears seemed different from the others, 
 
What Happened at Miss Mine kin s 53 
 
 for when she had wiped them away they did not 
 seem to leave her eyes and her heart hot and 
 smarting. 
 
 And then imagine, if you can, what the rest of 
 the evening was like. The delicious comfort of 
 taking off the damp clothes and putting on the 
 soft, warm, quilted robe before the glowing fire — 
 of slipping her cold feet into the luscious littxe 
 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 en- 
 joyment of them to the very upmost. She had 
 lived such a life of imagining, and had found her 
 pleasure so long in improbabilities, that she was 
 quite equal to accepting any wonderful thing 
 that happened. After she was quite warm and 
 had eaten her supper and enjoyed herself for an 
 hour or so, it had almost ceased to be surprising 
 to her that such magical surroundings should be 
 hers. As to finding out who had done all this, 
 she knew that it was out of the question. She 
 did not know a human soul by whom it could 
 seem in the least degree probable that it could 
 have been done. 
 
 " There is nobody," she said to herself, " no- 
 body." She discussed the matter with Emily, it 
 is true, but more because it was delightful to talk 
 
54 Sara Crewe / or 
 
 about it than with a view to making any discov 
 eries. 
 
 " 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 some- 
 thing glittering and strange — not at all like a 
 real person, but bearing resemblance to a sort of 
 Eastern magician, with long robes and a wand. 
 And when she fell asleep, beneath the soft white 
 blanket, she dreamed all night of this magnificent 
 personage, and talked to him in Hindustani, and 
 made salaams to him. 
 
 Upon one thing she was determined. She 
 would not speak to any one of her good fortune 
 — it should be her own secret ; in fact, she was 
 rather inclined to think that if Miss Minchin 
 knew, she would take her treasures from her or 
 in some way spoil her pleasure. So, when she 
 went down the next morning, she shut her door 
 very tight and did her best to look as if nothing 
 unusual had occurred. And yet this was rather 
 hard, because she could not help remembering, 
 every now and then, with a sort of start, and her 
 heart would beat quickly every time she repeated 
 to herself, " I have a friend ! " 
 
 It was a friend who evidently meant to continue 
 
What Happened at Miss Minchiris 55 
 
 to be kind, for when she weni to her garret the 
 next night — and she opened the door, it must be 
 confessed, with rather an excited feeling — she 
 found that the same hands had been again at 
 work, and had done even more than before. The 
 fire and the supper were again there, and beside 
 them a number of other things which so altered 
 the look of the garret that Sara quite lost her 
 breath. A piece of bright, strange, heavy cloth 
 covered the battered mantel, and on it some or- 
 naments had been placed. All the bare, ugly 
 things which could be covered with draperies 
 had been concealed and made to look quite 
 pretty. Some odd materials in rich colors had 
 been fastened against the walls with sharp, fine 
 tacks — so sharp that they could be pressed into 
 the wood without hammering. Some brilliant 
 fans were pinned up, and there were several large 
 cushions. A long, old wooden box was covered 
 with a rug, and some cushions lay on it, so that it 
 wore quite the air of a sofa. 
 
 Sara simply sat down, and looked, and looked 
 again. 
 
 " It is exactly like something fairy come true," 
 she said ; " there isn't the least difference. I feel 
 as if I might wish for anything — diamonds and 
 bags of gold — and they would appear ! That 
 couldn't be any stranger than this. Is this my 
 garret ? Am I the same cold, ragged, damp 
 
56 Sara Crewe • or 
 
 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 ! .1 feel 
 as if I might be a fairy myself, and be able to turn 
 things into anything else ! " 
 
 It was like a fairy story, and, what was best of 
 all, it continued. Almost every day something 
 new was done to the garret. Some new comfort 
 or ornament appeared in it when Sara opened her 
 door at night, until actually, in a short time, it 
 was a bright little room, full of all sorts of odd 
 and luxurious things. And the magician had 
 taken care that the child should not be hungry, 
 and that she should have as many books as she 
 could read. When she left the room in the morn- 
 ing, the remains of her supper were on the table, 
 and when she returned in the evening, the magi- 
 cian had removed them, and left another nice little 
 meal. Downstairs Miss Minchin was as cruel 
 and insulting as ever, Miss Amelia was as peevish, 
 and the servants were as vulgar. Sara was sent 
 on errands, and scolded, and driven hither and 
 thither, but somehow it seemed as if she could 
 bear it all. The delightful sense of romance and 
 mystery lifted her above the cook's temper and 
 malice. The comfort she enjoyed and could al- 
 ways look forward to was making her stronger. 
 If she came home from her errands wet and tired, 
 
What Happened at Miss Minchiris 57 
 
 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 let- 
 ters) to " the little girl in the attic." Sara herself 
 was sent to open the door, and she took them in. 
 She laid the two largest parcels down on the hall- 
 table and was looking at the address, when Miss 
 Minchin came down the stairs. 
 
 " Take the things upstairs to the young lady to 
 whom they belong," she said. " Don't stand there 
 staring at them." 
 
 " They belong to me," answered Sara, quietly. 
 
 " To you ! " exclaimed Miss Minchin. " What 
 do you mean ? " 
 
 " I don't know where they came from," said 
 Sara, " but they're addressed to me." 
 
 Miss Minchin came to her side and looked at 
 them with an excited expression. 
 
 " What is in them ? " she demanded. 
 
 " I don't know," said Sara. 
 
 " Open them ! " she demanded, still more ex- 
 citedly. 
 
5 8 Sara Crewe / or 
 
 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 writ- 
 ten, " 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 power- 
 ful friend in the background ? It would not be 
 very pleasant if there should be such a friend, 
 and he or she should earn all the truth about the 
 thin, shabby clothes, the scant food, the hard 
 work. She felt queer indeed and uncertain, and 
 she gave a side-glance at Sara. 
 
 " Well," she said, in a voice such as she had 
 never used since the day the child lost her father 
 — " well, some one is very kind to you. As you 
 have the things and are to have new ones when 
 they are worn out, you may as well go and put 
 them on and look respectable; and after you are 
 dressed, you may come downstairs and learn your 
 lessons in the school-room." 
 
 So it happened that, about half an hour after- 
 ward, Sara struck the entire school-room of pupils 
 dumb with amazement, by making her appearance 
 
What Happened at Miss Mine kins 59 
 
 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 some- 
 thing 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 ta- 
 ble, and it was taken away with the other things ; 
 so she felt sure the magician had received it, 
 and she was happier for the thought. 
 
 A few nights later a very odd thing happened. 
 
6o Sara Crewe ' or 
 
 She found something in the room which she cer- 
 tainly would never have expected. When she 
 came in as usual she saw something small and 
 dark in her chair, — an odd, tiny figure, which 
 turned toward her a little, weird-looking, wistful 
 face. 
 
 " Why, it's the monkey ! " she cried. " It is the 
 Indian Gentleman's monkey ! Where can he 
 have come from ? " 
 
 It was the monkey, sitting up and looking so 
 like a mite of a child that it really was quite pa- 
 thetic ; and very soon Sara found out how he hap- 
 pened to be in her room. The skylight was 
 open, and it was easy to guess that he had crept . 
 out of his master's garret-window, which was only 
 a few feet away and perfectly easy to get in and 
 out of, even for a climber less agile than a mon- 
 key. 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 
 
•THE MONKEY SEEMED MUCH INTERESTED IN HER REMARXi." 
 
What Happened at Miss Mine kins 63 
 
 could not be proud of you, and nobody would dare 
 to say you were like any of your relations. But I 
 do like you ; you have such a forlorn little look 
 in your face. Perhaps you are sorry you are so 
 ugly, and it's always on your mind. I wonder if 
 you have a mind?" 
 
 The monkey sat and looked at her while she 
 talked, and seemed much interested in her re- 
 marks, if one could judge by his eyes and his fore- 
 head, 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 seri- 
 ously, and anxiously, too. He felt the stuff of her 
 dress, touched her hands, climbed up and exam- 
 ined her ears, and then sat on her shoulder hold- 
 ing a lock of her hair, looking mournful but not 
 at all agitated. Upon the whole, he seemec 
 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 down- 
 stairs. Evidently he did not want to leave the 
 
6\ Sara Crewe; or 
 
 V; 
 
 room, for as they reached the door he clung to 
 her neck and gave a little scream of anger. 
 
 " You mustn't be an ungrateful monkey," said 
 Sara. "You ought to be fondest of your own 
 family. I am sure the Lascar is good to you." 
 
 Nobody saw, her on her way out, and very soon 
 she was standing on the Indian Gentleman's front 
 steps, and the Lascar had opened the door for 
 her. 
 
 " I found your monkey in my room," she said 
 in Hindustani. " I think he got in through the 
 window." 
 
 The man began a rapid outpouring of thanks ; 
 but, just as he was in the midst of them, a fretful, 
 hollow voice was heard through the open door of 
 the nearest room. The instant he heard it the 
 Lascar disappeared, and left Sara still holding 
 the monkey. 
 
 It was not many moments, however, before he 
 came back bringing a message. His master had 
 told him to bring Missy into the library. The 
 Sahib was very ill, but he wished to see Missy. 
 
 Sara thought this odd, but she remembered 
 reading stories of Indian gentlemen who, having 
 no constitutions, were extremely cross and full of 
 whims, and who must have their own way. So 
 she followed the Lascar. 
 
 When she entered the room the Indian Gentle- 
 man was lying on an easy chair, propped up with 
 
What Happened at Miss Minchiris 65 
 
 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 wak- 
 ened in him some anxious interest. 
 
 " You live next door ? " he said. 
 
 " Yes," answered Sara. " I live at Miss Min- 
 chin's." 
 
 " She keeps a boarding-school ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Sara. 
 
 " And you are one of her pupils ? " 
 
 Sara hesitated a moment. 
 
 " I don't know exactly what I am," she replied. 
 
 " Why not?" asked the Indian Gentleman. 
 
 The monkey gave a tiny squeak, and Sara 
 stroked him. 
 
 " At first," she said, " I was a pupil and a parlor 
 boarder ; but now " 
 
 " What do you mean by ' at first'?" asked the 
 Indian Gentleman. 
 
 " When I was first taken there by my papa." 
 
 " Well, what has happened since then ? " said 
 the invalid, staring at her and knitting his brows 
 with a puzzled expression. 
 
 ' My papa died," said Sara. " He lost all his 
 money, and there was none left for me — and there 
 was no one to take care of me or pay Miss Min- 
 chin, so " 
 
 " So you were sent up into the garret and 
 neglected, and made into a half -starved little 
 5 
 
66 Sara Crewe / or 
 
 drudge ! " put in the Indian Gentleman. " That 
 is about it, isn't it ? " 
 
 The color deepened on Sara's cheeks. 
 
 " There was no one to take care of me, and no 
 money," she said. " I belong to nobody." 
 
 " What did your father mean by losing his 
 money?" said the gentleman, fretfully. 
 
 The red in Sara's cheeks grew deeper, and she 
 .fixed her odd eyes on the yellow face. 
 
 " He did not lose it himself," she said. " He 
 had a friend he was fond of, and it was his friend 
 who took his money. I don't know how. I don't 
 understand. He trusted his friend too much." 
 
 She saw the invalid start — the strangest start — 
 as if he had been suddenly frightened. Then he 
 spoke nervously and excitedly : 
 
 " That's an old story," he said. " It happens 
 every day ; but sometimes those who are blamed 
 — those who do the wrong — don't intend it, and 
 are not so bad. It may happen through a mistake 
 — a miscalculation ; they may not be so bad." 
 
 " No," said Sara, " but the suffering is just as 
 bad for the others. It killed my papa." 
 
 The Indian Gentleman pushed aside some of 
 the gorgeous wraps that covered him. 
 
 " Come a little nearer, and let me look at you," 
 he said. 
 
 His voice sounded very strange ; it had a more 
 nervous and excited tone than before. Sara had 
 
What Happened at Miss Mine kin s 67 
 
 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 anxious- 
 ly over his shoulder. 
 
 The Indian Gentleman's hollow, restless eyes 
 fixed themselves on her. 
 
 " Yes," he said at last. " Yes ; I can see it. 
 Tell me your father's name." 
 
 " His name was Ralph Crewe," said Sara. " Cap- 
 tain Crewe. Perhaps," — a sudden thought flash- 
 ing upon her, — "perhaps you may have heard of 
 him? He died in India." 
 
 The Indian Gentleman sank back upon his 
 pillows. He looked very weak, and seemed out 
 of breath. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " I knew him. I was his friend. 
 I meant no harm. If he had only lived he would 
 have known. It turned out well after all. He 
 was a fine young fellow. I was fond of him. I 
 will make it right. Call — call the man." 
 
 Sara thought he was going to die. But there 
 was no need to call the Lascar. He must have 
 been waiting at the door. He was in the room 
 and by his master's side in an instant. He seemed 
 to know what to do." He lifted the drooping head, 
 and gave the invalid something in a small glass. 
 The Indian Gentleman lay panting for a few min- 
 utes, and then he spoke in an exhausted but eager 
 voice, addressing the Lascar in Hindustani : 
 
68 Sara Crewe; or 
 
 " 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 Famil)' 
 across the street), Sara went home, and was al- 
 lowed to take the monkey with her. She cer- 
 tainly did not sleep very much that night, though 
 the monkey behaved beautifully, and did not dis- 
 turb her in the least. It was not the monkey chat 
 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 some- 
 body ? Is he one of my relations ? Is something 
 going to happen ? " 
 
 But she found out the very next day, in the 
 morning ; and it seemed that she had been living 
 in a story even more than she had imagined. 
 First, Mr. Carmichael came and had an interview 
 with Miss Minchin. And it appeared that Mr. 
 Carmichael, besides occupying the important 
 situation of father to the Large Family was a 
 lawyer, and had charge of the affairs of Mr. Car 
 
What Happened at Miss Minchin s 69 
 
 risford — which was the real name of the Indian 
 Gentleman — and, as Mr. Carrisford's lawyer, Mr. 
 Carmichael had come to explain something curi- 
 ous 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 Mr. 
 Carrisford had been very unhappy. He had truly 
 loved his poor, handsome, generous young friend, 
 
jo Sara Crewe; or 
 
 and the knowledge that he had caused his death 
 had weighed upon him always, and broken both 
 his health and spirit. The worst of it had been 
 that, when first he thought himself and Captain 
 Crewe ruined, he had lost courage and gone 
 away because he was not brave enough to face 
 the consequences of what he had done, and so he 
 had not even known where the young soldier's 
 little girl had been placed. When he wanted to 
 find her, and make restitution, he could discover 
 no trace of her; and the certainty that she was 
 poor and friendless somewhere had made him 
 more miserable than ever. When he had taken 
 the house next to Miss Minchin's he had been 
 so ill and wretched that he had for the time 
 given up the search. His troubles and the Indian 
 climate had brought him almost to death's door — 
 indeed, he had not expected to live more than a 
 few months. And then one day the Lascar had 
 told him about Sara's speaking Hindustani, and 
 gradually he had begun to take a sort of interest 
 in the forlorn child, though he had only caught a 
 glimpse of her once or twice and he had not con- 
 nected her with the child of his friend, perhaps 
 because he was too languid to think much about 
 anything. But the Lascar had found out some- 
 thing 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 
 
Wnat Happened at Miss Mine kins Ji 
 
 was a very easy matter, because, as I have said, 
 it was only a few feet away — and he had told his 
 master what he had seen, and in a moment of 
 compassion the Indian Gentleman had told him to 
 take into the wretched little room such comforts 
 as he could carry from the one window to the 
 other. And the Lascar, who had developed an 
 interest in, and an odd fondness for, the child who 
 had spoken to him in his own tongue, had been 
 pleased with the work ; and, having the silent 
 swiftness and agile movements of many of his 
 race, he had made his evening journeys across 
 the few feet of roof from garret-window to garret- 
 window, without any trouble at all. He had 
 watched Sara's movements until he knew exactly 
 when she was absent from her room and when 
 she returned to it, and so he had been able to cal- 
 culate the best times for his work. Generally he 
 had made them in the dusk of the evening ; but 
 once or twice, when he had seen her go out on 
 errands, he had dared to go over in the daytime, 
 being quite sure that the garret was never entered 
 by any one but herself. His pleasure in the work 
 and his reports of the results had added to the 
 invalid's interest in it, and sometimes the master 
 had found the planning gave him something to 
 think of, which made him almost forget his weari- 
 ness and pain. And at last, when Sara brought 
 home the truant monkey, he had felt a wish tu 
 
72 Sara Crewe; or 
 
 see her, and then her likeness to her father had 
 done the rest. 
 
 " And now, my dear," said good Mrs. Carmi- 
 chael, patting Sara's hand, " all your troubles are 
 over, I am sure, and you are to come home with 
 me and be taken care of as if you were one of my 
 own little girls ; and we are so pleased to think of 
 having you with us until everything is settled, 
 and Mr. Carrisford is better. The excitement of 
 last night has made him very weak, but we really 
 think he will get well, now that such a load is 
 taken from his mind. And when he is stronger, 
 I am sure he will be as kind to you as your own 
 papa would have been. He has a very good 
 heart, and he is fond of children — and he has no 
 family at all. But we must make you happy and 
 rosy, and you must learn to play and run about, 
 as my little girls do " 
 
 " As your little girls do ? " said Sara. " I won- 
 der if I could. I used to watch them and won- 
 der what it was like. Shall I feel as if I belonged 
 to somebody ? " 
 
 " Ah, my love, yes ! — yes ! " said Mrs. Carmi- 
 chael ; " 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, be- 
 fore 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 
 
What Happened at Miss Minchins 73 
 
 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 some- 
 thing of her wonderful story. She had been born 
 in India; she had been poor and lonely and un- 
 happy, and had lived in a garret and been treated 
 unkindly ; and now she was to be rich and happy, 
 and be taken care of. They were so sorry for 
 her, and so delighted and curious about her, all at 
 once. The girls wished to be with her constantly, 
 and the little boys wished to be told about India ; 
 the second baby, with the short round legs, simply 
 sat and stared at her and the monkey, possibly 
 wondering why she had not brought a hand-organ 
 with her. 
 
 " I shall certainly wake up presently," Sara kept 
 saying to herself. " This one must be a dream. 
 The other one turned out to be real; but this 
 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 husband, when she went downstairs to him. 
 
74 Sara Crewe; or 
 
 " we must get that lonely look out of her eyes i 
 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 dreadfu] 
 woman's house ! But, surely, she will forget it in 
 time." 
 
 But though the lonely look passed away from 
 Sara's face, she never quite forgot the garret at 
 Miss Minchin's ; and, indeed, she always liked to 
 remember the wonderful night when the tired 
 princess crept upstairs, cold and wet, and opening 
 the door found fairy-land waiting for her. And 
 there was no one of the many stories she was al- 
 ways being called upon to tell in the nursery of 
 the Large Family which was more popular than 
 that particular one ; and there was no one ol 
 whom the Large Family were so fond as of Sara. 
 Mr. Carrisford did not die, but recovered, and 
 Sara went to live with him ; and no real princess 
 could have been better taken care of than she was. 
 It seemed that the Indian Gentleman could not 
 do enough to make her happy, and to repay her 
 for the past ; and the Lascar was her devoted 
 slave. As her odd little face grew brighter, it 
 grew so pretty and interesting that Mr. Carris- 
 ford 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, 
 
What Happened at Miss Mine kins 75 
 
 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 
 1 suppose,' " she added. 
 
 There was a little joke between them that he 
 was a magician, and so could do anything he 
 liked ; and it was one of his pleasures to invent 
 plans to surprise her with enjoyments she had not 
 thought of. Scarcely a day passed in which he 
 did not do something new for her. Sometimes 
 she found new flowers in her room ; sometimes a 
 fanciful little gift tucked into some odd corner; 
 sometimes a new book on her pillow ; — once as 
 they sat together in the evening they heard the 
 scratch of a heavy paw on the door of the room, 
 and when Sara went to find out what it was, there 
 stood a great dog — a splendid Russian boar-hound 
 with a grand silver and gold collar. Stooping to 
 read the inscription upon the collar, Sara was de. 
 
76 Sara Crewe / or 
 
 lighted 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 — parti- 
 cularly after it was discovered that she not only 
 knew stories of every kind, and could invent new 
 ones at a moment's notice, but that she could help 
 with lessons, and speak French and German, and 
 discourse with the Lascar in Hindustani. 
 
 It was rather a painful experience for Miss 
 Minchin to watch her ex-pupil's fortunes, as she 
 had the daily opportunity to do, and to feel that 
 she had made a serious mistake, from a business 
 point of view. She had even tried to retrieve it 
 by suggesting that Sara's education should be 
 continued under her care, and had gone to the 
 length of making an appeal to the child herself. 
 
 " I have always been very fond of you," she 
 said. 
 
 Then Sara fixed her eyes upon her and gave her 
 one of her odd looks. 
 
What Happened at Miss Minchiris yy 
 
 " 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 dread- 
 ful, 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 bold- 
 ness to pursue the subject. She merely sent in a 
 bill for the expense of Sara's education and sup- 
 port, and she made it quite large enough. And 
 because Mr. Carrisford thought Sara would wish 
 it paid, it was paid. When Mr. Carmichael pak 1 
 it he had a brief interview with Miss Minchin in 
 which he expressed his opinion with much clear- 
 ness and force ; and it is quite certain that Miss 
 Minchin did not enjoy the conversation. 
 
 Sara had been about a month with Mr. Carris- 
 ford, and had begun to realize that her happiness 
 was not a dream, when one night the Indian Gen- 
 tleman saw that she sat a long time with her 
 cheek on her hand looking at the fire. 
 
78 Sara Crewe ; or 
 
 "What are you 'supposing,' Sara?" he asked. 
 Sara looked up with a bright color on her cheeks. 
 
 " I was ' supposing,' " she said ; " I was remem- 
 bering that hungry day, and a child I saw." 
 
 " But there were a great many hungry days," 
 said the Indian Gentleman, with a rather sad tone 
 in his voice. " Which hungry day was it? " 
 
 " I forgot you didn't know," said Sara. " It 
 was the day I found the things in my garret." 
 
 And then she told him the story of the bun-shop, 
 and the fourpence, and the child who was hungrier 
 than herself ; and somehow as she told it, though 
 she told it very simply indeed, the Indian Gentle- 
 man 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 — par- 
 ticularly on those dreadful days — come and sit on 
 the steps or look in at the window, she would 
 just call them in and give them something to eat, 
 she might send the bills to me and I would pay 
 them — could I do that ? " 
 
What Happened at Miss Minchiris 79 
 
 " 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 Gentle- 
 man. " Yes, it must be. Try to forget it. Come 
 and sit on this footstool near my knee, and only 
 remember you are a princess." 
 
 " Yes," said Sara, " and I can give buns and 
 bread to the Populace." And she went and 
 sat on the stool, and the Indian Gentleman (he 
 used to like her to call him that, too, sometimes, 
 — in fact very often) drew her small, dark head 
 down upon his knee and stroked her hair. 
 
 The next morning a carriage drew up before 
 the door of the baker's shop, and a gentleman 
 and a little girl got out, — oddly enough, just as 
 the bun-woman was putting a tray of smoking 
 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. 
 " Ai?d yet " 
 
 " Yes/' said Sara, ' once you gave me six buns 
 for fourpence, and " 
 
80 Sara Crewe : or 
 
 "And you gave five of 'em to a beggar-child," 
 said the woman. " I've always remembered it. 1 
 couldn't make it out at first. I beg pardon, sir, 
 but there's not many young people that notices a 
 hungry face in that way, and I've thought of it 
 many a time. Excuse the liberty, miss, but you 
 look rosier and better than you did that day." 
 
 " I am better, thank you," said Sara, " and — and 
 I am happier, and I have come to ask you to do 
 something for me." 
 
 " Me, miss ! " exclaimed the woman, " why, bless 
 you, yes, miss ! What can I do ? " 
 
 And then Sara made her little proposal, and the 
 woman listened to it with an astonished face. 
 
 " Why, bless me ! " she said, when she had heard 
 it all. " Yes, miss, it'll be a pleasure to me to do 
 it. I am a working woman, myself, and can't 
 afford to do much on my own account, and there's 
 .lights of trouble on every side ; but if you'll ex- 
 cuse me, I'm bound to say I've given many a bit 
 A 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 
 
"BE DREW HER SMALL DARK HEAD DOWN UPON HIS Efffit ) 
 AND STROKED HER HAIR." J 
 
What Happened at Miss Mine kin's 83 
 
 the time she's told me of it since — how she sat 
 there in the wet, and felt as if a wolf was a-tear- 
 ing at her poor young insides." 
 
 " Oh, have you seen her since then ? " exclaimed 
 Sara. " Do you know where she is ? " 
 
 " I know ! " said the woman. " Why, she's in 
 that there back room now, miss, an' has been for 
 a month, an' a decent, well-meaning girl she's 
 going to turn out, an' such a help to me in the 
 day shop, an' in the kitchen, as you'd scarce be- 
 lieve, 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 ac- 
 tually it was the beggar-child, clean and neatly 
 clothed, and looking as if she had not been hun- 
 gry for a long time. She looked shy, but she had 
 a nice face, now that she was no longer a savage ; 
 and the wild look had gone from her eyes. And 
 she knew Sara in an instant, and stood and looked 
 at her as if she could never look enough. 
 
 "You see," said the woman, " I told her to 
 come here when she was hungry, and when she'd 
 come I'd give her odd jobs to do, an' I found she 
 was willing, an' somehow I got to like her ; an' 
 the end of it was I've given her a place an' a home, 
 an' she helps me, an' behaves as well, an' is as 
 thankful as a girl can be. Her name's Anne — she 
 has no other." 
 
84 , Sara Crewe 
 
 The two children stood and looked at each 
 other a few moments. In Sara's eyes a new 
 thought was growing. 
 
 " I'm glad you have such a good home," she 
 said. " Perhaps Mrs. Brown will let you give 
 the buns and bread to the children — perhaps you 
 would like to do it — because you know what it is 
 to be hungry, too." 
 
 " Yes, miss," said the girl. 
 
 And somehow Sara felt as if she understood 
 her, though the girl said nothing more, and only 
 stood still and looked, and looked after her as she 
 went out of the shop and got into the carriage 
 and drove away. 
 
TTLE SAINT ELIZABETH 
 
dTTLE SAINT ELIZABETH 
 
 SHE had not been brought up in America at 
 all. She had been born in France, in a beautiful 
 ch&teau, and she had been born heiress to a great 
 fortune, but, nevertheless, just now she felt as if she 
 was very poor, indeed. And yet her home was 
 in one of the most splendid houses in New York. 
 She had a lovely suite of apartments of her own, 
 though she was only eleven years old. She had 
 had her own carriage and a saddle horse, a train 
 of masters, and governesses, and servants, and 
 was regarded by all the children of the neighbor- 
 hood as a sort of grand and mysterious little 
 princess, whose incomings and outgoings were to 
 be watched with the greatest interest. 
 
 " There she is," they would cry, flying to their 
 windows to look at her. " She is going out in her 
 carriage." " She is dressed all in black velvet and 
 splendid fur." " That is her own, own, carriage." 
 " She has millions of money ; and she can have 
 anything she wants — Jane says so ! " " She is 
 very pretty, too ; but she is so pale and has such 
 big, sorrowful, b'ack eyes. I should not be sor- 
 
88 Little Saint Elizabeth 
 
 rowful if I were in her place ; but Jane says the 
 servants say she is always quiet and looks sad." 
 " Her maid says she lived with her aunt, and her 
 aunt made her too religious." 
 
 She rarely lifted her large dark eyes to look at 
 them with any curiosity. She was not accus- 
 tomed to the society of children. She had never 
 had a child companion in her life, and these little 
 Americans, who were so very rosy and gay, and 
 who went out to walk or drive with groups of 
 brothers and sisters, and even ran in the street, 
 laughing and playing and squabbling healthily — 
 these children amazed her. 
 
 Poor little Saint Elizabeth ! She had not lived 
 a very natural or healthy life herself, and she knew 
 absolutely nothing of real childish pleasures. You 
 see, it had occurred in this way : When she was 
 a baby of two years her young father and mother 
 died, within a week of each other, of a terrible 
 fever, and the only near relatives the little one 
 had were her Aunt Clotilde and Uncle Bertrand. 
 Her Aunt Clotilde lived in Normandy — her Uncle 
 Bertrand in New York. As these two were her 
 only guardians, and as Bertrand de Rochemont 
 was a gay bachelor, fond of pleasure and knowing 
 nothing of babies, it was natural that he should be 
 very willing that his elder sister should undertake 
 the rearing and education of the child. 
 
 " Only," he wrote to Mademoiselle de Roche- 
 
T HERE SHE IS." THEY WOULD CRY. 
 
Little Saint Elizabeth 91 
 
 mont, " don't end by training her for an abbess, 
 my dear Clotilde." 
 
 There was a very great difference between these 
 two people — the distance between the gray stone 
 chateau in Normandy and the brown stone man- 
 sion in New York was not nearly so great as the 
 distance and difference between the two lives. 
 And yet it was said that in her first youth Madem- 
 oiselle de Rochemont had been as gay and fond 
 of pleasure as either of her brothers. And then, 
 when her life was at its brightest and gayest — 
 when she was a beautiful and brilliant young 
 woman — she had had a great and bitter sorrow, 
 which had changed her for ever. From that time 
 she had never left the house in which she had 
 been born, and had lived the life of a nun in every- 
 thing but being enclosed in convent walls. At 
 first she had had her parents to take care of, but 
 when they died she had been left entirely alone in 
 the great chdteau, and devoted herself to prayer 
 and works of charity among the villagers and 
 country people. 
 
 " Ah ! she is good — she is a saint Mademoiselle," 
 the poor people always said when speaking of her*, 
 but they also always looked a little awe-stricken 
 when she appeared, and never were sorry when 
 she left them. 
 
 She was a tall woman, with a pale, rigid, hand- 
 some face, which never smiled. She did nothing 
 
92 Little Saint Elizabeth 
 
 but good deeds, but however grateful her pen- 
 sioners might be, nobody would ever have dared 
 to dream of loving her. She was just and cold 
 and severe. She wore always a straight black 
 serge gown, broad bands of white linen, and a 
 rosary and crucifix at her waist. She read noth- 
 ing but religious works and legends of the saints 
 and martyrs, and adjoining her private apartments 
 was a little stone chapel, where the servants said 
 she used to kneel on the cold floor before the al- 
 tar and pray for hours in the middle of the night. 
 
 The little cure" of the village, who was plump 
 and comfortable, and who had the kindest heart 
 and the most cheerful soul in the world, used to 
 remonstrate with her, always in a roundabout 
 way, however, never quite as if he were referring 
 directly to herself. 
 
 " One must not let one's self become the stone 
 image of goodness," he said once. " Since one is 
 really of flesh and blood, and lives among flesh 
 and blood, that is not best. No, no; it is not 
 best." 
 
 But Mademoiselle de Rochemont never seemed 
 exactly of flesh and blood — she was more like a 
 marble female saint who had descended from her 
 pedestal to walk upon the earth. 
 
 And she did not change, even when the baby 
 Elizabeth was brought to her. She attended 
 strictly to the child's comfort and prayed many 
 
Little Saint Elizabeth Q3 
 
 prayers for her innocent soul, but it can be scarce- 
 ly said that her manner was any softer or that 
 she smiled more. At first Elizabeth used to 
 scream at the sight of the black, nun-like dress 
 and the rigid, handsome face, but in course of 
 time she became accustomed to them, and, 
 through living in an atmosphere so silent and 
 without brightness, a few months changed her 
 from a laughing, romping baby into a pale, quiet 
 child, who rarely made any childish noise at ail. 
 
 In this quiet way she became fond of her aunt. 
 She saw little of anyone but the servants, who 
 were all trained to quietness also. As soon as 
 she was old enough her aunt began her religious 
 training. Before she could speak plainly she 
 heard legends of saints and stories of martyrs. 
 She was taken into the little chapel and taught to 
 pray there. She believed in miracles, and would 
 not have been surprised at any moment if she had 
 met the Child Jesus or the Virgin in the beautiful 
 rambling gardens which surrounded the chdteau. 
 She was a sensitive, imaginative child, and the 
 sacred romances she heard filled all her mind and 
 made up her little life. She wished to be a saint 
 herself, and spent hours in wandering in the ter- 
 raced rose gardens wondering if such a thing was 
 possible in modern days, and what she must do to 
 obtain such holy victory. Her chief sorrow was 
 that she knew herself to be delicate and very 
 
94 Little Saint Elizaoetk 
 
 timid — so timid that she often suffered when peo- 
 ple" did not suspect it — and she was afraid that she 
 was not brave enough to be a martyr. Once, 
 poor little one ! when she was alone in her room, 
 she held her hand over a burning wax candle, but 
 the pain was so terrible that she could not keep it 
 there. Indeed, she fell back white and faint, and 
 sank upon her chair, breathless and in tears, be- 
 cause she felt sure that she could not chant holy 
 songs if she were being burned at the stake. She 
 had been vowed to the Virgin in her babyhood, 
 and was always dressed in white and blue, but her 
 little dress was a small conventual robe, straight 
 and narrow cut, of white woollen stuff, and banded 
 plainly with blue at the waist. She did not look 
 like other children, but she was very sweet and 
 gentle,, and her pure little pale face and large, 
 dark eyes had a loveiy dreamy look. When she 
 was old enough to visit the poor with her Aunt 
 Clotilde — and she was hardly seven years old 
 when it was considered proper that she should 
 begin — the villagers did not stand in awe of her. 
 They began to adore her, almost to worship her, 
 as if she had, indeed, been a sacred child. The 
 little ones delighted to look at her, to draw near 
 her sometimes and touch her soft white and blue 
 robe. And, when they did so, she always re- 
 turned their looks with such a tender, sympathet- 
 ic smile, and spoke to them in so gentle a voice, 
 
Little Saint Elizabeth 95 
 
 that they were in ecstasies. They used to talk 
 her over, tell stories about her when they were 
 playing together afterwards. 
 
 " The little Mademoiselle," they said, " she is a 
 child saint. I have heard them say so. Some- 
 times there is a little light round her head. One 
 day her little white robe will begin to shine too, 
 and her long sleeves will be wings, and she will 
 spread them and ascend through the blue sky to 
 Paradise. You will see if it is not so." 
 
 So, in this secluded world in the gray old chd- 
 teau, with no companion but her aunt, with no oc- 
 cupation but her studies and her charities, with 
 no thoughts but those of saints and religious ex- 
 ercises, Elizabeth lived until she was eleven years 
 old. Then a great grief befell her. One morn- 
 ing, Mademoiselle de Rochemont did not leave 
 her room at the regular hour. As she never 
 broke a rule she had made for herself and her 
 household, this occasioned great wonder. Her 
 old maid servant waited half an hour — went to 
 her door, and took the liberty of listening to hear 
 if she was up and moving about her room. There 
 was no sound. Old Alice returned, looking quite 
 agitated. " Would Mademoiselle Elizabeth mind 
 entering to see if all was well? Mademoiselle 
 her aunt might be in the chapel." 
 
 Elizabeth went. Her aunt was not in her room. 
 Then she must be in the chapel. The child en- 
 
96 Little Saint Elizabeth 
 
 tered the sacred little place. The morning sun 
 was '-streaming in through the stained-glass win- 
 dows above the altar — a broad ray of mingled 
 brilliant colors slanted to the stone floor and 
 warmly touched a dark figure lying there. It 
 <vas Aunt Clotilde, who had sunk forward while 
 .neeling at prayer and had died in the night. 
 
 That was what the doctors said when they 
 vere sent for. She had been dead some hours — 
 she had died of disease of the heart, and ap- 
 parently without any pain or knowledge of the 
 change coming to her. Her face was serene and 
 beautiful, and the rigid look had melted away. 
 Someone said she looked like little Mademoiselle 
 Elizabeth ; and her old servant Alice wept very 
 much, and said, " Yes — yes — it was so when she 
 was young, before her unhappiness came. She 
 had the same beautiful little face, but she was 
 more gay, more of the world. Yes, they were 
 much alike then." 
 
 Less than two months from that time Elizabeth 
 was living in the home of her Uncle Bertrand, 
 in New York. He had come to Normandy for 
 her himself, and taken her back with him across 
 the Atlantic. She was richer than ever now, as a 
 great deal of her Aunt Clotilde's money had been 
 left to her, and Uncle Bertrand was her guardian. 
 He was a handsome, elegant, clever man, who, 
 having lived long in America and being fond of 
 
»T WAS AUNT CLOTILDE, WHO HAD SUNK FORWARD WHILE KNEELING 
 AT PRAYER. 
 
Little Saint Elizabeth 99 
 
 American life, did not appear very much like a 
 Frenchman — at least he did not appear so to 
 Elizabeth, who had only seen the cure" and the 
 doctor of the village. Secretly he was very 
 much embarrassed at the prospect of taking care 
 of a little girl, but family pride, and the fact that 
 such a very little girl, who was also such a very 
 great heiress, must be taken care of sustained 
 him. But when he first saw Elizabeth he could 
 not restrain an exclamation of consternation. 
 
 She entered the room, when she was sent for, 
 clad in a strange little nun -like robe of black 
 serge, made as like her dead aunt's as possible. 
 At her small waist were the rosary and crucifix, 
 and in her hand she held a missal she had for- 
 gotten in her agitation to lay down 
 
 " But, my dear child," exclaimed Uncle Ber- 
 trand, staring at her aghast. 
 
 He managed to recover himself very quickly, 
 and was, in his way, very kind to her ; but the 
 first thing he did was to send to Paris for a 
 fashionable maid and fashionable mourning. 
 
 " Because, as you will see," he remarked to 
 Alice, " we cannot travel as we are. It is a 
 costume for a convent or the stage." 
 
 Before she took off her little conventual robe, 
 Elizabeth went to the village to visit all her 
 poor. The cure" went with her and shed tears 
 himself when the people wept and kissed her 
 
ioo Little Saint Elizabeth 
 
 little hand. When the child returned, she went 
 into* the chapel and remained there for a long 
 time. 
 
 She felt as if she was living in a dream when 
 all the old life was left behind and she found her- 
 self in the big luxurious house in the gay New 
 York street. Nothing that could be done for her 
 comfort had been left undone. She had several 
 beautiful rooms, a wonderful governess, different 
 masters to teach her, her own retinue of servants 
 as, indeed, has been already said. 
 
 But, secretly, she felt bewildered and almost 
 terrified, everything was so new, so strange, so 
 noisy, and so brilliant. The dress she wore made 
 her feel unlike herself ; the books they gave her 
 were full of pictures and stories of worldly things 
 of which she knew nothing. Her carriage was 
 brought to the door and she went out with her 
 governess, driving round and round the park with 
 scores of other people who looked at her curi- 
 ously, she did not know why. The truth was 
 that her refined little face was very beautiful in 
 deed, and her soft dark eyes still wore the dreamy 
 spiritual look which made her unlike the rest of 
 the world. 
 
 " She looks like a little princess," she heard her 
 uncle say one day. " She will be some day a 
 beautiful, an enchanting woman — her mother was 
 so when she died at twenty, but she had been 
 
Little Saint Elizabeth 101 
 
 brought up differently. This one is a little devo- 
 tee. I am afraid of her. Her governess tells me 
 she rises in the night to pray." He said it with 
 light laughter to some of his gay friends by whom 
 he had wished the child to be seen. He did not 
 know that his gayety filled her with fear and 
 pain. She had been taught to believe gayety 
 worldly and sinful, and his whole life was filled 
 with it. He had brilliant parties — he did not go 
 to church — he had no pensioners — he seemed to 
 think of nothing but pleasure. Poor little Saint 
 Elizabeth prayed for his soul many an hour when 
 he was asleep after a grand dinner or supper 
 party. 
 
 He could not possibly have dreamed that there 
 was no one of whom she stood in such dread ; 
 her timidity increased tenfold in his presence. 
 When he sent for her and she went into the li- 
 brary to find him luxurious in his arm chair, a 
 novel on his knee, a cigar in his white hand, a 
 tolerant, half cynical smile on his handsome mouth, 
 she could scarcely answer his questions, and could 
 never find courage to tell what she so earnestly 
 desired. She had found out early that Aunt Clo- 
 tilde and the cure", and the life they had led, had 
 only aroused in his mind a half-pitying amuse- 
 ment. It seemed to her that he did not under- 
 stand and had strange sacrilegious thoughts about 
 them — he did not believe in miracles — he smiled 
 
102 Little Saint Elizabeth 
 
 when she spoke of saints. How could she tell 
 hifri that she wished to spend all her money in 
 building churches and giving alms to the poor? 
 That was what she wished to tell him — that she 
 wanted money to send back to the village, that 
 she wanted to give it to the poor people she saw 
 in the streets, to those who lived in the miserable 
 places. 
 
 But when she found herself face to face with 
 him and he said some witty thing to her and 
 seemed to find her only amusing, all her courage 
 failed her. Sometimes she thought she would 
 throw herself upon her knees before him and beg 
 him to send her back to Normandy — to let her 
 live alone in the chdteau as her Aunt Clotilde had 
 done. 
 
 One morning she arose very early, and knelt a 
 long time before the little altar she had made for 
 herself in her dressing room. It was only a 
 table with some black velvet thrown over it, a 
 crucifix, a saintly image, and some flowers stand- 
 ing upon it. She had put on, when she got up, 
 the quaint black serge robe, because she felt more 
 at home in it, and her heart was full of determina- 
 tion. The night before she had received a letter 
 from the curt and it had contained sad news. A 
 fever had broken out in her beloved village, the 
 vines had done badly, there was sickness among 
 the cattle, there was already beginning to be 
 
THE VILLAGERS DID NOT p T 4ISD | N AWfc F HER. 
 
Little Saint Elizabeth 105 
 
 suffering, and if something were not done for the 
 people they would not know how to face the win- 
 ter. In the time of Mademoiselle de Rochemont 
 they had always been made comfortable and 
 happy at Christmas. What was to be done ? The 
 cure" ventured to write to Mademoiselle Eliza- 
 beth. 
 
 The poor child had scarcely slept at all. Her 
 dear village! Her dear people! The children 
 would be hungry ; the cows would die ; there 
 would be no fires to warm those who were old. 
 
 " I must go to uncle," she said, pale and trem- 
 bling. " I must ask him to give me money. I 
 am afraid, but it is right to mortify the spirit. 
 The martyrs went to the stake. The holy Saint 
 Elizabeth was ready to endure anything that she 
 might do her duty and help the poor." 
 
 Because she had been called Elizabeth she had 
 thought and read a great deal of the saint whose 
 namesake she was — the saintly Elizabeth whose 
 husband was so wicked and cruel, and who wished 
 to prevent her from doing good deeds. And 
 oftenest of all she had read the legend which told 
 that one day as Elizabeth went out with a basket 
 of food to give to the poor and hungry, she had 
 met he v savage husband, who had demanded that 
 she should tell him what she was carrying, and 
 when she replied " Roses," and he tore the cover 
 from the basket to see il she spoke the truth, 1 
 
106 Little Saint Elizabeth 
 
 miracle had been performed, and the basket was 
 filled with roses, so that she had been saved from 
 her husband's cruelty, and also from telling an 
 untruth. To little Elizabeth this legend had been 
 beautiful and quite real — it proved that if one 
 were doing good, the saints would take care of 
 one. Since she had been in her new home, she 
 had, half consciously, compared her Uncle Ber- 
 trand with the wicked Landgrave, though she 
 was too gentle and just to think he was really 
 cruel, as Saint Elizabeth's husband had been, only 
 he did not care for the poor, and loved only the 
 world — and surely that was wicked. She had 
 been taught that to care for the world at all was 
 a fatal sin. 
 
 She did not eat any breakfast. She thought 
 she would fast until she had done what she in- 
 tended to do. It had been her Aunt Clotilde's 
 habit to fast very often. 
 
 She waited anxiously to hear that her Uncle 
 Bertrand had left his room. He always rose late, 
 and this morning he was later than usual as he 
 had had a long gay dinner party the night before. 
 
 It was nearly twelve before she heard his door 
 open. Then she went quickly to the staircase. 
 Her heart was beating so fast that she put her 
 little hand to her side and waited a moment to re- 
 gain her breath. She felt quite cold. 
 
 " Perhaps I must wait until he has eaten his 
 
Little Saint Elizabeth 107 
 
 breakfast," she said. " Perhaps I must not dis- 
 turb him yet. It would make him displeased. I 
 will wait — yes, for a little while." 
 
 She did not return to her room, but waited 
 upon the stairs. It seemed to be a long time. It 
 appeared that a friend breakfasted with him. She 
 heard a gentleman come in and recognized his 
 voice, which she had heard before. She did not 
 know what the gentleman's name was, but she 
 had met him going in and out with her uncle once 
 or twice, and had thought he had a kind face 
 and kind eyes. He had looked at her in an inter- 
 ested way when he spoke to her — even as if he 
 were a little curious, and she had wondered why 
 he did so. 
 
 When the door of the breakfast room opened 
 and shut as the servants went in, she could hear 
 the two laughing and talking. They seemed to 
 be enjoying themselves very much. Once she 
 heard an order given for the mail phaeton. 
 They were evidently going out as soon as the 
 meal was over. 
 
 At last the door opened and they were coming 
 out. Elizabeth ran down the stairs and stood in 
 a small reception room. Her heart began to beat 
 faster than ever. 
 
 " The blessed martyrs were not afraid," she 
 whispered to herself. 
 
 " Uncle Bertrand ! " she said, as he approached, 
 
io8 Little Saint Elizabeth 
 
 and she scarcely knew her own faint voice. 
 " Uncle Bertrand " 
 
 He turned, and seeing her, started, and ex- 
 claimed, rather impatiently — evidently he was at 
 once amazed and displeased to see her. He was 
 in a hurry to get out, and the sight of her odd 
 little figure, standing in its straight black robe 
 between the portieres, the slender hands clasped on 
 the breast, the small pale face and great dark 
 eyes uplifted, was certainly a surprise to him. 
 
 " Elizabeth ! " he said, " what do you wish ? 
 Why do you come downstairs ? And that impos- 
 sible dress ! Why do you wear it again ? It is 
 not suitable." 
 
 " Uncle Bertrand," said the child, clasping her 
 hands still more tightly, her eyes growing larger 
 in her excitement and terror under his dis- 
 pleasure, " it is that I want money — a great deal. 
 I beg your pardon if I derange you. It is for the 
 poor. Moreover, the curt has written the people 
 of the village are ill — the vineyards did not yield 
 well. They must have money. I must send them 
 some." 
 
 Uncle Bertrand shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " That is the message of monsieur le cure", is it ? " 
 he said. " He wants money ! My dear Elizabeth, 
 I must inquire further. You have a fortune, but I 
 cannot permit you to throw it away. You are a 
 child, and do not understand " 
 
"UNCLE BERTRAND," SAID THE CHILD, CLAsHlNu UfcK HAWDS 
 
Little Saint Elizabeth in 
 
 "But," cried Elizabeth, trembling with agita. 
 tion, " they are so poor when one does not help 
 them : their vineyards are so little, and if the year 
 is bad they must starve. Aunt Clotilde gave to 
 them every year — even in the good years. She 
 said they must be cared for like children." 
 
 11 That was your Aunt Clotilde's charity," re- 
 plied her uncle. " Sometimes she was not so wist 
 as she was devout. I must know more of this. 
 I have no time at present. I am going out of 
 town. In a few days I will reflect upon it. Tell 
 your maid to give that hideous garment away. 
 Go out to drive — amuse yourself — you are too 
 pale." 
 
 Elizabeth looked at his handsome, careless face 
 in utter helplessness. This was a matter of life 
 and death to her ; to him it meant nothing. 
 
 " But it is winter," she panted, breathlessly ; 
 " there is snow. Soon it will be Christmas, and 
 they will have nothing — no candles for the church, 
 no little manger for the holy child, nothing for 
 the poorest ones. And the children " 
 
 " It shall be thought of later," said Uncle Ber- 
 trand. " I am too busy now. Be reasonable, my 
 child, and run away. You detain me." 
 
 He left her with a slight impatient shrug of his 
 shoulders and the -slight amused smile on his 
 lips. She heard him speak to his friend. 
 
 " She was brought up by one who had renounced 
 
U2 Little Saint Elizabeth 
 
 the world," he said, "and she has already re* 
 nouhced it herself — pauvre petite enfant! At 
 eleven years she wishes to devote her fortune to 
 the poor and herself to the Church." 
 
 Elizabeth sank back into the shadow of the 
 portieres. Great burning tears filled her eyes and 
 slipped down her cheeks, falling upon her breast. 
 
 " He does not care," she said ; " he does not 
 know. And I do no one good — no one." And 
 she covered her face with her hands and stood 
 sobbing all alone. 
 
 When she returned to her room she was so pale 
 that her maid looked at her anxiously, and spoke 
 of it afterwards to the other servants. They were 
 all fond of Mademoiselle Elizabeth. She was al- 
 ways kind and gentle to everybody. 
 
 Nearly all the day she sat, poor little saint ! by 
 her window looking out at the passers-by in the 
 snowy street. But she scarcely saw the people at 
 all, her thoughts were far away, in the little vil- 
 lage where she had always spent her Christmas 
 before. Her Aunt Clotilde had allowed her at 
 such times to do so much. There had not been 
 a house she had not carried some gift to ; not a 
 child who had been forgotten. And the church 
 on Christmas morning had been so beautiful with 
 flowers from the hot- houses of the chdteau. It 
 was for the church, indeed, that the conserva- 
 tories were chiefly kept up. Mademoiselle de 
 
Little Saint Elizabeth 113 
 
 Rochemont would scarcely have permitted her- 
 self such luxuries. 
 
 But there would not be flowers this year, the 
 chdteau was closed ; there were no longer garden- 
 ers at work, the church would be bare and cold, 
 the people would have no gifts, there would be 
 no pleasure in the little peasants' faces. Little 
 Saint Elizabeth wrung her slight hands together 
 in her lap. 
 
 "Oh," she cried, "what can I do? And then 
 there is the poor here — so many. And I do noth- 
 ing. The Saints will be angry ; they will not in- 
 tercede for me. I shall be lost ! " 
 
 It was not alone the poor she had left in her 
 village who were a grief to her. As she drove 
 through the streets she saw now and then hag- 
 gard faces ; and when she had questioned a servant 
 who had one day come to her to ask for charity 
 for a poor child at the door, she had found that 
 in parts of this great, bright city which she had 
 not seen, there was said to be cruei want and suf- 
 fering, as in all great cities. 
 
 "And it is so cold now," she thought, "with 
 the snow on the ground." 
 
 The lamps in the street were just beginning to 
 
 be lighted when her Uncle Bertrand returned. It 
 
 appeared that he had brought back with him the 
 
 gentleman with the kind face. They were to dine 
 
 together, and Uncle Bertrand desired that Mad« 
 08 
 
114 Little Saint Elizabeth 
 
 emoiselle Elizabeth should join them. Evidently 
 the "journey out of town had been delayed for a 
 day at least. There came also another message : 
 Monsieur de Rochemont wished Mademoiselle to 
 send to him by her maid a certain box of antique" 
 ornaments which had been given to her by her 
 Aunt Clotilde. Elizabeth had known less of the 
 value of these jewels than of their beauty. She 
 knew they were beautiful, and that they had be- 
 longed to her Aunt Clotilde in the gay days of her 
 triumphs as a beauty and a brilliant and adored 
 young woman, but it seemed that they were also 
 very curious, and Monsieur de Rochemont wished 
 his friend to see them. When Elizabeth went 
 downstairs she found them examining them to- 
 gether. 
 
 " They must be put somewhere for safe keep- 
 ing," Uncle Bertrand was saying. " It should 
 have been done before. I will attend to it." 
 
 The gentleman with the kind eyes looked at 
 Elizabeth with an interested expression as she 
 came into the room. Her slender little figure in 
 its black velvet dress, her delicate little face with 
 its large soft sad eyes, the gentle gravity of her 
 manner made her seem quite unlike other chil- 
 dren. 
 
 He did not seem simply to find her amusing, as 
 her Uncle Bertrand did. She was always con- 
 scious that behind Uncle Bertrand's most serious 
 
Little Saint Elizabeth 115 
 
 expression there was lurking a faint smile as he 
 watched her, but this visitor looked at her in a 
 different way. He was a doctor, she discovered. 
 Dr. Norris, her uncle called him, and Elizabeth 
 wondered if perhaps his profession had not made 
 him quick of sight and kind. 
 
 She felt that it must be so when she heard him 
 talk at dinner. She found that he did a great 
 deal of work among the very poor — that he had 
 a hospital, where he received little children who 
 were ill — who had perhaps met with accidents, 
 and could not be taken care of in their wretched 
 homes. He spoke most frequently of terrible 
 quarters, which he called Five Points ; the great- 
 est poverty and suffering was there. And he 
 spoke of it with such eloquent sympathy, that 
 even Uncle Bertrand began to listen with in- 
 terest. 
 
 " Come," he said, " you are a rich, idle fellow, 
 De Rochemont, and we want rich, idle fellows to 
 come and look into all this and do something for 
 us. You must let me take you with me some 
 day." 
 
 " It would disturb me too much, my good Nor- 
 ris," said Uncle Bertrand, with a slight shudder. 
 " I should not enjoy my dinner after it." 
 
 " Then go without your dinner," said Dr. Nor- 
 ris. "These people do. Y^u have too many 
 dinners. Give up one." 
 
n6 Little Saint Elizabeth 
 
 Uncle Bertrand shrugged his shoulders and 
 smiled, 
 
 " It is Elizabeth who fasts," he said. " Myself, 
 I prefer to dine. And yet, some day, I may have 
 the fancy to visit this place with you." 
 
 Elizabeth could scarcely have been said to dine 
 this evening. She could not eat. She sat with 
 her large, sad eyes fixed upon Dr. Norris' face as 
 he talked. Every word he uttered sank deep into 
 her heart. The want and suffering of which he 
 spoke were more terrible than anything she had 
 ever heard of — it had been nothing like this in 
 the village. Oh ! no, no. As she thought of it 
 there was such a look in her dark eyes as almost 
 startled Dr. Norris several times when he glanced 
 at her, but as he did not know the particulars of 
 her life with her aunt and the strange training she 
 had had, he could not possibly have guessed what 
 was going on in her mind, and how much effect 
 his stories were having. The beautiful little face 
 touched him very much, and the pretty French 
 accent with which the child spoke seemed very 
 musical to him, and added a great charm to the 
 gentle, serious answers she made to the remarks 
 he addressed to her. He could not help seeing 
 that something had made little Mademoiselle 
 Elizabeth a pathetic and singular little creature, 
 and he continually wondered what it was. 
 
 " Do you think she is a happy child ? " he asked 
 
Little Saint Elizabeth 1 1} 
 
 Monsieur de Rochemont when they were alone 
 together over their cigars and wine. 
 
 " Happy ? " said Uncle Bertrand, with his light 
 smile. " She has been taught, my friend, that to be 
 nappy upon earth is a crime. That was my good 
 sister's creed. One must devote one's self, r.ot to 
 happiness, but entirely to good works. I think I 
 have told you that she, this little one, desires to 
 give all her fortune to the poor. Having heard 
 you this evening, she will wish to bestow it upon 
 your Five Points." 
 
 When, having retired from the room with a 
 grave and stately little obeisance to her uncle 
 and his guest, Elizabeth had gone upstairs, it had 
 not been with the intention of going to bed. 
 She sent her maid away and knelt before her altar 
 for a long time. 
 
 " The Saints will tell me what to do," she said. 
 " The good Saints, who are always gracious, they 
 will vouchsafe to me some thought which will in- 
 struct me if I remain long enough at prayer." 
 
 She remained in prayer a long time. When at 
 last she arose from her knees it was long past 
 midnight, and she was tired and weak, but the 
 thought had not been given to her. 
 
 But just as she laid her head upon her pillow it 
 came. The ornaments given to her by her Aunt 
 Clotilde somebody would buy them. They were 
 her own — it would be right to sell them '—to what 
 
n8 Little Saint Elizabeth 
 
 better use could they be put ? Was it not what 
 Aunt Clotilde would have desired ? Had she not 
 told her stories of the good and charitable who 
 had sold the clothes from their bodies that the 
 miserable might be helped? Yes, it was right. 
 These things must be done. All else was vain 
 and useless and of the world. But it would re- 
 quire courage — great courage. To go out alone 
 to find a place where the people would buy the 
 jewels — perhaps there might be some who would 
 not want them. And then when they were sold 
 to find this poor and unhappy quarter of which 
 her uncle's guest had spoken, and to give to those 
 who needed — all by herself. Ah ! what courage ft 
 would require. And then Uncle Bertrand, some 
 day he would ask about the ornaments, and dis- 
 cover all, and his anger might be terrible. No 
 one had ever been angry with her ; how could 
 she bear it. But had not the Saints and Martyrs 
 borne everything ? had they not gone to the stake 
 and the rack with smiles? She thought of Saint 
 Elizabeth and the cruel Landgrave. It could not 
 be even so bad as that — but whatever the result 
 was it must be borne. 
 
 So at last she slept, and there was upon her 
 gentle little face so sweetly sad a look that when 
 her maid came to waken her in the morning she 
 stood by the bedside for some moments looking 
 down upon her pityingly. 
 
Little Saint Elizabeth 119 
 
 The day seemed very long and sorrowful to the 
 poor child. It was full of anxious thoughts and 
 plannings. She was so innocent and inexpe- 
 rienced, so ignorant of all practical things. She 
 had decided that it would be best to wait until 
 evening before going out, and then to take the 
 jewels and try to sell them to some jeweller. She 
 did not understand the difficulties that would lie 
 in her way, but she felt very timid. 
 
 Her maid had asked permission to go out for 
 the evening and Monsieur de Rochemont was to 
 dine out, so that she found it possible to leave the 
 house without attracting attention. 
 
 As soon as the streets were lighted she took the 
 case of ornaments, and going downstairs very 
 quietly, let herself out. The servants were din- 
 ing, and she was seen by none of them. 
 
 When she found herself in the snowy street she 
 felt strangely bewildered. She had never been 
 out unattended before, and she knew nothing of 
 the great busy city. When she turned into the 
 more crowded thoroughfares, she saw several 
 times that the passers-by glanced at her curiously. 
 Her timid look, her foreign air and richly furred 
 dress, and the fact that she was a child and alone 
 at such an hour, could not fail to attract atten- 
 tion ; but though she felt confused and troubled 
 she went bravely on. It was some time before 
 she found a jeweller's shop, and when she en- 
 
120 Little Saint Elizabeth 
 
 tered it the men behind the counter looked at her 
 in amazement. But she went to the one nearest 
 to her and laid the case of jewels on the counter 
 before him. 
 
 " 1 wish, sne said, in her soft low voice, ana 
 with the pretty accent, " I wish that you should 
 buy these." 
 
 The man stared at her, and at the ornaments, 
 and then at her again. 
 
 " I beg pardon, miss," he said. 
 
 Elizabeth repeated her request. 
 
 " I will speak to Mr. Moetyler," he said, after a 
 moment of hesitation. 
 
 He went to the other end of the shop to an 
 elderly man who sat behind a desk. After he had 
 spoken a few words, the elderly man looked up 
 as if surprised ; then he glanced at Elizabeth ; 
 then, after speaking a few more words, he came 
 forward. 
 
 " You wish to sell these ? " he said, looking at 
 the case of jewels with a puzzled expression. 
 
 " Yes," Elizabeth answered. 
 
 He bent over the case and took up one orna- 
 ment after the other and examined them closely. 
 After he had done this he looked at the little 
 girl's innocent, trustful face, seeming more puz« 
 zled than before. 
 
 " Are they your own ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Yes, they are mine," she replied, timidly. 
 
Little Saint Elizabeth 121 
 
 * Do you know how much they are worth? " 
 
 " I know that they are worth much money," 
 said Elizabeth. " I have heard it said so." 
 
 " Do your friends know that you are going to 
 sell them ? " 
 
 " No," Elizabeth said, a faint color rising in 
 her delicate face. " But it is right that I should 
 do it." 
 
 The man spent a few moments in examining 
 them again and, having done so, spoke hesitat- 
 ingly. 
 
 " I am afraid we cannot buy them," he said. " It 
 would be impossible, unless your friends first gave 
 their permission." 
 
 " Impossible ! " said Elizabeth, and tears rose in 
 her eyes, making them look softer and more wist- 
 ful than ever. 
 
 " We could not do it," said the jeweller. " It is 
 out of the question under the circumstances." 
 
 " Do you think," faltered the poor little saint, 
 " do you think that nobody will buy them ? " 
 
 " I am afraid not," was the reply. " No re- 
 spectable firm who would pay their real value. If 
 you'll take my advice, young lady, you will take 
 them home and consult your friends." 
 
 He spoke kindly, but Elizabeth was over- 
 whelmed with disappointment. She did not 
 know enough of the world to understand tha* a 
 richly dressed little girl who offered valuable 
 
122 Little Saint Elizabeth 
 
 jewels for sale at night must be a strange and un- 
 usual sight. 
 
 When she found herself on the street again, her 
 long lashes were heavy with tears. 
 
 " If no one will buy them," she said, " what 
 shall I do ? " 
 
 She walked a long way — so long that she was 
 very tired — and offered them at several places, 
 but as she chanced to enter only respectable 
 shops, the same thing happened each time. She 
 was looked at curiously and questioned, but no 
 one would buy. 
 
 " They are mine," she would say. " It is right 
 that 1 should sell them." But everyone stared 
 and seemed puzzled, and in the ena refused. 
 
 At last, after much wandering, she found her- 
 self in a poorer quarter of the city ; the streets 
 were narrower and dirtier, and the people began 
 to look squalid and wretchedly dressed ; there 
 were smaller shops and dingy houses. She saw 
 unkempt men and women and uncared for little 
 children. The poverty of the poor she had seen 
 in her own village seemed comfort and luxury by 
 contrast. She had never dreamed of anything 
 like this. Now and then she felt faint with pain 
 and horror. But she went on. 
 
 " They have no vineyards," she said to hersell 
 " No trees and flowers — it is all dreadful — there is 
 nothing. They need help more than the others. 
 
Little Saint Elizabeth 123 
 
 To let them suffer so, and not to give them char< 
 ity, would be a great crime." 
 
 She was so full of grief and excitement that she 
 had ceased to notice how everyone looked at her 
 — she saw only the wretchedness, and dirt and 
 misery. She did not know, poor child ! that she 
 was surrounded by danger — that she was not 
 only in the midst of misery, but of dishonesty and 
 crime. She had even forgotten her timidity — 
 that it was growing late, and that she was far 
 from home, and would not know how to return — 
 she did not realize that she had walked so far 
 that she was almost exhausted with fatigue. 
 
 She had brought with her all the money she 
 possessed. If she could not sell the jewels she 
 could, at least, give something to someone in 
 want. But she did not know to whom she must 
 give first. When she had lived with her Aunt 
 Clotilde it had been their habit to visit the peas- 
 ants in their houses. Must she enter one of these 
 houses — these dreadful places with the dark pas- 
 sages, from which she heard many times riotous 
 voices, and even cries, issuing ? 
 
 " But those who do good must feel no fear," she 
 thought. " It is only to have courage." At length 
 something happened which caused her to pause 
 before one of those places. She heard sounds 
 of pitiful moans and sobbing from something 
 crouched upon the broken steps. It seemed like 
 
124 
 
 Little Saint Elizabeth 
 
 a heap of rags, but as she drew near she saw by 
 the light of the street lamp opposite that it was a 
 woman with her head in her knees, and a wretched 
 child on each side of her. The children were 
 shivering with cold and making low cries as if 
 they were frightened. 
 
 Elizabeth stopped and then ascended the steps. 
 
 " Why is it that you cry ? " she asked gently > 
 " Tell me." 
 
 The woman did not answer at first, but when 
 Elizabeth spoke again she lifted her head, and as 
 soon as she saw the slender figure in its velvet and 
 furs, and the pale, refined little face, she gave a 
 great start. 
 
 " Lord have mercy on yez ! " she said in a hoarse 
 voice which sounded almost terrified. " Who are 
 yez, an' what bees ye dow' in a place the loike o' 
 this?" 
 
 " I came," said Elizabeth, " to see those who are 
 poor. I wish to help them. I have great sorrow 
 for them. It is right that the rich should help 
 those who want. Tell me why you cry, and why 
 your little children sit in the cold." Everybody 
 had shown surprise to whom Elizabeth had 
 spoken to-night, but no one had stared as this 
 woman did. 
 
 " It's no place for the loike o' yez," she said. 
 
 " An' it black noight, an' men and women wild in 
 
 he drink ; an' Pat Harrigan insoide bloind an' 
 
"WHY IS IT THAT YOU CRY?" SHE ASKED GENTLY. 
 
Little Saint Elizabeth 127 
 
 mad in liquor, an' it's turned me an* the children 
 out he has to shlape in the snow — an' not the furst 
 toime either. An* it's starvin' we are — starvin' an' 
 no other," and she dropped her wretched head 
 on her knees and began to moan again, and the 
 children joined her. 
 
 " Don't let yez daddy hear yez," she said to 
 them. " Whisht now — it's come out an' kill yez 
 he will." 
 
 Elizabeth began to feel tremulous and faint. 
 
 " Is it that they have hunger ? " she asked. 
 
 " Not a bite or sup have they had this day, nor 
 yesterday," was the answer. " The good Saints 
 have pity on us." 
 
 " Yes," said Elizabeth, " the good Saints have 
 always pity. I will go and get some food — poor 
 little ones." 
 
 She had seen a shop only a few yards away — 
 she remembered passing it. Before the woman 
 could speak again she was gone. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " I was sent to them — it is the 
 answer to my prayer — it was not in vain that I 
 asked so long." 
 
 When she entered the shop the few people who 
 were in it stopped what they were doing to stare 
 at her as others had done — but she scarcely saw 
 that it was so. 
 
 " Give to me a basket," she said to the owner of 
 the place. " Put in it some bread and wine — some 
 
528 Little Saint Elizabeth 
 
 of the things which are ready to eat. It is for a 
 poor woman and her little ones who starve." 
 
 There was in the shop among others a red- 
 faced woman with a cunning look in her eyes. 
 She sidled out of the place and was waiting for 
 Elizabeth when she came out. 
 
 " I'm starvin' too, little lady," she said. " There's 
 many of us that way, an' it's not often them with 
 money care about it. Give me something too," 
 in a wheedling voice. 
 
 Elizabeth looked up at her, her pure ignorant 
 eyes full of pity. 
 
 " I have great sorrows for you," she said. " Per- 
 haps the poor woman will share her food with 
 you." 
 
 " It's the money I need," said the woman. 
 
 " I have none left," answered Elizabeth. " I 
 will come again." 
 
 " It's now I want it," the woman persisted. 
 Then she looked covetously at Elizabeth's velvet 
 fur-lined and trimmed cloak. " That's a pretty 
 cloak you've on," she said. " You've got another, 
 I daresay." 
 
 Suddenly she gave the cloak a pull, but the 
 fastening did not give way as she had thought 
 it would. 
 
 " Is it because you are cold that you want it ? * 
 said Elizabeth, in her gentle, innocent way. "f 
 will give it to you. Take it." 
 
Little Saint Elizabeth 129 
 
 Had not the holy ones in the legends given 
 their garments to the poor? Why should she 
 not give her cloak ? 
 
 In an instant it was unclasped and snatched 
 away, and the woman was gone. She did not even 
 stay long enough to give thanks for the gift, and 
 something in her haste and roughness made Eliza- 
 beth wonder and gave her a moment of tremor. 
 
 She made her way back to the place where the 
 other woman and her children had been sitting ; 
 the cold wind made her shiver, and the basket was 
 very heavy for her slender arm. Her strength 
 seemed to be giving way. 
 
 As she turned the corner, a great, fierce gust 
 of wind swept round it, and caught her breath 
 and made her stagger. She thought she was go- 
 ing to fall ; indeed, she would have fallen but that 
 one of the tall men who were passing put out his 
 arm and caught her. He was a well dressed man, 
 in a heavy overcoat ; he had gloves on. Eliza- 
 beth spoke in a faint tone. 
 
 " I thank you," she began, when the second man 
 uttered a wild exclamation and sprang forward. 
 
 " Elizabeth ! " he said, " Elizabeth ! " 
 
 Elizabeth looked up and uttered a cry herself. 
 It was her Uncle Bertrand who stood before her, 
 and his companion, who had saved her from fall- 
 ing, was Dr. Norris. 
 
 For a moment it seemed as if they were almost 
 
l$0 Little Saint Elizabeth 
 
 struck dumb with horror ; and then her Uncle 
 Bertrand seized her by the arm in such agitation 
 that he scarcely seemed himself — not the light, 
 satirical, jesting Uncle Bertrand she had known 
 at all. 
 
 " What does it mean ? " he cried. " What are 
 you doing here, in this horrible place alone ? Do 
 you know where it is you have come ? What 
 have you in your basket ? Explain ! explain ! " 
 
 The moment of trial had come, and it seemed 
 even more terrible than the poor child had imag- 
 ined. The long strain and exertion had been too 
 much for her delicate body. She felt that she 
 could bear no more ; the cold seemed to have 
 struck to her very heart. She looked up at 
 Monsieur de Rochemont's pale, excited face, and 
 trembled from head to foot. A strange thought 
 flashed into her mind. Saint Elizabeth, of Thurin- 
 gia — the cruel Landgrave. Perhaps the Saints 
 would help her, too, since she was trying to do 
 their bidding. Surely, surely it must be so ! 
 
 "Speak!" repeated Monsieur de Rochemont. 
 s ' Why is this ? The basket — what have you in 
 it?" 
 
 " Roses," said Elizabeth, " Roses." And then 
 her strength deserted her — she fell upon her knees 
 in the snow — the basket slipped from her arm, 
 and the first thing which fell from it was — no, not 
 roses, — there had been no miracle wrought — not 
 
HER STRENGTH DESERTED HER— SHE FELL UPON HER KNEES IN THE SNOW. 
 
Little Saint Elizabeth 133 
 
 roses, but the case of jewels which she had laid 
 on the top of the other things that it might b© 
 the more easily carried. 
 
 "Roses!" cried Uncle Bertrand. "Is it that 
 the child is mad ? They are the jewels of my sis- 
 ter Clotilde." 
 
 Elizabeth clasped her hands and leaned towards 
 Dr. Norris, the tears streaming from her uplifted 
 eyes. 
 
 " Ah ! monsieur," she sobbed, " you will under- 
 stand. It was for the poor — they suffer so much. 
 If we do not help them our souls will be lost. I 
 did not mean to speak falsely. I thought the 
 
 Saints — the Saints " But her sobs filled her 
 
 throat, and she could not finish. Dr. Norris 
 stopped, and took her in his strong arms as if she 
 had been a baby. 
 
 " Quick ! " he said, imperatively ; " we must re- 
 turn to the carriage, De Rochemont. This is a 
 serious matter." 
 
 Elizabeth clung to him with trembling hands. 
 
 " But the poor woman who starves ? " she cried. 
 " The little children — they sit up on the step quite 
 neat -the food was for them ! I pray you give it 
 to th^iv.." 
 
 " Yes, they shall have it," said the Doctor. 
 " Take the basket, De Rochemont — only a few 
 doors below." And it appeared that there was 
 something in his voice which seemed to render 
 
134 Little Saint Elizabeth 
 
 obedience necessary, for Monsieur de Rochemont 
 actually did as he was told. 
 
 For a moment Dr. Norris put Elizabeth on her 
 feet again, but it was only while he removed his 
 overcoat and wrapped it about her slight shiver, 
 ing body. 
 
 " You are chilled through, poor child," he said ; 
 " and you are not strong enough to walk just 
 now. You must let me carry you." 
 
 It was true that a sudden faintness had come 
 upon her, and she could not restrain the shudder 
 which shook her. It still shook her when she 
 was placed in the carriage which the two gentle- 
 men had thought it wiser to leave in one of the 
 more respectable streets when they went to ex- 
 plore the worse ones together. 
 
 " What might not have occurred if we had not 
 arrived at that instant ! " said Uncle Bertrand 
 when he got into the carriage. " As it is who 
 knows what illness " 
 
 " It will be better to say as little as possible 
 now," said Dr. Norris. 
 
 u It was for the poor," said Elizabeth, trembling. 
 " I had prayed to the Saints to tell me what was 
 best. I thought I must go. I did not mean to do 
 wrong. It was for the poor." 
 
 And while her Uncle Bertrand regarded her 
 with a strangely agitated look, and Dr. Norris 
 held her hand between his strong and warm 
 
Little Saint Elizabeth 135 
 
 ones, the tears rolled down her pure, pale little 
 face. 
 
 She did not know until some time after what 
 danger she had been in, that the part of the city 
 into which she had wandered was the lowest and 
 worst, and was in some quarters the home ot 
 thieves and criminals of every class. As her Un~ 
 cle Bertrand had said, it was impossible to say 
 what terrible thing might have happened if they 
 had not met her so soon. It was Dr. Norris who 
 explained it all to her as gently and kindly as was 
 possible. She had always been fragile, and she 
 had caught a severe cold which caused her an ill- 
 ness of some weeks. It was Dr. Norris who took 
 care of her, and it was not long before her timid- 
 ity was forgotten in her tender and trusting affec- 
 tion for him. She learned to watch for his com- 
 ing, and to feel that she was no longer lonely. It 
 was through him that her uncle permitted her to 
 send to the curt a sum of money large enough to 
 do all that was necessary. It was through him 
 that the poor woman and her children were 
 clothed and fed and protected. When she was 
 well enough, he had promised that she should 
 help him among his own poor. And through him 
 — though she lost none of her sweet sympathy for 
 those who suffered — she learned to live a more 
 natural and child-like life, and to find that there 
 were innocent, natural pleasures to be enjoyed in 
 
136 Little Saint Elizabeth 
 
 thq world. In time she even ceased to be afraid 
 of her Uncle Bertrand, and to be quite happy in 
 the great beautiful house. And as for Uncle Ber- 
 trand himself, he became very fond of her, and 
 sometimes even helped her to dispense her char- 
 ities. He had a light, gay nature, but he was 
 kind at heart, and always disliked to see or think 
 of suffering. Now and then he would give more 
 lavishly than wisely, and then he would say, with 
 his habitual graceful shrug of the shoulders — 
 
 "Yes, it appears I am not discreet. Finally, I 
 think I must leave my charities to you, my good 
 Norris — to you and Little Saint Elizabeth." 
 
THE 
 
 STORY OF PRINCE FAIRYFOOI 
 
PREFATORY NOTE 
 
 " Thb Story of Prince Fairyfoot " was originally intended to 
 be the first of a series, under the general title of " Stories from the Lost 
 Fairy-Book, Re-told by the Child Who Read Them," concerning which 
 Mrs. Burnett relates : 
 
 " When I was a child of six or seven, I had given to me a book of fairy-stories, of 
 which I was very fond. Before it had been in my possession many months, it disap- 
 peared, and, though since then I have tried repeatedly, both in England and 
 America, to find a copy of it, I have never been able to do so. I asked a friend in 
 the Congressional Library at Washington — a man whose knowledge of books is al- 
 most unlimited — to try to learn something about it for me. But even he could find 
 no trace of it ; and so we concluded it must have been out of print some time. I al- 
 ways remembered the impression the stories had made on me, and, though most of 
 them had become very faint recollections, I frequently told them to children, with 
 additions of my own. The story of Fairyfoot I had promised to tell a little girl ; and, 
 in accordance with the promise, I developed the outline I remembered, introduced 
 .iew characters and conversation, wrote it upon note paper, inclosed it in a decorated 
 satin cover, and sent it to her. In the first place, it was re-written merely for her, 
 with no intention of publication ; but she was so delighted with it, and read and re- 
 read it so untiringly, that it occurred to me other children might like to hear it also. 
 So I made the plan of developing and re-writing the other stories in like manner, and 
 having them published under the title of ' Stories from the Lost Fairy-Book, Re-told 
 by the Child Who Read Them.'" 
 
 The little volume in question Mrs. Burnett afterwards discovered to 
 be entitled " Granny's Wonderful Chair and the Tales it Told." 
 
THE 
 
 STORY OF PRINCE FAIRYFOOT 
 
 PART I 
 
 ONCE upon a time, in the days of the fairies, 
 there was in the far west country a kingdom 
 which was called by the name of Stumpinghame. 
 It was a rather curious country in several ways. 
 In the first place, the people who lived there 
 thought that Stumpinghame was all the world; 
 they thought there was no world at all outside 
 Stumpinghame. And they thought that the peo- 
 ple of Stumpinghame knew everything that could 
 possibly be known, and that what they did not 
 know was of no consequence at all. 
 
 One idea common in Stumpinghame was really 
 very unusual indeed. It was a peculiar taste in 
 the matter of feet. In Stumpinghame, the larger 
 a person's feet were, the more beautiful and ele- 
 gant he or she was considered; and the more 
 aristocratic and nobly born a man was, the more 
 immense were his feet. Only the very lowest 
 and most vulgar persons were ever known to 
 
140 The Story of Prince Fairy foot 
 
 have small feet. The King's feet were simply 
 huge ; so were the Queen's; so were those of the 
 young princes and princesses. It had never oc- 
 curred to anyone that a member of such a royal 
 family could possibly disgrace himself by being 
 born with small feet. Well, you may imagine, 
 then, what a terrible and humiliating state of af- 
 fairs arose when there was born into that royal 
 family a little son, a prince, whose feet were so 
 very small and slender and delicate that they 
 would have been considered small even in other 
 places than Stumpinghame. Grief and confusion 
 seized the entire nation. The Queen fainted six 
 times a day ; the King had black rosettes fastened 
 upon his crown; all the flags were at half-mast; 
 and the court went into the deepest mourning. 
 There had been born to Stumpinghame a royal 
 prince with small feet, and nobody knew how the 
 country could survive it ! 
 
 Yet the disgraceful little prince survived it, and 
 did not seem to mind at all. He was the prettiest 
 and best tempered baby the royal nurse had ever 
 seen. But for his small feet, he would have been 
 the flower of the family. The royal nurse said to 
 herself, and privately told his little royal high- 
 ness's chief bottle-washer that she "never see a 
 hinfant as took notice so, and sneezed as hintelli- 
 gent." But, of course, the King and Queen could 
 see nothing but his little feet, and very soon they 
 
The Story of Prince Fairy foot 141 
 
 made up their minds to send him away. So one 
 day they had him bundled up and carried where 
 they thought he might be quite forgotten. They 
 sent him to the hut of a swineherd who lived 
 deep, deep in a great forest which seemed to end 
 nowhere. 
 
 They gave the swineherd some money, and 
 some clothes for Fairyfoot, and told him, that if 
 he would take care of the child, they would send 
 money and clothes every year. As for them- 
 selves, they only wished to be sure of never see- 
 ing Fairyfoot again. 
 
 This pleased the swineherd well enough. He 
 was poor, and he had a wife and ten children, and 
 hundreds of swine to take care of, and he knew 
 he could use the little Prince's money and clothes 
 for his own family, and no one would find it out. 
 So he let his wife take the little fellow, and as soon 
 as the King's messengers had gone, the woman took 
 the royal clothes off the Prince and put on him a 
 coarse little nightgown, and gave all his things to 
 her own children. But <;he baby Prince did not 
 seem to mind that — he diii not seem to mind any. 
 thing, even though he had no name but Prince 
 Fairyfoot, which had been given him in contempt 
 by the disgusted courtiers. He grew prettier and 
 prettier every day, and long before the time when 
 other children begin to walk, he could run about 
 on his fairy feet. 
 
[42 The Story of Prince Fairyfoot 
 
 The swineherd and his wife did not like him at 
 all ; in fact, they disliked him because he was so 
 much prettier and so much brighter than their 
 own clumsy children. And the children did 
 not like him, because they were ill natured and 
 only liked themselves. 
 
 So as he grew older year by year, the poor 
 little Prince was more and more lonely. He had 
 no one to play with, and was obliged to be always 
 by himself. He dressed only in the coarsest and 
 roughest clothes ; he seldom had enough to eat, 
 and he slept on straw in a loft under the roof of 
 the swineherd's hut. But all this did not prevent 
 his being strong and rosy and active. He was as 
 fleet as the wind, and he had a voice as sweet as 
 a bird's ; he had lovely sparkling eyes, and bright 
 golden hair; and he had so kind a heart that he 
 would not have done a wrong or cruel thing for 
 the world. As soon as he was big enough, the 
 swineherd made him go out into the forest every 
 day to take care of the swine. He was obliged 
 to keep them together in one place, and if any of 
 them ran away into the forest, Prince Fairyfoot 
 was beaten. And as the swine were very wild 
 and unruly, he was very often beaten, because it 
 was almost impossible to keep them from wander- 
 ing off; and when they ran away, they ran so 
 fast, and through places so tangled, that it was 
 almost impossible to follow them. 
 
The Story of Prince Fairy foot 143 
 
 The forest in which he had to spend the long 
 days was a very beautiful one, however, and he 
 could take pleasure in that. It was a forest so 
 great that it was like a world in itself. There 
 were in it strange, splendid trees, the branches of 
 which interlocked overhead, and when their many 
 leaves moved and rustled, it seemed as if they 
 were whispering secrets. There were bright, 
 swift, strange birds, that flew about in the deep 
 golden sunshine, and when they rested on the 
 boughs, they, too, seemed telling one another 
 secrets. There was a bright, clear brook, with 
 water as sparkling and pure as crystal, and with 
 shining shells and pebbles of all colours lying in 
 the gold and silver sand at the bottom. Prince 
 Fairyfoot always thought the brook knew the 
 forest's secret also, and sang it softly to the 
 flowers as it ran along. And as for the flowers, 
 they were beautiful ; they grew as thickly as if 
 they had been a carpet, and under them was an- 
 other carpet of lovely green moss. The trees 
 and the birds, and the brook and the flowers 
 were Prince Fairyfoot's friends. He loved them, 
 and never was very lonely when he was with 
 them ; and if his swine had not run away so often 4 
 and if the swineherd had not beaten him so much, 
 sometimes — indeed, nearly all summer — he would 
 have been almost happy. He used to lie on the 
 fragrant carpet of flowers and moss and listen to 
 
144 The Story of Prince Fairy foot 
 
 the soft sound of the running water, and to the 
 whispering of the waving leaves, and to the songs 
 of the birds ; and he would wonder what they 
 were saying to one another, and if it were true, 
 as the swineherd's children said, that the great 
 forest was full of fairies. And then he would pre- 
 tend it was true, and would tell himself stories 
 about them, and make believe they were his 
 friends, and that they came to talk to him and let 
 him love them. He wanted to love something or 
 somebody, and he had nothing to love — not even 
 a little dog. 
 
 One day he was resting under a great green 
 tree, feeling really quite happy because every- 
 thing was so beautiful. He had even made a 
 little song to chime in with the brook's, and he 
 was singing it softly and sweetly, when suddenly, 
 as he lifted his curly, golden head to look about 
 him, he saw that all his swine were gone. He 
 sprang to his feet, feeling very much frightened, 
 and he whistled and called, but he heard nothing. 
 He could not imagine how they had all dis- 
 appeared so quietly, without making any sound ; 
 but not one of them was anywhere to be seen. 
 Then his poor little heart began to beat fast with 
 trouble and anxiety. He ran here and there ; he 
 looked through the bushes and under the trees ; 
 he ran, and ran, and ran, and called and whistled, 
 and searched ; but nowhere— nowhere was one of 
 
The Story of Prince Fairy foot 145 
 
 those swine to be found ! He searched for them 
 for hours, going deeper and deeper into the forest 
 than he had ever been before. He saw strange 
 trees and strange flowers, and heard strange 
 sounds : and at last the sun began to go down, and 
 he knew he would soon be left in the dark. His 
 little feet and legs were scratched with brambles, 
 and were so tired that they would scarcely carry 
 him ; but he dared not go back to the swineherd's 
 hut without finding the swine. The only com- 
 fort he had on all the long way was that the little 
 brook had run by his side, and sung its song to 
 him ; and sometimes he had stopped and bathed 
 his hot face in it, and had said, " Oh, little brook ! 
 you are so kind to me ! You are my friend, I 
 know. I would be so lonely without you ! " 
 
 When at last the sun did go down, Prince Fairy- 
 foot had wandered so far that he did not know 
 where he was, and he was so tired that he threw 
 himself down by the brook, and hid his face in 
 the flowery moss, and said, " Oh, little brook ! 1 
 am so tired I can go no further ; and I can never 
 find them ! " 
 
 While he was lying there in despair, he heard 
 a sound in the air above him, and looked up to 
 see what it was. It sounded like a little bird in 
 some trouble. And, surely enough, there was a 
 huge hawk darting after a plump little brown 
 bird with a red breast. The little bird was utter- 
 
146 The Story of Prince Fairy foot 
 
 ing-sharp frightened cries, and Prince Fairyfoot 
 felt so sorry for it that he sprang up and tried to 
 drive the hawk away. The little bird saw him at 
 once, and straightway flew to him, and Fairyfoot 
 covered it with his cap. And then the hawk flew 
 away in a great rage. 
 
 When the hawk was gone, Fairyfoot sat down 
 again and lifted his cap, expecting, of course, to 
 see the brown bird with the red breast. But, in- 
 stead of a bird, out stepped a little man, not much 
 higher than your little finger — a plump little man 
 in a brown suit with a bright red vest, and with a 
 cocked hat on. 
 
 " Why," exclaimed Fairyfoot, " I'm surprised ! " 
 
 " So am I," said the little man, cheerfully. " I 
 never was more surprised in my life, except when 
 my great - aunt's grandmother got into such a 
 rage, and changed me into a robin-redbreast. I 
 tell you, that surprised me ! " 
 
 " I should think it might," said Fairyfoot. 
 " Why did she do it ? " 
 
 " Mad," answered the little man — " that was 
 what was the matter with her. She was always 
 losing her temper like that, and turning people 
 into awkward things, and then being sorry for it, 
 •md not being able to change them back again. 
 If you are a fairy, you have to be careful. If 
 you'll believe me, that woman once turned her 
 second-cousin's sister-in-law into a mushroom, and 
 
/'" 
 
 
 
 "W3Y," EXCLAIMED FAIRYFOOT, "I'M SURPRISED J 
 
The Story of Prince Fairyfoot 14.Q 
 
 somebody picked her, and she was made into cat 
 sup, which is a thing no man likes to have hap 
 pen in his family ! " 
 
 " Of course not," said Fairyfoot, politely. 
 
 " The difficulty is," said the little man, " that 
 some fairies don't graduate. They learn to turn 
 people into things, but they don't learn how to 
 unturn them ; and then, when they get mad in 
 their families — you know how it is about getting 
 mad in families — there is confusion. Yes, seri- 
 ously, confusion arises. It arises. That was the 
 way with my great-aunt's grandmother. She was 
 not a cultivated old person, and she did not know 
 how to unturn people, and now you see the re. 
 suit. Quite accidentally I trod on her favorite 
 corn ; she got mad and changed me into a robin, 
 and regretted it ever afterward. I could only 
 become myself again by a kind-hearted person's 
 saving me from a great danger. You are that 
 person. Give me your hand." 
 
 Fairyfoot held out his hand. The little man 
 looked at it. 
 
 " On second thought," he said, " I can't shake 
 it — it's too large. I'll sit on it, and talk to you." 
 
 With these words, he hopped upon Fairyfoot's 
 hand, and sat down, smiling and clasping his own 
 hands about his tiny knees. 
 
 " I declare, it's delightful not to be a robin," he 
 said. " Had to go about picking up worms, you 
 
15° The Story of Prince Fairy foot 
 
 kndw. Disgusting business. I always did hate 
 worms. I never ate them myself — I drew the 
 ^ine there ; but I had to get them for my family.' 
 
 Suddenly he began to giggle, and to hug hif 
 knees up tight. 
 
 " Do you wish to know what I'm laughing at? s 
 he asked Fairyfoot. 
 
 " Yes," Fairyfoot answered. 
 
 The little man giggled more than ever. 
 
 "I'm thinking about my wife," he said — "th 
 one I had when I was a robin. A nice rage she'L 
 fc>e in when I don't come home to-night ! She'll 
 have to hustle around and pick up worms for her- 
 self, and for the children too, and it serves her 
 right. She had a temper that would embitter the 
 life of a crow, much more a simple robin. I wore 
 myself to skin and bone taking care of her and 
 her brood, and how I did hate 'em ! — bare, squawk- 
 ing things, always with their throats gaping 
 open. They seemed to think a parent's sole duty 
 was to bring worms for them." 
 
 " It must have been unpleasant,' 5 said Fairy- 
 foot. 
 
 " It was more than that," said the little man ; 
 " it used to make my feathers stand on end. 
 There was the nest, too ! Fancy being changed 
 into a robin, and being obliged to build a nest at 
 a moment's notice ! I never felt so ridiculous in 
 my life. How was I to know how to build a 
 
The Story of Prince Fairy foot 151 
 
 nest ! And the worst of it was the way she went 
 on about it" 
 
 " She ! " said Fairyfoot. 
 
 "Oh, her, you know," replied the little man, 
 ungrammatically, "my wife. She'd always been 
 a robin, and she knew how to build a nest ; she 
 liked to order me about, too — she was one of that 
 kind. But, of course, I wasn't going to own that 
 I didn't know anything about nest-building. I 
 could never have done anything with her in the 
 world if I'd let her think she knew as much as 1 
 did. So I just put things together in a way of my 
 own, and built a nest that would have made you 
 weep ! The bottom fell out of it the first night. 
 It nearly killed me." 
 
 " Did you fall out, too?" inquired Fairyfoot 
 
 " Oh, no," answered the little man. " I meant 
 that it nearly killed me to think the eggs weren't 
 in it at the time." 
 
 "What did you do about the nest?" asked 
 Fairyfoot. 
 
 The little man winked in the most improper 
 manner. 
 
 " Do ? " he said. " I got mad, of course, and 
 told her that if she hadn't interfered, it wouldn't 
 have happened ; said it was exactly like a hen to 
 fly around giving advice and unsettling one's 
 mind, and then complain if things weren't right. 
 I told her she might build the nest nerself, if she 
 
152 The Story of Prince Fairy foot 
 
 thought she could build a better one. She did it, 
 too ! " And he winked again. 
 
 " Was it a better one ? " asked Fairyfoot. 
 
 The little man actually winked a third time. 
 " It may surprise you to hear that it was," he re- 
 plied ; " but it didn't surprise me. By-the-by,' ! he 
 added, with startling suddenness, " what's your 
 name, and what's the matter with you? " 
 
 " My name is Prince Fairyfoot," said the boy, 
 " and I have lost my master's swine." 
 
 " My name," said the little man, " is Robin 
 Goodfellow, and I'll find them for you." 
 
 He had a tiny scarlet silk pouch hanging at his 
 girdle, and he put his hand into it and drew forth 
 the smallest golden whistle you ever saw. 
 
 " Blow that," he said, giving it to Fairyfoot, 
 " and take care that you don't swallow it. You 
 are such a tremendous creature ! " 
 
 Fairyfoot took the whistle and put it very deli- 
 cately to his lips. He blew, and there came from 
 it a high, clear sound that seemed to pierce the 
 deepest depths of the forest. 
 
 " Blow again," commanded Robin Goodfellow. 
 
 Again Prince Fairyfoot blew, and again the 
 pure clear sound rang through the trees, and the 
 next instant he heard a loud rushing and tramp- 
 ing and squeaking and grunting, and all the great 
 drove of swine came tearing through the bushes 
 and formed themselves into a circle and stood 
 
The Story of Prince Fairy foot 153 
 
 staring at him as if waiting to be told what to do 
 next. 
 
 " Oh, Robin Goodfellow, Robin Goodfellow J " 
 cried Fairyfoot, " how grateful I am to you ! " 
 
 " Not as grateful as I am to you," said Robin 
 Goodfellow. " But for you I should be disturb- 
 ing that hawk's digestion at the present moment, 
 instead of which, here I am, a respectable fairy 
 once more, and my late wife (though I ought not 
 to call her that, for goodness knows she was early 
 enough hustling me out of my nest before day- 
 break, with the unpleasant proverb about the 
 early bird catching the worm ! ) — I suppose I 
 should say my early wife — is at this juncture a 
 widow. Now, where do you live ? " 
 
 Fairyfoot told him, and told him also about the 
 swineherd, and how it happened that, though he 
 was a prince, he had to herd swine and live in the 
 forest. 
 
 " Well, well," said Robin Goodfellow, " that is 
 a disagreeable state of affairs. Perhaps I can 
 make it rather easier for you. You see that is a 
 fairy whistle." 
 
 " I thought so," said Fairyfoot. 
 
 "Well," continued Robin Goodfellow, "you 
 can always call your swine with it, so you will 
 never be beaten again. Now, are you ever 
 lonely?" 
 
 "Sometimes I am very lonely indeed," an- 
 
154 Tfo Story of Prince Fairy foot 
 
 swered the Prince. " No one cares for me, though 
 I think the brook is sometimes sorry, and tries to 
 tell me things." 
 
 " Of course," said Robin. " They all like you. 
 I've heard them say so." 
 
 " Oh, have you ? " cried Fairyfoot, joyfully. 
 
 " Yes ; you never throw stones at the birds, or 
 break the branches of the trees, or trample on the 
 flowers when you can help it." 
 
 " The birds sing to me," said Fairyfoot, " and 
 the trees seem to beckon to me and whisper ; and 
 when I am very lonely, I lie down in the grass 
 and look into the eyes of the flowers and talk 
 to them. I would not hurt one of them for all 
 the world ! " 
 
 " Humph ! " said Robin, " you are a rather good 
 little fellow. Would you like to go to a party ? " 
 
 " A party ! " said Fairyfoot. " What is that ? " 
 
 " This sort of thing," said Robin ; and he 
 jumped up and began to dance around and to kick 
 up his heels gaily in the palm of Fairyfoot's hand. 
 " Wine, you know, and cake, and all sorts of fun. 
 It begins at twelve to-night, in a place the fairies 
 know of, and it lasts until just two minutes and 
 three seconds and a half before daylight. Would 
 you like to come ? " 
 
 " Oh," cried Fairyfoot, " I should be so happy 
 if I might ! " 
 
 " Well, you may," said Robin ; " I'll take you 
 
The Story of Prince Fairy foot 155 
 
 They'll be delighted to see any friend of mine, 
 I'm a great favourite ; of course, you can easily 
 imagine that. It was a great blow to them when 
 I was changed ; such a loss, you know. In fact, 
 there were several lady fairies, who — but no mat- 
 ter." And he gave a slight cough, and began to 
 arrange his necktie with a disgracefully conse- 
 quential air, though he was trying very hard not 
 to look conceited ; and while he was endeavouring 
 to appear easy and gracefully careless, he began 
 accidentally to hum, " See the Conquering Hero 
 Comes," which was not the right tune under the 
 circumstances. 
 
 " But for you," he said next, " I couldn't have 
 given them the relief and pleasure of seeing me 
 this evening. And what ecstasy it will be to 
 them, to be sure ! I shouldn't be surprised if it 
 broke up the whole thing. They'll faint so — for 
 joy, you know — just at first — that is, the ladies 
 will. The men won't like it at all; and I don't 
 blame 'em. I suppose I shouldn't like it — to see 
 another fellow sweep all before him. That's what 
 I do ; I sweep all before me." And he waved his 
 hand in such a fine large gesture that he over- 
 balanced himself, and turned a somersault. But 
 he jumped up after it quite undisturbed. 
 
 " You'll see me do it to-night," he said, knock- 
 ing the dents out of his hat — " sweep all before 
 me." Then he put his hat on, and his hands on his 
 
156 The Story of Prince Fairy foot 
 
 hips, with a swaggering, man-of-society air. " I 
 say/' he said, " I'm glad you're going. I should 
 like you to see it." 
 
 " And I should like to see it," replied Fairyfoot. 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Goodfellow, " you deserve 
 it, though that's saying a great deal. You've 
 restored me to them. But for you, even if I'd 
 escaped that hawk, I should have had to spend 
 the night in that beastly robin's nest, crowded 
 into a corner by those squawking things, and 
 domineered over by her ! I wasn't made for that ! 
 I'm superior to it. Domestic life doesn't suit me. 
 I was made for society. I adorn it. She never 
 appreciated me. She couldn't soar to it. When 
 I think of the way she treated me," he exclaimed, 
 suddenly getting into a rage, " I've a great mind 
 to turn back into a robin and peck her head off ! " 
 
 "Would you like to see her now ? " asked Fairy- 
 foot, innocently. 
 
 Mr. Goodfellow glanced behind him in great 
 haste, and suddenly sat down. 
 
 " No, no ! " he exclaimed in a tremendous hurry ; 
 " by no means ! She has no delicacy. And she 
 doesn't deserve to see me. And there's a violence 
 and uncertainty about her movements whic'n is 
 annoying beyond anything you can imagine. No^ 
 I don't want to see her ! I'll let her go un- 
 punished for the present. Perhaps it's punish- 
 ment enough for her to be deprived of me. Just 
 
The Story of Prince Fairy foot 157 
 
 pick up your cap, won't you ? and if you see any 
 birds lying about, throw it at them, robins par- 
 ticularly." 
 
 " I think I must take the swine home, if you'll 
 excuse me," said Fairyfoot, " I'm late now." 
 
 " Well, let me sit on your shoulder and I'll go 
 with you and show you a short way home," said 
 Goodfellow ; " I know all about it, so you needn't 
 think about yourself again. In fact, we'll talk 
 about the party. Just blow your whistle, and the 
 swine will go ahead." 
 
 Fairyfoot did so, and the swine rushed through 
 the forest before them, and Robin Goodfellow 
 perched himself on the Prince's shoulder, and 
 chatted as they went. 
 
 It had taken Fairyfoot hours to reach the place 
 where he found Robin, but somehow it seemed to 
 him only a very short time before they came to 
 the open place near the swineherd's hut; and the 
 path they had walked in had been so pleasant and 
 flowery that it had been delightful all the way. 
 
 " Now," said Robin when they stopped, " if you 
 will come here to-night at twelve o'clock, when 
 the moon shines under this tree, you will find me 
 waiting for you. Now I'm going. Good-bye ! " 
 And he was gone before the last word was quite 
 finished. 
 
 Fairyfoot went towards the hut, driving the 
 swine before him, and suddenly he saw the swine- 
 
158 The Story of Prince Fairyfoot 
 
 herd come out of his house, and stand staring 
 stupidly at the pigs. He was a very coarse, hid- 
 eous man, with bristling yellow hair, and little 
 eyes, and a face rather like a pig's, and he always 
 looked stupid, but just now he looked more stu* 
 pid than ever. He seemed dumb with surprise. 
 
 " What's the matter with the swine ? " he asked 
 in his hoarse voice, which was rather piglike, too 
 
 " I don't know," answered Fairyfoot, feeling a 
 little alarmed. " What is the matter with them ?" 
 
 " They are four times fatter, and five times big. 
 ger, and six times cleaner, and seven times heav 
 ier, and eight times handsomer than they were 
 when you took them out," the swineherd said. 
 
 " I've done nothing to them," said Fairyfoot. 
 " They ran away, but they came back again." 
 
 The swineherd went lumbering back intv> the 
 hut, and called his wife. 
 
 " Come and look at the swine," he said. 
 
 And then the woman came out, and stared first 
 at the swine and then at Fairyfoot. 
 
 " He has been with the fairies," she said at last 
 to her husband ; " or it is because he is a king's 
 son. We must treat him better if ha can do won- 
 ders like that." 
 
"WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH THE SWINE?" HE ASKEDb 
 
PART II' 
 
 In went the shepherd's wife, and she prepared 
 quite a good supper for Fairyfoot and gave it to 
 him. But Fairyfoot was scarcely hungry at all ; 
 he was so eager for the night to come, so that he 
 might see the fairies. When he went to his loft 
 under the roof, he thought at first that he could 
 not sleep ; but suddenly his hand touched the 
 fairy whistle and he fell asleep at once, and did 
 not waken again until a moonbeam fell brightly 
 upon his face and aroused him. Then he jumped 
 up and ran to the hole in the wall to look out, 
 and he saw that the hour had come, and the moon 
 was so low in the sky that its slanting light had 
 crept under the oak-tree. 
 
 He slipped downstairs so lightly that his mas- 
 ter heard nothing, and then he found himself out 
 in the beautiful night with the moonlight so 
 bright that it was lighter than daytime. And 
 there was Robin Goodfellow waiting for him 
 under the tree ! He was so finely dressed that, 
 for a moment, Fairyfoot scarcely knew him. His 
 suit was made out of the purple velvet petals of 
 a pansy, which was far finer than any ordinary 
 
 velvet, and he wore plumes and tassels, and a 
 xx 
 
1 62 The Story of Prince Fairyfoot 
 
 ruffle around his neck, and in his belt was thrust 
 a tiny sword, not half as big as the finest needle. 
 
 " Take me on your shoulder," he said to Fairy- 
 foot, "and I will show you the way." 
 
 Fairyfoot took him up, and they went their 
 way through the forest. And the strange part 
 Df it was that though Fairyfoot thought he knew 
 ill the forest by heart, every path they took was 
 new to him, and more beautiful than anything he 
 had ever seen before. The moonlight seemed 
 :o grow brighter and purer at every step, and 
 the sleeping flowers sweeter and lovelier, and the 
 moss greener and thicker. Fairyfoot felt so 
 happy and gay that he forgot he had ever been 
 sad and lonely in his life. 
 
 Robin Goodfellow, too, seemed to be in very 
 good spirits. He related a great many stories to 
 Fairyfoot, and, singularly enough, they were all 
 ibout himself and divers and sundry fairy ladies 
 vho had been so very much attached to him that 
 he scarcely expected to find them alive at the 
 present moment. He felt quite sure they must 
 have died of grief in his absence. 
 
 " I have caused a great deal of trouble in the 
 course of my life," he said, regretfully, shaking 
 his head. " I have sometimes wished I could 
 avoid it, but that is impossible. Ahem ! When 
 my great-aunt's grandmother rashly and inoppor- 
 tunely changed me into a robin, I was having a 
 
T"ke Story of Prince Fairy foot 103 
 
 dttle flirtation with a little creature who was 
 really quite attractive. I might have decided to 
 engage myself to her. She was very charming. 
 Her name was Gauzita. To-morrow I shall go 
 and place flowers on her tomb." 
 
 " I thought fairies never died," said Fairyfoot. 
 
 " Only on rare occasions, and only from love," 
 answered Robin. " They needn't die unless they 
 wish to. They have been known to do it through 
 love. They frequently wish they hadn't after 
 ward — in fact, invariably — and then they can 
 come to life again. But Gauzita " 
 
 " Are you quite sure she is dead ? " asked Fairy- 
 foot. 
 
 " Sure ! " cried Mr. Goodfellow, in wild indig- 
 nation, " why, she hasn't seen me for a couple of 
 years. I've moulted twice since last we met. 
 I congratulate myself that she didn't see me 
 then," he added, in a lower voice. " Of course 
 she's dead," he added, with solemn emphasis ; 
 " as dead as a door nail." 
 
 Just then Fairyfoot heard some enchanting 
 sounds, faint, but clear. They were sounds of 
 delicate music and of tiny laughter, like the ring- 
 ing of fairy bells. 
 
 "Ah!" said Robin Goodfellow, "there they 
 are ! But it seems to me they are rather gay, 
 considering they have not. seen me for so long 
 Turn into the path." 
 
1 64 The Story of Prince Fairy foot 
 
 Almost immediately they found themselves in 
 a beautiful little dell, filled with moonlight, and 
 with glittering stars in the cup of every flower ; 
 for there were thousands of dewdrops, and every 
 dewdrop shone like a star. There were also 
 crowds and crowds of tiny men and women, al) 
 beautiful, all dressed in brilliant, delicate dresses, 
 all laughing or dancing or feasting at the little 
 tables, which were loaded with every dainty the 
 most fastidious fairy could wish for. 
 
 "Now," said Robin Goodfellow, "you shall see 
 me sweep all before me. Put me down." 
 
 Fairyfoot put him down, and stood and watched 
 him while he walked forward with a very grand 
 manner. He went straight to the gayest and 
 largest group he could see. It was a group of 
 gentlemen fairies, who were crowding around a 
 lily of the valley, on the bent stem of which a 
 tiny lady fairy was sitting, airily swaying herself 
 to and fro, and laughing and chatting with all her 
 admirers at once. 
 
 She seemed to be enjoying herself immensely ; 
 indeed, it was disgracefully plain that she was 
 having a great deal of fun. One gentleman fairy 
 was fanning her, one was holding her programme, 
 one had her bouquet, another her little scent 
 bottle, and those who had nothing to hold for her 
 were scowling furiously at the rest. It was evi- 
 dent that she was very popular, and that she did 
 
ALMOST IMMEDIATELY THEY FOUND THEMSELVES IN A BEAUTIFUL LITTLE DELL. 
 
The Story of Prince Fairy foot 167 
 
 not object to it at all ; in fact, the way her eyes 
 sparkled and danced was distinctly reprehensible. 
 
 "You have engaged to dance the next waltz 
 with every one of us ! " said one of her adorers. 
 " How are you going to do it?" 
 
 " Did I engage to dance with all of you ? " she 
 said, giving her lily stem the sauciest little swing, 
 which set all the bells ringing. " Well, I am not 
 going to dance it with all." 
 
 " Not with me f " the admirer with the fan 
 whispered in her ear. 
 
 She gave him the most delightful little look, 
 just to make him believe she wanted to dance 
 with him but really couldn't. Robin Goodfel- 
 low saw her. And then she smiled sweetly upon 
 all the rest, every one of them. Robin Goodfel- 
 low saw that, too. 
 
 " I am going to sit here and look at you, and 
 let you talk to me," she said. " I do so enjoy 
 brilliant conversation." 
 
 All the gentlemen fairies were so much elated 
 by this that they began to brighten up, and settle 
 their ruffs, and fall into graceful attitudes, and 
 think of sparkling things to say ; because every 
 one of them knew, from the glance of her eyes 
 in his direction, that he was one whose conver- 
 sation was brilliant ; every one knew there 
 could be no mistake about its being himself that 
 she meant. The way she looked just proved it. 
 
168 The Story of Prince Fairyfoot 
 
 Altogether it was more than Robin Goodfellow 
 could stand, for it was Gauzita who was deport- 
 ing herself in this unaccountable manner, swing- 
 ing on lily stems, and "going on," so to speak, 
 with several parties at once, in a way to chill the 
 blood of any proper young lady fairy — who 
 hadn't any partner at all. It was Gauzita herself. 
 
 He made his way into the very centre of the 
 group. 
 
 " Gauzita ! " he said. He thought, of course, 
 she would drop right off her lily stem ; but she 
 didn't. She simply stopped swinging a moment, 
 and stared at him. 
 
 " Gracious ! " she exclaimed. " And who are 
 you?" 
 
 " Who am I ?" cried Mr. Goodfellow, severely. 
 " Don't you remember me ? " 
 
 " No," she said, coolly ; " I don't, not in the 
 least." 
 
 Robin Goodfellow almost gasped for breath. 
 He had never met with anything so outrageous 
 in his life. 
 
 " You don't remember me ? " he cried. " Me ! 
 Why, it's impossible ! " 
 
 " Is it ? " said Gauzita, with a touch of daint^ 
 impudence. " What's your name ? " 
 
 Robin Goodfellow was almost paralyzed. Gau- 
 zita took up a midget of an eyeglass which she 
 had dangling from a thread of a gold chain, and 
 
The Story of Prince Fairyfoot 169 
 
 she stuck it in her eye and tilted her impertinent 
 little chin and looked him over. Not that she 
 was near-sighted — not a bit of it ; it was just one 
 of her tricks and manners. 
 
 " Dear me ! " she said, " you do look a trifle fa- 
 miliar. It isn't, it can't be, Mr. , Mr. /' 
 
 then she turned to the adorer, who held her fan, 
 
 " it can't be Mr. , the one who was changed 
 
 into a robin, you know," she said. " Such a ri- 
 diculous thing to be changed into ! What was 
 his name?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I know whom you mean. Mr. , 
 
 ah — Goodfellow ! " said the fairy with the fan. 
 
 " So it was," she said, looking Robin over 
 again. " And he has been pecking at trees and 
 things, and hopping in and out of nests ever 
 since, I suppose. How absurd ! And we have 
 been enjoying ourselves so much since he went 
 away ! I think I never did have so lovely a time 
 as I have had during these last two years. I be- 
 gan to know you," she added, in a kindly tone, 
 "just abou^; the time he went away." 
 
 "You have been enjoying yourself?" almost 
 shrieked Robin Goodfellow. 
 
 " Well," said Gauzita, in unexcusable slang, " I 
 must smile." And she did smile. 
 
 " And nobody has pined away and died ?" cried 
 Robin. 
 
 -' I haven't," said Gauzita, swinging herself and 
 
170 The Story of Prince Fairy foot 
 
 ringing her bells again. " I really haven't had 
 time." 
 
 Robin Goodfellow turned around and rushed 
 out of the group. He regarded this as insulting. 
 He went back to Fairyfoot in such a hurry that 
 he tripped on his sword and fell, and rolled over 
 so many times that Fairyfoot had to stop him and 
 pick him up. 
 
 " Is she dead ? " asked Fairyfoot. 
 
 « No," said Robin ; " she isn't." 
 
 He sat down on a small mushroom and clasped 
 his hands about his knees and looked mad — just 
 mad. Angry or indignant wouldn't express it. 
 
 " I have a great mind to go and be a misan- 
 thrope," he said. 
 
 " Oh ! I wouldn't," said Fairyfoot. He didn't 
 know what a misanthrope was, but he thought it 
 must be something unpleasant. 
 
 " Wouldn't you ? " said Robin, looking up at 
 him. 
 
 " No," answered Fairyfoot. 
 
 " Well," said Robin, " I guess I won't. Let's 
 go and have some fun. They are all that way. 
 You can't depend on any of them. Never trust 
 one of them. I believe that creature has been 
 engaged as much as twice since I left. By a 
 singular coincidence," he added, " I have been 
 married twice myself — but, of course, that's dif- 
 ferent. I'm a man, you know, and — well, it's dif- 
 
The Story of Prince Fairy foot 1 7 1 
 
 ferent. We won't dwell on it. Let's go and 
 dance. But wait a minute first." He took a little 
 bottle from his pocket. 
 
 " If you remain the size you are," he continued, 
 " you will tread on whole sets of lancers and de- 
 stroy entire germans. If you drink this, you will 
 become as small as we are ; and then, when you 
 are going home, I will give you something to 
 make you large again." Fairyfoot drank from 
 the little flagon, and immediately he felt himself 
 growing smaller and smaller until at last he was 
 as small as his companion. 
 
 " Now, come on," said Robin. 
 
 On they went and joined the fairies, and they 
 danced and played fairy games and feasted on 
 fairy dainties, and were so gay and happy that 
 Fairyfoot was wild with joy. Everybody made 
 him welcome and seemed to like him, and the 
 lady fairies were simply delightful, especially 
 Gauzita, who took a great fancy to him. Just 
 before the sun rose, Robin gave him something 
 from another flagon, and he grew large again, 
 and two minutes and three seconds and a half 
 before daylight the ball broke up, and Robin took 
 him home and left him, promising to call for him 
 the next night. 
 
 Every night throughout the whole summer the 
 same thing happened. At midnight he went to 
 the fairies' dance ; and at two minutes and three 
 
172 The Story of Prince Fairy foot 
 
 seconds and a half before dawn he came home. 
 He was never lonely any more, because all day 
 long he could think of what pleasure he would 
 have when the night came ; and, besides that, all 
 the fairies were his friends. But when the sum- 
 mer was coming to an end, Robin Goodfellow 
 said to him : " This is our last dance — at least it 
 will be our last for some time. At this time of 
 the year we always go back to our own country, 
 and we don't return until spring." 
 
 This made Fairyfoot very sad. He did not 
 know how he could bear to be left alone again, 
 but he knew it could not be helped ; so he tried 
 to be as cheerful as possible, and he went to the 
 final festivities, and enjoyed himself more than 
 ever before, and Gauzita gave him a tiny ring for 
 a parting gift. But the next night, when Robin 
 did not come for him, he felt very lonely indeed, 
 and the next day he was so sorrowful that he 
 wandered far away into the forest, in the hope of 
 finding something to cheer him a little. He 
 wandered so far that he became very tired and 
 thirsty, and he was just making up his mind to 
 go home, when he thought he heard the sound of 
 falling water. It seemed to come from behind a 
 thicket of climbing roses ; and he went towards 
 the place and pushed the branches aside a little, 
 so that he could look through. What he saw 
 was a great surprise to him. Though it was the 
 
The Story of Prince Fairyfoot 173 
 
 end of summer, inside the thicket the roses were 
 blooming in thousands all around a pool as clear 
 as crystal, into which the sparkling water fell 
 from a hole in the rock above. It was the most 
 beautiful, clear pool that Fairyfoot had ever seen, 
 and he pressed his way through the rose branches, 
 and, entering the circle they inclosed, he knelt 
 by the water and drank. 
 
 Almost instantly his feeling of sadness left him, 
 and he felt quite happy and refreshed. He 
 stretched himself on the thick perfumed moss, 
 and listened to the tinkling of the water, and it 
 was not long before he fell asleep. 
 
 When he awakened the moon was shining, the 
 pool sparkled like a silver plaque crusted with 
 diamonds, and two nightingales were singing in 
 the branches over his head. And the next mo- 
 ment he found out that he understood their 
 language just as plainly as if they had been 
 human beings instead of birds. The water with 
 which he had quenched his thirst was enchanted, 
 and had given him this new power. 
 
 " Poor boy ! " said one nightingale, " he looks 
 tired ; I wonder where he came from." 
 
 " Why, my dear," said the other, " is it possible 
 you don't know that he is Prince Fairyfoot? " 
 
 " What ! " said the first nightingale — " the King 
 of Stumpinghame's son, who was born with small 
 feet?" 
 
174 The Story of Prince Fairy foot 
 
 " Yes," said the second. " And the poor child 
 has lived in the forest, keeping the swineherd's 
 pigs ever since. And he is a very nice boy, too — 
 never throws stones at birds or robs nests." 
 
 " What a pity he doesn't know about the pool 
 where the red berries grow 1 " said the first night- 
 ingale. 
 
PART III 
 
 "What pool — and what red berries?" asked 
 the second nightingale. 
 
 " Why, my dear," said the first, " is it possible 
 you don't know about the pool where the red 
 berries grow — the pool where the poor, dear Prin- 
 cess Goldenhair met with her misfortune ? " 
 
 " Never heard of it," said the second nightin- 
 gale, rather crossly. 
 
 " Well," explained the other, " you have to fol 
 low the brook for a day and three-quarters, and 
 then take all the paths to the left until you come 
 to the pool. It is very ugly and muddy, and 
 bushes with red berries on them grow around it." 
 
 " Well, what of that ? " said her companion ; 
 "and what happened to the Princess Golden- 
 hair?" 
 
 " Don't you know that, either?" exclaimed her 
 friend. 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Ah ! " said the first nightingale, " it was very 
 sad. She went out with her father, the King, 
 who had a hunting party ; and she lost her way, 
 and wandered on until she came to the pool. 
 Her poor little feet were so hot that she took off 
 her gold - embroidered satin slippers, and put 
 
176 The Story of fttncc Fairy foot 
 
 them into the water — her feet, not the slippers— 
 and the next minute they began to grow and 
 grow, and to get larger and larger, until they 
 were so immense she could hardly walk at all ; 
 and though all the physicians in the kingdom 
 have tried to make them smaller, nothing can be 
 done, and she is perfectly unhappy." 
 
 " What a pity she doesn't know about this 
 pool ! " said the other bird. " If she just came 
 here and bathed them three times in the water, 
 they would be smaller and more beautiful than 
 ever, and she would be more lovely than she has 
 ever been." 
 
 " It is a pity," said her companion ; " but, you 
 know, if we once let people know what this water 
 will do, we should be overrun with creatures bath- 
 ing themselves beautiful, and trampling our moss 
 and tearing down our rose-trees, and we should 
 never have any peace." 
 
 " That is true," agreed the other. 
 
 Very soon after they flew away, and Fairyfoot 
 was left alone. He had been so excited while 
 they were talking that he had been hardly able to 
 lie still. He was so sorry for the Princess Gold- 
 enhair, and so glad for himself. Now he could 
 find his way to the pool with the red berries, and 
 he could bathe his feet in it until they were large 
 enough to satisfy Stumpinghame ; and he could 
 go back to his father's court, and his parents 
 
The Story of Prince Fairy foot 177 
 
 would perhaps be fond of him. But he had so 
 good a heart that he could not think of being 
 happy himself and letting others remain unhappy, 
 when he could help them. So the first thing was 
 to find the Princess Goldenhair and tell her about 
 the nightingales' fountain. But how was he to 
 find her ? The nightingales had not told him. 
 He was very much troubled, indeed. How was 
 he to find her? 
 
 Suddenly, quite suddenly, he thought of the 
 ring Gauzita had given him. When she had 
 given it to him she had made an odd remark. 
 
 " When you wish to go anywhere," she had 
 said, " hold it in your hand, turn around twice 
 with closed eyes, and something queer will hap- 
 pen." 
 
 He had thought it was one of her little jokes, 
 but now it occurred to him that at least he might 
 try what would happen. So he rose up, held the 
 ring in his hand, closed his eyes, and turned 
 around twice. 
 
 What did happen was that he began to walk, 
 not very fast, but still passing along as if he were 
 moving rapidly. He did not know where he was 
 going, but he guessed that the ring did, and that 
 if he obeyed it, he should find the Princess Gold- 
 enhair. He went on and on, not getting in the 
 least tired, until about daylight he found himself 
 
 under a great tree, and on the ground beneath it 
 12 
 
178 The Story of Prince Fairy foot 
 
 was spread a delightful breakfast, which he knew 
 was for him. He sat down and ate it, and then 
 got up again and went on his way once more. 
 Before noon he had left the forest behind him, 
 and was in a strange country. He knew it was 
 not Stumpinghame, because the people had not 
 large feet. But they all had sad faces, and once 
 or twice, when he passed groups of them who 
 were talking, he heard them speak of the Princess 
 Goldenhair, as if they were sorry for her and 
 could not enjoy themselves while such a misfort- 
 une rested upon her. 
 
 " So sweet and lovely and kind a princess ! " 
 they said ; " and it really seems as if she would 
 never be any better." 
 
 The sun was just setting when Fairyfoot came 
 in sight of the palace. It was built of white mar- 
 ble, and had beautiful pleasure-grounds about it, 
 but somehow there seemed to be a settled gloom 
 in the air. Fairyfoot had entered the great pleas- 
 ure-garden, and was wondering where it would 
 be best to go first, when he saw a lovely white 
 fawn, with a golden collar about its neck, come 
 bounding over the flower-beds, and he heard, at 
 a little distance, a sweet voice, saying, sorrowfully, 
 " Come back, my fawn ; 1 cannot run and play 
 with you as I once used to. Do not leave me, 
 my little friend." 
 
 And soon from behind the trees came a line of 
 
The Story of Prince Fairy foot 179 
 
 oeautiful girls, walking two by two, all very 
 slowly; and at the head of the line, first of all, 
 came the loveliest princess in the world, dressed 
 softly in pure white, with a wreath of lilies on her 
 long golden hair, which fell almost to the hem of 
 her white gown. 
 
 She had so fair and tender a young face, and 
 her large, soft eyes, yet looked so sorrowful, that 
 Fairyfoot loved her in a moment, and he knelt on 
 one knee, taking off his cap and bending his head 
 until his own golden hair almost hid his face. 
 
 " Beautiful Princess Goldenhair, beautiful and 
 sweet Princess, may I speak to you ? " he said. 
 
 The Princess stopped and looked at him, and 
 answered him softly. It surprised her to see one 
 so poorly dressed kneeling before her, in her pal- 
 ace gardens, among the brilliant flowers ; but she 
 always spoke softly to everyone. 
 
 "What is there that I can do for you, my 
 friend ? " she said. 
 
 " Beautiful Princess," answered Fairyfoot, 
 blushing, " I hope very much that I may be able 
 to do something for you." 
 
 " For me ! " she exclaimed. " Thank you, 
 triend ; what is it you can do? Indeed, I need a 
 help I am afraid no one can ever give me." 
 
 " Gracious and fairest lady," said Fairyfoot, 
 " it is that help I think — nay, I am sure — that I 
 bring to you." 
 
i8o 7 he Story of Prince Fairy foot 
 
 " Oh ! " said the sweet Princess. " You have a 
 kind face and most true eyes, and when I look at 
 you — I do not know why it is, but I feel a little 
 happier. What is it you would say to me ? " 
 
 Still kneeling before her, still bending his head 
 modestly, and still blushing, Fairyfoot told his 
 story. He told her of his own sadness and lone- 
 liness, and of why he was considered so terrible 
 a disgrace to his family. He told her about the 
 fountain of the nightingales and what he had 
 heard there and how he had journeyed through 
 the forests, and beyond it into her own country, 
 to find her. And while he told it, her beautiful 
 face changed from red to white, and her hands 
 closely clasped themselves together. 
 
 " Oh ! " she said, when he had finished, " I know 
 that this is true from the kind look in your eyes, 
 and I shall be happy again. And how can I 
 thank you for being so good to a poor little 
 princess whom you had never seen ? " 
 
 " Only let me see you happy once more, most 
 sweet Princess," answered Fairyfoot, " and that 
 will be all I desire — only if, perhaps, I might once 
 — kiss your hand." 
 
 She held out her hand to him with so lovely a 
 look in her soft eyes that he felt happier than he 
 had ever been before, even at the fairy dances. 
 This was a different kind of happiness. Her hand 
 was as white as a dove's wing and as soft as a 
 
'" m v i 'fro**'* "' ^&^^i K *' 
 
 m$w\ •*" * any kVpfiBhtf 1 ! 
 
 fAlRYFOOT LOVED HER IN A MOMENT, AND HE KNEI T o» ONE KNEE. 
 
The Story of Prince Fairy foot 183 
 
 (love's breast. " Come," she said, " let us go at 
 once to the King." 
 
 Within a few minutes the whole palace was 
 in an uproar of excitement. Preparations were 
 made to go to the fountain of the nightingales 
 immediately. Remembering what the birds had 
 said about not wishing to be disturbed, Fairyfoot 
 asked the King to take only a small party. So 
 no one was to go but the King himself, the Prin- 
 cess, in a covered chair carried by two bearers, 
 the Lord High Chamberlain, two Maids of Hon- 
 our, and Fairyfoot. 
 
 Before morning they were on their way, and 
 the day after they reached the thicket of roses, 
 and Fairyfoot pushed aside the branches and led 
 the way into the dell. 
 
 The Princess Goldenhair sat down upon the 
 edge of the pool and put her feet into it. In two 
 minutes they began to look smaller. She bathed 
 them once, twice, three times, and, as the night- 
 ingales had said, they became smaller and more 
 beautiful than ever. As for the Princess herself, 
 she really could not be more beautiful than she 
 had been ; but the Lord High Chamberlain, who 
 had been an exceedingly ugly old gentleman, 
 after washing his face, became so young and 
 handsome that the First Maid of Honour im- 
 mediately fell in love with him. Whereupon 
 she washed her face, and became so beautiful 
 
i&4 The Story of Prince Fairy foot 
 
 that he fell in love with her, and they were 
 engaged upon the spot. 
 
 The Princess could not find any words to tell 
 Fairyfoot how grateful she was and how happy. 
 She could only look at him again and again with 
 her soft, radiant eyes, and again and again give 
 him her hand that he might kiss it. 
 
 She was so sweet and gentle that Fairyfoot 
 could not bear the thought of leaving her; and 
 when the King begged him to return to the pal- 
 ace with them and live there always, he was more 
 glad than I can tell you. To be near this lovely 
 Princess, to be her friend, to love and serve her 
 and look at her every day, was such happiness 
 that he wanted nothing more. But first he wished 
 to visit his father and mother and sisters and 
 brothers in Stumpinghame ! so the King and 
 Princess and their attendants went with him to 
 the pool where the red berries grew ; and after 
 he had bathed his feet in the water they were so 
 large that Stumpinghame contained nothing like 
 them, even the King's and Queen's seeming small 
 in comparison. And when, a few days later, he 
 arrived at the Stumpinghame Palace, attended in 
 great state by the magnificent retinue with which 
 the father of the Princess Goldenhair had pro- 
 vided him, he was received with unbounded rapt- 
 ure by his parents. The King and Queen felt 
 that to have a son with feet of such a size was 
 
The Story of Prince Fairy foot 185 
 
 something to be proud of, indeed. They could 
 not admire him sufficiently, although the whole 
 country was illuminated, and feasting continued 
 throughout his visit. 
 
 But though he was glad to be no more a dis« 
 grace to his family, it cannot be said that he en- 
 joyed the size of his feet very much on his own 
 account. Indeed, he much preferred being Prince 
 Fairyfoot, as fleet as the wind and as light as a 
 young deer, and he was quite glad to go to the 
 fountain of the nightingales after his visit was at 
 an end, and bathe his feet small again, and to re- 
 turn to the palace of the Princess Goldenhair with 
 the soft and tender eyes. There everyone loved 
 him, and he loved everyone, and was four times 
 as happy as the day is long. 
 
 He loved the Princess more dearly every day, 
 and, of course, as soon as they were old enough, 
 they were married. And of course, too, they 
 used to go in the summer to the forest, and dance 
 in the moonlight with the fairies, who adored 
 them both. 
 
 When they went to visit Stumpinghame, they 
 always bathed their feet in the pool of the red 
 berries ; and when they returned, they made 
 them small again in the fountain of the nightin- 
 gales. 
 
 They were always great friends with Robin 
 Goodfellow, and he was always very confidential 
 
1 86 The Story of Prince Fairy foot 
 
 with them about Gauzita, who continued to be as 
 pretty and saucy as ever. 
 
 " Some of these days," he used to say, severely, 
 " I'll marry another fairy, and see how she'll like 
 that — to see someone else basking in my society ' 
 I'll get even with her ! " 
 
 But he never did. 
 
THE PROUD LITTLE GRAIN 
 OF WHEAT 
 
THE PROUD LITTLE GRAIN 
 OF WHEAT 
 
 THERE once was a little grain of wheat which 
 was very proud indeed. The first thing it re- 
 membered was being very much crowded and 
 jostled by a great many other grains of wheat, all 
 living in the same sack in the granary. It was 
 quite dark in the sack, and no one could move 
 about, and so there was nothing to be done but to 
 sit still and talk and think. The proud little grain 
 of wheat talked a great deal, but did not think 
 quite so much, while its next neighbour thought 
 a great deal and only talked when it was asked 
 questions it could answer. It used to say that 
 when it thought a great deal it could remember 
 things which it seemed to have heard a long time 
 ago. 
 
 " What is the use of our staying here so long 
 doing nothing, and never being seen by any- 
 body ? " the proud little grain once asked. 
 
 " I don't know," the learned grain replied. " I 
 don't know the answer to that. Ask me another." 
 
 " Why can't I sing like the birds that build 
 
190 The Proud Little Grain of Wheat 
 
 V: 
 
 their nests in the roof? I should like to sing, in. 
 stead of sitting here in the dark." 
 
 " Because you have no voice," said the learned 
 grain. 
 
 This was a very good answer indeed. 
 
 " Why didn't someone give me a voice, then 
 — why didn't they ? " said the proud little grain, 
 getting very cross. 
 
 The learned grain thought for several minutes. 
 
 " There might be two answers to that," she said 
 at last. " One might be that nobody had a voice 
 to spare, and the other might be that you have 
 nowhere to put one if it were given to you." 
 
 " Everybody is better off than I am," said the 
 proud little grain. " The birds can fly and sing, 
 the children can play and shout. I am sure I can 
 get no rest for their shouting and playing. There 
 are two little boys who make enough noise to 
 deafen the whole sackful of us." 
 
 " Ah ! I know them," said the learned grain. 
 " And it's true they are noisy. Their names are 
 Lionel and Vivian. There is a thin place in the 
 side of the sack, through which I can see them. 
 I would rather stay where I am than have to do 
 all they do. They have long yellow hair, and 
 when they stand on their heads the straw sticks 
 in it and they look very curious. I heard a 
 strange thing through listening to them the other 
 day." 
 
The Proud Little Grain of Wheat 191 
 
 " What was it ? " asked the proud grain. 
 
 " They were playing in the straw, and someone 
 came in to them — it was a lady who had brought 
 them something on a plate. They began to dance 
 and shout : ' It's cake ! It's cake ! Nice little 
 mamma for bringing us cake.' And then they 
 each sat down with a piece and began to take 
 great bites out of it. I shuddered to think of it 
 afterward." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Well, you know they are always asking ques- 
 tions, and they began to ask questions of their 
 mamma, who lay down in the straw near them. 
 She seemed to be used to it. These are the ques- 
 tions Vivian asked : 
 
 " ' Who made the cake? ' 
 
 " ■ The cook/ 
 
 " ' Who made the cook ? ' 
 
 " • God.' 
 
 " ■ What did He make her for?* 
 
 " « Why didn't He make her white?' 
 
 " ' Why didn't He make you black?' 
 
 " ' Did He cut a hole in heaven and drop me 
 through when He made me ? ' 
 
 " ' Why didn't it hurt me when I tumbled such 
 a long way ? ' 
 
 " She said she ' didn't know ' to all but the two 
 first, and then he asked two more. 
 
 " ' What is the cake made of ?' 
 
192 The Proud Little Grain of Wheat 
 
 " ' Flour, sugar, eggs and butter.' 
 
 " ' What is flour made of ? ' 
 
 " It was the answer to that which made me 
 shudder." 
 
 " What was it ? " asked the proud grain. 
 
 " She said it was made of — wheat ! I don't see 
 the advantage of being rich " 
 
 " Was the cake rich r " asked the proud grain. 
 
 " Their mother said it was. She said, ' Don't 
 eat it so fast — it is very rich.' " 
 
 " Ah ! " said the proud grain. " I should like 
 to be rich. It must be very fine to be rich. If I 
 am ever made into cake, I mean to be so rich that 
 no one will dare to eat me at all." 
 
 " Ah ? " said the learned grain. " I don't think 
 those boys would be afraid to eat you, however 
 rich you were. They are not afraid of rich- 
 ness." 
 
 " They'd be afraid of me before they had done 
 with me," said the proud grain. " I am not a 
 common grain of wheat. Wait until I am made 
 into cake. But gracious me ! there doesn't seem 
 much prospect of it while we are shut up here. 
 How dark and stuffy it is, and how we are 
 crowded, and what a stupid lot the other 
 grains are ! I'm tired of it, I must say." 
 
 " We are all in the same sack," said the learned 
 grain, very quietly. 
 
 It was a good many days after that, that some- 
 
The Proud Little Grain of Wheat 193 
 
 thing happened. Quite early in the morning, a 
 man and a boy came into the granary, and moved 
 the sack of wheat from its place, wakening all 
 the grains from their last nap. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " said the proud grain. 
 " Who is daring to disturb us ? " 
 
 " Hush ! " whispered the learned grain, in the 
 most solemn manner. " Something is going to 
 happen. Something like this happened to some- 
 body belonging to me long ago. I seem to re- 
 member it when I think very hard. I seem to re- 
 member something about one of my family being 
 sown." 
 
 " What is sown ? " demanded the other grain. 
 
 " It is being thrown into the earth," began the 
 .earned grain. 
 
 Oh, what a passion the proud grain got into ! 
 '* Into the earth ? " she shrieked out. " Into the 
 common earth ? The earth is nothing but dirt, 
 and I am not a common grain of wheat. I won't 
 be sown ! I will not be sown ! How dare any- 
 one sow me against my will! I would rather 
 stay in the sack." 
 
 But just as she was saying it, she was thrown 
 out with the learned grain and some others into 
 another dark place, and carried off by the farmer, 
 in spite of her temper; for the farmer could not 
 hear her voice at all, and wouldn't have minded 
 if he had, because he knew she was only a grain 
 
194 The Proud Little Grain of Wheat 
 
 of wheat, and ought to be sown, so that some 
 good might come of her. 
 
 Well, she was carried out to a large field in the 
 pouch which the farmer wore at his belt. The 
 field had been ploughed, and there was a sweet 
 smell of fresh earth in the air ; the sky was a 
 deep, deep blue, but the air was cool and the few 
 leaves on the trees were brown and dry, and 
 looked as if they had been left over from last year. 
 
 " Ah 1 " said the learned grain. " It was just 
 such a day as this when my grandfather, or my 
 father, or somebody else related to me, was sown. 
 I think I remember that it was called Early 
 Spring." 
 
 " As for me," said the proud grain, fiercely, " I 
 should like to see the man who would dare to 
 sow me ! " 
 
 At that very moment, the farmer put his big, 
 brown hand into the bag and threw her, as she 
 thought, at least half a mile from them. 
 
 He had not thrown her so far as that, however, 
 and she landed safely in the shadow of a clod of 
 rich earth, which the sun had warmed through 
 and through. She was quite out of breath and 
 very dizzy at first, but in a few seconds she began 
 to feel better and could not help looking around, 
 in spite of her anger, to see if there was anyone 
 near to talk to. But she saw no one, and so be- 
 gan to scold as usual. 
 
The Proud Little Grain of Wheat 195 
 
 " They not only sow me," she called out, " but 
 they throw me all by myself, where I can have 
 no company at all. It is disgraceful." 
 
 Then she heard a voice from the other side of 
 the clod. It was the learned grain, who had 
 fallen there when the farmer threw her out of his 
 pouch. 
 
 " Don't be angry," it said, " I am here. We 
 are all right so far. Perhaps, when they cover 
 us with the earth, we shall be even nearer to each 
 other than we are now." 
 
 " Do you mean to say they will cover us with 
 the earth ? " asked the proud grain. 
 
 " Yes," was the answer. " And there we shall 
 lie in the dark, and the rain will moisten us, and 
 the sun will warm us, until we grow larger and 
 larger, and at last burst open ! " 
 
 " Speak for yourself," said the proud grain ; 
 " I shall do no such thing ! " 
 
 But it all happened just as the learned grain 
 had said, which showed what a wise grain it was, 
 and how much it had found out just by thinking 
 hard and remembering all it could. 
 
 Before the day was over, they were covered 
 snugly up with the soft, fragrant, brown earth, 
 and there they lay day after day. 
 
 One morning, when the proud grain wakened, 
 it found itself wet through and through with rain 
 which had fallen in the night, and the next day 
 
196 The Proud Little Grain of Wheat 
 
 the sun shone down and warmed it so that it 
 really began to be afraid that it would be obliged 
 to grow too large for its skin, which felt a little 
 tight for it already. 
 
 It said nothing of this to the learned grain, at 
 first, because it was determined not to burst if it 
 could help it ; but after the same thing had hap- 
 pened a great many times, it found, one morning, 
 that it really was swelling, and it felt obliged to 
 tell the learned grain about it. 
 
 " Well," it said, pettishly, " I suppose you will 
 be glad to hear that you were right. I am going 
 to burst. My skin is so tight now that it doesn't 
 fit me at all, and I know I can't stand another 
 warm shower like the last." 
 
 " Oh ! " said the learned grain, in a quiet way 
 (really learned people always have a quiet way), 
 " I knew I was right, or I shouldn't have said so. 
 1 hope you don't find it very uncomfortable. J 
 think I myself shall burst by to-morrow." 
 
 " Of course I find it uncomfortable," said the 
 proud grain. " Who wouldn't find it uncomfort- 
 able, to be two or three sizes too small for one's 
 self ! Pouf ! Crack ! There I go ! I have split 
 up all up my right side, and I must say it's a re- 
 lief." 
 
 " Crack ! Pouf ! so have I," said the learner* 
 grain. " Now we must begin to push up through 
 the earth. 1 am sure my relation did that." 
 
The Proud Little Grain of Wheat 197 
 
 " Well, I shouldn't mind getting out into the 
 air. It would be a change at least." 
 
 So each of them began to push her way- 
 through the earth as strongly as she could, and, 
 sure enough, it was not long before the proud 
 grain actually found herself out in the world 
 again, breathing the sweet air, under the blue 
 sky, across which fleecy white clouds were drift- 
 ing, and swift-winged, happy birds darting. 
 
 " It really is a lovely day," were the first words 
 the proud grain said. It couldn't help it. The 
 sunshine was so delightful, and the birds chirped 
 and twittered so merrily in the bare branches, 
 and, more wonderful than all, the great field was 
 brown no longer, but was covered with millions 
 of little, fresh green blades, which trembled and 
 bent their frail bodies before the light wind. 
 
 "This is an improvement," said the proud 
 grain. 
 
 Then there was a little stir in the earth beside 
 it, and up through the brown mould came the 
 learned grain, fresh, bright, green, like the rest. 
 
 " I told you I was not a common grain of wheat," 
 said the proud one. 
 
 " You are not a grain of wheat at all now," said 
 the learned one, modestly. " You are a blade of 
 wheat, and there are a great many others like 
 you." 
 
 " See how green I am ! " said the proud blade. 
 
iq8 The Proud Little Grain of Wheat 
 
 " Yes, you are very green," said its compan- 
 ion. " You will not be so green when you are 
 older." 
 
 The proud grain, which must be called a blade 
 now, had plenty of change and company after 
 this. It grew taller and taller every day, and 
 made a great many new acquaintances as the 
 weather grew warmer. These were little gold 
 and green beetles living near it, who often passed 
 it, and now and then stopped to talk a little about 
 their children and their journeys under the soil. 
 Birds dropped down from the sky sometimes to 
 gossip and twitter of the nests they were building 
 in the apple-trees, and the new songs they were 
 learning to sing. 
 
 Once, on a very warm day, a great golden but- 
 terfly, floating by on his large lovely wings, flut- 
 tered down softly and lit on the proud blade, 
 who felt so much prouder when he did it that 
 she trembled for joy. 
 
 " He admires me more than all the rest in the 
 field, you see," it said, haughtily. " That is be- 
 cause I am so green." 
 
 " If I were you," said the learned blade, in its 
 modest way, " I believe I would not talk so much 
 about being green. People will make such ill- 
 natured remarks when one speaks often of one's 
 self." 
 
 " I am above such people," said the proud blade 1 
 
The Proud Little Grain of Wheat 199 
 
 " I can find nothing more interesting to talk of 
 than myself." 
 
 As time went on, it was delighted to find that 
 it grew taller than any other blade in the field, 
 and threw out other blades ; and at last there 
 grew out at the top of its stalk ever so many 
 plump, new little grains, all fitting closely to- 
 gether, and wearing tight little green covers. 
 
 " Look at me ! " it said then. " 1 am the queen 
 of all the wheat. I have a crown." 
 
 " No," said its learned companion. u You are 
 now an ear of wheat." 
 
 And in a short time all the other stalks wore 
 the same kind of crown, and it found out that 
 the learned blade was right, and that it was only 
 an ear, after all. 
 
 And now the weather had grown still warmer 
 and the trees were covered with leaves, and the 
 birds sang and built their nests in them and laid 
 their little blue eggs, and in time, wonderful to 
 relate, there came baby birds, that were always 
 opening their mouths for food, and crying " peep, 
 peep," to their fathers and mothers. There were 
 more butterflies floating about on their amber and 
 purple wings, and the gold and green beetles 
 were so busy they had no time to talk, 
 
 " Well ! " said the proud ear of wheat (you re- 
 member it was an ear by this time) to its com- 
 panion one day. " You see, you were right 
 
200 The Proud Little Grain of Wheat 
 
 again. I am not so green as I was. I am turn- 
 ing yellow — but yellow is the colour of gold, and 
 I don't object to looking like gold." 
 
 " You will soon be ripe," said its friend. 
 
 " And what will happen then ? " 
 
 " The reaping - machine will come and cut you 
 down, and other strange things wiJl happen." 
 
 " There I make a stand," said the proud ear. 
 " I will not be cut down." 
 
 But it was just as the wise ear said it would 
 be. Not long after a reaping - machine was 
 brought and driven back and forth in the fields, 
 and down went all the wheat ears before the 
 great knives. But it did not hurt the wheat, of 
 course, and only the proud ear felt angry. 
 
 " I am the colour of gold," it said, " and yet 
 they have dared to cut me down. What will they 
 do next, I wonder?" 
 
 What they did next was to bunch it up with 
 other wheat and tie it and stack it together, and 
 then it was carried in a waggon and laid in the 
 barn. 
 
 Then there was a great bustle after a while. 
 The farmer's wife and daughters and her two 
 servants began to work as hard as they could. 
 
 " The threshers are coming," they said, " and 
 we must make plenty of things for them to eat." 
 
 So they made pies and cakes and bread until 
 their cupboards were full; and surely enough the 
 
The Proud Little Grain of Wheat 201 
 
 threshers did come with the threshing-machine, 
 which was painted red, and went " Puff ! puff ! 
 puff! rattle ! rattle ! " all the time. And the 
 proud wheat was threshed out by it, and found 
 itself in grains again and very much out of 
 breath. 
 
 " I look almost as I was at first," it said ; " only 
 there are so many of me. I am grander than 
 ever now. I was only one grain of wheat at first, 
 and now I am at least fifty." 
 
 When it was put into a sack, it managed to get 
 all its grains together in one place, so that it 
 might feel as grand as possible. It was so proud 
 that it felt grand, however much it was knocked 
 about. 
 
 It did not lie in the sack very long this time 
 before something else happened. One morning 
 it heard the farmer's wife saying to the coloured 
 boy: 
 
 " Take this yere sack of wheat to the mill, 
 Jerry. I want to try it when I make that thar 
 cake for the boarders. Them two children 
 from Washington city are powerful hands for 
 cake." 
 
 So Jerry lifted the sack up and threw it over 
 his shoulder, and carried it out into the spring, 
 waggon. 
 
 " Now we are going to travel," said the proud 
 wheat. " Don't let us be separated/* 
 
202 The Proud Little Gram of Wheat 
 
 At that minute, there were heard two young 
 voices., shouting: — 
 
 " Jerry, take us in the waggon ! Let us go to 
 mill, Jerry. We want to go to mill." 
 
 And these were the very two boys who had 
 played in the granary and made so much noise 
 the summer before. They had grown a little 
 bigger, and their yellow hair was longer, but they 
 looked just as they used to, with their strong 
 little legs and big brown eyes, and their sailor 
 hats set so far back on their heads that it was a 
 wonder they stayed on. And gracious ! how they 
 shouted and ran. 
 
 " What does yer mar say ? " asked Jerry. 
 
 " Says we can go ! " shouted both at once, as 
 if Jerry had been deaf, which he wasn't at all — 
 quite the contrary. 
 
 So Jerry, who was very good - natured, lifted 
 them in, and cracked his whip, and the horses 
 started off. It was a long ride to the mill, but 
 Lionel and Vivian were not too tired to shout 
 again when they reached it. They shouted at 
 sight of the creek and the big wheel turning 
 round and round slowly, with the water dashing 
 and pouring and foaming over it. 
 
 " What turns the wheel ? " asked Vivian. 
 
 '* The water, honey," said Jerry. 
 
 w What turns the water ? " 
 
 " Well now, honey," said Jerry, " you hev me 
 
The Proud Little Grain of Wheat 203 
 
 thar. I don't know nuffin 'bout it. Lors-a-massy, 
 what a boy you is fur axin dif'cult questions." 
 
 Then he carried the sack in to the miller, and 
 said he would wait until the wheat was ground. 
 
 " Ground ! " said the proud wheat. " We are 
 going to be ground. I hope it is agreeable. Let 
 us keep close together." 
 
 They did keep close together, but it wasn't 
 very agreeable to be poured into a hopper and 
 then crushed into fine powder between two big 
 stones. 
 
 " Makes nice flour," said the miller, rubbing it 
 between his fingers. 
 
 " Flour!" said the wheat — which was wheat no 
 longer. " Now I am flour, and I am finer than 
 ever. How white I am ! I really would rather 
 be white than green or gold colour. I wonder 
 where the learned grain is, and if it is as fine and 
 white as I am ? " 
 
 But the learned grain and her family had been 
 laid away in the granary for seed wheat. 
 
 Before the waggon reached the house again, the 
 two boys were fast asleep in the bottom of it, and 
 had to be helped out just as the sack was, and 
 carried in. 
 
 The sack was taken into the kitchen at once 
 and opened, and even in its wheat days the flour 
 had never been so proud as it was when it heard 
 the farmer's wife say — 
 
204 The Proud Little Grain of Wheat 
 
 " I'm going to make this into cake." 
 
 " Ah ! " it said ; " I thought so. Now I shall 
 be rich, and admired by everybody." 
 
 The farmer's wife then took some of it out in a 
 large white bowl, and after that she busied her- 
 self beating eggs and sugar and butter all to- 
 gether in another bowl: and after a while she 
 took the flour and beat it in also. 
 
 " Now I am in grand company," said the flour. 
 " The eggs and butter are the colour of gold, the 
 sugar is like silver or diamonds. This is the 
 very society for me." 
 
 " The cake looks rich," said one of the daugh- 
 ters. 
 
 " It's rather too rich for them children," said 
 her mother. " But Lawsey, I dunno, neither. 
 Nothin' don't hurt 'em. I reckon they could eat 
 a panel of rail fence and come to no harm." 
 
 " I'm rich," said the flour to itself. " That is 
 just what I intended from the first. I am rich 
 and I am a cake." 
 
 Just then, a pair of big brown eyes came and 
 peeped into it. They belonged to a round little 
 head with a mass of tangled curls all over it— 
 they belonged to Vivian. 
 
 " What's that?" he asked. 
 
 " Cake." 
 
 "Who made it?" 
 
 ** I did" 
 
The Proud Little Grain of Wheat 205 
 
 " I like you," said Vivian. " You're such a nice 
 woman. Who's going to eat any of it? Is 
 Lionel?" 
 
 " I'm afraid it's too rich for boys," said the 
 woman, but she laughed and kissed him. 
 
 " No," said Vivian. " I'm afraid it isn't." 
 
 " I shall be much too rich," said the cake, 
 angrily. " Boys, indeed. I was made for some- 
 thing better than boys." 
 
 After that, it was poured into a cake-mould, 
 and put into the oven, where it had rather an un- 
 pleasant time of it. It was so hot in there that if 
 the farmer's wife had not watched it carefully, it 
 would have been burned. 
 
 " But I am cake," it said, " and of the richest 
 kind, so I can bear it, even if it is uncomfortable." 
 
 When it was taken out, it really was cake, and 
 it felt as if it was quite satisfied. Everyone who 
 came into the kitchen and saw it, said — 
 
 " Oh, what a nice cake ! How well your new 
 flour has done ! " 
 
 But just once, while it was cooling, it had a 
 curious, disagreeable feeling. It found, all at 
 once, that the two boys, Lionel and Vivian, had 
 come quietly into the kitchen and stood near the 
 table, looking at the cake with their great eyes 
 wide open and their little red mouths open, too. 
 
 " Dear me," it said. " How nervous I feel — 
 actually nervous. What great eyes they have, 
 
206 The Proud Little Grain of Wheat 
 
 and how they shine ! and what are those sharp 
 white things in their mouths ? I really don't like 
 them to look at me in that way. It seems like 
 something personal. I wish the farmer's wife 
 would come." 
 
 Such a chill ran over it, that it was quite cool 
 when the woman came in, and she put it away in 
 the cupboard on a plate. 
 
 But, that very afternoon, she took it out again 
 and set it on the table on a glass cake-stand. She 
 put some leaves around it to make it look nice, 
 and it noticed there were a great many other 
 things on the table, and they all looked fresh and 
 bright. 
 
 " This is all in my honour," it said. " They 
 know I am rich." 
 
 Then several people came in and took chairs 
 around the table. 
 
 " They all come to sit and look at me," said the 
 vain cake. " I wish the learned grain could see 
 me now." 
 
 There was a little high-chair on each side of the 
 table, and at first these were empty, but in a few 
 minutes the door opened and in came the two 
 little boys. They had pretty, clean dresses on, 
 and their " bangs " and curls were bright with be- 
 ing brushed. 
 
 " Even they have been dressed up to do me 
 honour," thought the cake. 
 
"THERE'S THE CAKE," BB SAID. 
 
The Proud Little Grain of Wheat 209 
 
 But, the next minute, it began to feel quite 
 nervous again. Vivian's chair was near the glass 
 stand, and when he had climbed up and seated 
 himself, he put one elbow on the table and rested 
 his fat chin on his fat hand, and fixing his eyes on 
 the cake, sat and stared at it in such an unnatu- 
 rally quiet manner for some seconds, that any cake 
 might well have felt nervous. 
 
 " There's the cake," he said, at last, in such a 
 deeply thoughtful voice that the cake felt faint 
 with anger. 
 
 Then a remarkable thing happened. Some one 
 drew the stand toward them and took the knife 
 and cut out a large slice of the cake. 
 
 " Go away," said the cake, though no one heard 
 it. " I am cake ! I am rich I I am not for boys ! 
 How dare you ? " 
 
 Vivian stretched out his hand; he took the 
 slice ; he lifted it up, and then the cake saw his 
 red mouth open — yes, open wider than it could 
 have believed possible — wide enough to show two 
 dreadful rows of little sharp white things. 
 
 " Good gra " it began. 
 
 But it never said "cious." Never at zV. For 
 in two minutes Vivian had eaten it ! ! 
 
 And there was an end of its airs and graes. 
 
BEHIND THE WHITE BRICK 
 
BEHIND THE WHITE BRICK 
 
 IT began with Aunt Hetty's being out of tem- 
 per, which, it must be confessed, was nothing 
 new. At its best, Aunt Hetty's temper was none 
 of the most charming, and this morning it was at 
 its worst. She had awakened to the conscious- 
 ness of having a hard day's work before her, and 
 she had awakened late, and so everything had 
 gone wrong from the first. There was a sharp 
 ring in her voice when she came to Jem's bed- 
 room door and called out, "Jemima, get up this 
 minute ! " 
 
 Jem knew what to expect when Aunt Hetty be- 
 gan a day by calling her " Jemima." It was one 
 of the poor child's grievances that she had been 
 given such an ugly name. In all the books she 
 had read, and she had read a great many, Jem 
 never had met a heroine who was called Jemima. 
 But it had been her mother's favorite sister's 
 name, and so it had fallen to her lot. Her mother 
 always called her " Jem," or " Mimi," which was 
 much prettier, and even Aunt Hetty only reserved 
 Jemima for unpleasant state occasions. 
 
214 Behind the White Brick 
 
 It was a dreadful day to Jem. Her mother was 
 not at home, and would not be until night. She 
 had been called away unexpectedly, and had been 
 obliged to leave Jem and the baby to Aunt Het- 
 ty's mercies. 
 
 So Jem found herself busy enough. Scarcely 
 had she finished doing one thing, when Aunt 
 Hetty told her to begin another. She wiped 
 dishes and picked fruit and attended to the baby ; 
 and when baby had gone to sleep, and everything 
 else seemed disposed of, for a time, at least, she 
 was so tired that she was glad to sit down. 
 
 And then she thought of the book she had been 
 reading the night before — a certain delightful 
 story book, about a little girl whose name was 
 Flora, and who was so happy and rich and pretty 
 and good that Jem had likened her to the little 
 princesses one reads about, to whose christening 
 feast every fairy brings a gift. 
 
 " I shall have time to finish my chapter before 
 dinner-time comes," said Jem, and she sat down 
 snugly in one corner of the wide, old fashioned 
 fireplace. 
 
 But she had not read more than two pages be- 
 fore something dreadful happened. Aunt Hetty 
 came into the room in a great hurry — in such a 
 hurry, indeed, that she caught her foot in the 
 matting and fell, striking her elbow sharply 
 against a chair, which so upset her temper that 
 
Behind the White Brick 215 
 
 the moment she found herself on her feet she flew 
 at Jem. 
 
 " What ! " she said, snatching the book from 
 her, " reading again, when I am running all over 
 the house for you?" And she flung the pretty 
 little blue covered volume into the fire. 
 
 Jem sprang to rescue it with a cry, but it was 
 impossible to reach it ; it had fallen into a great 
 hollow of red coal, and the blaze caught it at 
 once. 
 
 " You are a wicked woman ! " cried Jem, in a 
 dreadful passion, to Aunt Hetty. " You are a 
 wicked woman." 
 
 Then matters reached a climax. Aunt Hetty 
 boxed her ears, pushed her back on her little foot- 
 stool, and walked out of the room. 
 
 Jem hid her face on her arms and cried as if 
 her heart would break. She cried until her eyes 
 were heavy, and she thought she would be obliged 
 to go to sleep. But just as she was thinking of 
 going to sleep, something fell down the chimney 
 and made her look up. It was a piece of mortar, 
 and it brought a good deal of soot with it. She 
 bent forward and looked up to see where it had 
 come from. The chimney was so very wide that 
 this was easy enough. She could see where the 
 mortar had fallen from the side and left a white 
 patch. 
 
 " How white it looks against the black ! " said 
 
216 Behind the White Brick 
 
 Jem ; " it is like a white brick among the black 
 ones. What a queer place a chimney is ! I can 
 see a bit of the blue sky, I think." 
 
 And then a funny thought came into her fanci. 
 ful little head. What a many things were burned 
 in the big fireplace and vanished in smoke or 
 tinder up the chimney ! Where did everything 
 go ? There was Flora, for instance — Flora who 
 was represented on the frontispiece — with lovely, 
 soft, flowing hair, and a little fringe on her pretty 
 round forehead, crowned with a circlet of dais- 
 ies, and a laugh in her wide - awake round eyes. 
 Where was she by this time? Certainly there 
 was nothing left of her in the fire. Jem almost 
 began to cry again at the thought. 
 
 " It was too bad," she said. " She was so pretty 
 and funny, and I did like her so." 
 
 I daresay it scarcely will be credited by unbe- 
 lieving people when I tell them what happened 
 next, it was such a very singular thing, indeed. 
 
 Jem felt herself gradually lifted off her little 
 footstool. 
 
 " Oh ! " she said, timidly, " I feel very light." 
 She did feel light, indeed. She felt so light that 
 she was sure she was rising gently in the air. 
 
 " Oh," she said again, " how — how very light I 
 feel ! Oh, dear, I'm going up the chimney ! " 
 
 It was rather strange that she never thought of 
 calling for help, but she did not. She was not 
 
Behind the White Brick 217 
 
 easily frightened ; and now she was only wonder- 
 fully astonished, as she remembered afterwards. 
 She shut her eyes tight and gave a little gasp. 
 
 " I've heard Aunt Hetty talk about the draught 
 drawing things up the chimney, but I never knew 
 it was as strong as this," she said. 
 
 She went up, up, up, quietly and steadily, and 
 without any uncomfortable feeling at al 1 ; and 
 then all at once she stopped, feeling that her feet 
 rested against something solid. She opened her 
 eyes and looked about her, and there she was, 
 standing right opposite the white brick, her feet 
 on a tiny ledge. 
 
 " Well," she snd, "this is funny." 
 
 But the next thing that happened was funnier 
 still. She found that, without thinking what she 
 was doing, she was knocking on the white brick 
 with her knackles, as if it was a door and she 
 expected somebody to open it. The next minute 
 she heard footsteps, and then a sound, as if some 
 one was drawing back a little bolt. 
 
 "It is a door," said Jem, "and somebody is 
 going to open it." 
 
 The white brick moved a little, and some more 
 mortar and soot fell ; then the brick moved a little 
 more, and then it slid aside and left an open 
 space. 
 
 " It's a room ! " cried Jem. " There's a room 
 behind it ! " 
 
218 Behind the White Brick 
 
 And so there was, and before the open space 
 stood a pretty little girl, with long lovely hair 
 and a fringe on her forehead. Jem clasped her 
 hands in amazement. It was Flora herself, as she 
 looked in the picture, and Flora stood laughing 
 and nodding. 
 
 " Come in," she said. " I thought it was you." 
 
 " But how can I come in through such a little 
 place ? " asked Jem. 
 
 " Oh, that is easy enough," said Flora. " Here, 
 give me your hand." 
 
 Jem did as she told her, and found that it was 
 easy enough. In an instant she had passed 
 through the opening, the white brick had gone 
 back to its place, and she was standing by Flora's 
 side in a large room — the nicest room she had 
 ever seen. It was big and lofty and light, and 
 there were all kinds of delightful things in it — 
 books and flowers and playthings and pictures, 
 and in one corner a great cage full of love- 
 birds. 
 
 " Have I ever seen it before ? " asked Jem, 
 glancing slowly round. 
 
 "Yes," said Flora; "you saw it last night — in 
 your mind. Don't you remember it ? " 
 
 Jem shook her head. 
 
 " I feel as if I did, but " 
 
 " Why," said Flora, laughing, " it's my room, 
 the one you read about last night." 
 
Behind the White Brick 219 
 
 " So it is," said Jem. " But how did you come 
 here ? " 
 
 " I can't tell you that ; I myself don't know. 
 But I am here, and so" — rather mysteriously — 
 " are a great many other things." 
 
 ■' Are they ? " said Jem, very much interested. 
 "What things? Burned things? I was just 
 wondering " 
 
 " Not only burned things," said Flora, nodding. 
 "Just come with me and I'll show you some- 
 thing." 
 
 She led the way out of the room and down a 
 little passage with several doors in each side of it, 
 and she opened one door and showed Jem what 
 was on the other side of it. That was a room, 
 too, and this time it was funny as well as pretty. 
 Both floor and walls were padded with rose color, 
 and the floor was strewn with toys. There were 
 big soft balls, rattles, horses, woolly dogs, and a 
 doll or so ; there was one low cushioned chair and 
 a low table. 
 
 " You can come in," said a shrill little voice be- 
 hind the door, " only mind you don't tread on 
 things." 
 
 " What a funny little voice ! " said Jem, but 
 she had no sooner said it than she jumped 
 back. 
 
 The owner of the voice, who had just come for- 
 ward, was no other than Baby. 
 
220 Behind the White Brick 
 
 "Why," exclaimed Jem, beginning to feei 
 frightened, " I left you fast asleep in your crib." 
 
 " Did you ? " said Baby, somewhat scornfully. 
 "That's just the way with you grown-up peo- 
 ple. You think you know everything, and yet 
 ycu haven't discretion enough to know when 
 a pin is sticking into one. You'd know soon 
 enough if you had one sticking into your own 
 back." 
 
 " But I'm not grown up," stammered Jem ; 
 " and when you are at home you can neither walk 
 nor talk. You're not six months old." 
 
 " Well, miss," retorted Baby, whose wrongs 
 seemed to have soured her disposition somewhat, 
 " you have no need to throw that in my teeth ; 
 you were not six months old, either, when you 
 were my age." 
 
 Jem could not help laughing. 
 
 " You haven't got any teeth," she said. 
 
 " Haven't I ? " said Baby, and she displayed 
 two beautiful rows with some haughtiness of 
 manner. " When I am up here," she said, " I am 
 supplied with the modern conveniences, and 
 that's why I never complain. Do I ever cry 
 when I am asleep? It's not falling asleep I object 
 to, it's falling awake." 
 
 " Wait a minute," said Jem. " Are you asleep 
 now ? " 
 
 " I'm what you call, asleep. I can only come 
 
Behind the White Brick 221 
 
 here when I'm what you call asleep. Asleep, in- 
 deed.' It's no wonder we always cry when we 
 have to fall awake." 
 
 " But we don't mean to be unkind to you," pro- 
 tested Jem, meekly. 
 
 She could not help thinking Baby was very 
 severe. 
 
 " Don't mean ! " said Baby. " Well, why don't 
 you think more, then ? How would you like to 
 have all the nice things snatched away from you, 
 and all the old rubbish packed off on you, as if 
 you hadn't any sense ? How would you like to 
 have to sit and stare at things you wanted, and 
 not to be able to reach them, or, if you did reach 
 them, have them fall out of your hand, and roll 
 away in the most unfeeling manner ? And then 
 be scolded and called ' cross ! ' It's no wonder 
 we are bald. You'd be bald yourself. It's trouble 
 and worry that keep us bald until we can begin to 
 take care of ourselves ; I had more hair than this 
 at first, but it fell off, as well it might. No phi- 
 losopher ever thought of that, I suppose ! " 
 
 " Well," said Jem, in despair, " I hope you en- 
 joy yourself when you are here ? " 
 
 "Yes, I do," answered Baby. "That's one 
 comfort. There is nothing to knock my head 
 against, and things have patent stoppers on them, 
 so that they can't roll away, and everything is 
 soft and easy to pick up." 
 
222 Behind the White Brick 
 
 There was a slight pause after this, and Baby 
 seemed to cool down. 
 
 " I suppose you would like me to show you 
 round ? " she said. 
 
 " Not if you have any objection," replied Jem, 
 who was rather subdued. 
 
 " I would as soon do it as not," said Baby. 
 " You are not as bad as some people, though you 
 do get my clothes twisted when you hold me." 
 
 Upon the whole, she seemed rather proud of 
 her position. It was evident she quite regarded 
 herself as hostess. She held her small bald head 
 very high indeed, as she trotted on before them. 
 She stopped at the first door she came to, and 
 knocked three times. She was obliged to stand 
 upon tiptoe to reach the knocker. 
 
 " He's sure to be at home at this time of year," 
 she remarked. " This is the busy season." 
 
 " Who's ' he ' ? " inquired Jem. 
 
 But Flora only laughed at Miss Baby's conse- 
 quential air. 
 
 " S. C, to be sure," was the answer, as the 
 young lady pointed to the door-plate, upon which 
 Jem noticed, for the first time, " S. C." in very 
 large letters. 
 
 The door opened, apparently without assist- 
 ance, and they entered the apartment. 
 
 " Good gracious ! " exclaimed Jem, the next 
 minute. " Good^^i- gracious ! " 
 
Behind the White Brick 223 
 
 She might well be astonished. It was such a 
 long room that she could not see to the end of it, 
 and it was piled up from floor to ceiling with toys 
 of every description, and there was such bustle 
 and buzzing in it that it was quite confusing. 
 The bustle and buzzing arose from a very curious 
 cause, too, — it was the bustle and buzz of hun- 
 dreds of tiny men and women who were working 
 at little tables no higher than mushrooms,— the 
 pretty tiny women cutting out and sewing, the 
 pretty tiny men sawing and hammering and all 
 talking at once. The principal person in the 
 place escaped Jem's notice at first ; but it was 
 not long before she saw him, — a little old gentle- 
 man, with a rosy face and sparkling eyes, sitting 
 at a desk, and writing in a book almost as big as 
 himself. He was so busy that he was quite ex- 
 cited, and had been obliged to throw his white 
 fur coat and cap aside, and he was at work in his 
 red waistcoat. 
 
 " Look here, if you please," piped Baby. " I 
 have brought some one to see you." 
 
 When he turned round, Jem recognized him at 
 once. 
 
 "Eh! Eh!" he said. "What! What! Who's 
 this, Tootsicums ? " 
 
 Baby's manner became very acid indeed. 
 
 " I shouldn't have thought you would have said 
 that, Mr. Claus," she remarked. " I can't help 
 
224 Behind the White Brick 
 
 myself down below, but I generally have my 
 rights respected up here. I should like to know 
 what sane godfather or godmother would give one 
 the name of ' Tootsicums ' in one's baptism. They 
 are bad enough, I must say ; but I never heard 
 of any of them calling a person ' Tootsicums.' " 
 
 " Come, come ! " said S. C, chuckling com- 
 fortably and rubbing his hands. " Don't be too 
 dignified, — it's a bad thing. And don't be too 
 fond of flourishing your rights in people's faces, 
 — that's the worst of all, Miss Midget. Folks 
 who make such a fuss about their rights turn 
 Jhem into wrongs sometimes." 
 
 Then he turned suddenly to Jem. 
 
 " You are the little girl from down below," he 
 said. 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered Jem. " I'm Jem, and this 
 is my friend Flora, — out of the blue book." 
 
 " I'm happy to make her acquaintance," said S. 
 C, " and I'm happy to make yours. You are a 
 nice child, though a trifle peppery. I'm very 
 glad to see you." 
 
 "I'm very glad indeed to see you, sir," said 
 Jem. " I wasn't quite sure " 
 
 But there she stopped, feeling that it would be 
 scarcely polite to tell him that she had begun of 
 late years to lose faith in him. 
 
 But S. C. only chuckled more comfortably than 
 ever and rubbed his hands again. 
 
«*Efl! EH!" HE SAID. "WHAT' WHAT! WHO'S THIS, TOOTSICUAIS?" 
 
• * 
 
Behind the White Brick 227 
 
 " Ho, ho ! " he said. " You know who I am, 
 then?" 
 
 Jem hesitated a moment, wondering whether it 
 would not be taking a liberty to mention his 
 name without putting " Mr." before it ; then she 
 remembered what Baby had called him. 
 
 " Baby called you ' Mr. Claus,' sir," she replied ; 
 "and I have seen pictures of you." 
 
 " To be sure," said S. C. " S. Claus, Esquire, 
 of Chimneyland. How do you like me?" 
 
 " Very much," answered Jem ; " very much, in- 
 deed, sir." 
 
 " Glad of it ! Glad of it ! But what was it you 
 were going to say you were not quite sure of ? " 
 
 Jem blushed a little. 
 
 " I was not quite sure that — that you were true, 
 sir. At least I have not been quite sure since I 
 have been older." 
 
 S. C. rubbed the bald part of his head and gave 
 a little sigh. 
 
 " I hope I have not hurt your feelings, sir," fal- 
 tered Jem, who was a very kind hearted little 
 soul. 
 
 " Well, no," said S. C. " Not exactly. And it 
 is not your fault either. It is natural, I suppose ; 
 at anyrate, it is the way of the world. People 
 lose their belief in a great many things as they 
 grow older; but that does not make the things 
 not true, thank goodness! and their faith often 
 
228 Behind the White Brick 
 
 comes back after a while. But, bless me i ' he 
 added, briskly, " I'm moralizing, and who thanks 
 a man for doing that ? Suppose " 
 
 " Black eyes or blue, sir ? " said a tiny voice 
 close to them. 
 
 Jem and Flora turned round, and saw it was 
 one of the small workers who was asking the 
 question. 
 
 "Whom for?" inquired S. C. 
 
 " Little girl in the red brick house at the cor- 
 ner," said the workwoman ; " name of Birdie." 
 
 " Excuse me a moment," said S. C. to the chil- 
 dren, and he turned to the big book and began to 
 run his fingers down the pages in a business-like 
 manner. " Ah ! here she is ! " he exclaimed at 
 last. " Blue eyes, if you please, Thistle, and 
 golden hair. And let it be a big one. She takes 
 good care of them." 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Thistle ; " I am personally ac- 
 quainted with several dolls in her family. I go 
 to parties in her dolls' house sometimes when she 
 is fast asleep at night, and they all speak very 
 highly of her. She is most attentive to them 
 when they are ill. In fact, her pet doll is a crip- 
 ple, with a stiff leg." 
 
 She ran back to her work and S. C. finished his 
 sentence. 
 
 " Suppose I show you my establishment," he 
 said. "Come with me." 
 
Behind the White Brick 229 
 
 It really would be quite impossible to describe 
 the wonderful things he showed them. Jem's 
 head was quite in a whirl before she had seen 
 one-half of them, and even Baby condescended to 
 become excited. 
 
 " There must be a great many children in the 
 world, Mr. Claus," ventured Jem. 
 
 " Yes, yes, millions of 'em ; bless 'em,** said S. 
 C, growing rosier with delight at the very 
 thought. " We never run out of them, that's one 
 comfort. There's a large and varied assortment 
 always on hand. Fresh ones every year, too, so 
 that when one grows too old there is a new one 
 ready. I have a place like this in every twelfth 
 chimney. Now it's boys, now it's girls, always 
 one or t'other; and there's no end of playthings 
 for them, too, I'm glad to say. For girls, the 
 great thing seems to be dolls. Blitzen! what 
 comfort they do take in dolls! but the boys are 
 for horses and racket.** 
 
 They were standing near a table where a worker 
 was just putting the finishing touch to the dress 
 of a large wax doll, and just at that moment, to 
 Jem's surprise, she set it on the floor, upon its 
 feet, quite coolly. 
 
 " Thank you," said the doll, politely. 
 
 Jem quite jumped. 
 
 "You can join the rest now and introduce 
 yourself," said the worker. 
 
230 Behind the White Brick 
 
 ■■The doll looked over her shoulder at her train. 
 
 " It hangs very nicely," she said. " I hope it's 
 the latest fashion." 
 
 " Mine never talked like that," said Flora. 
 ' My best one could only say ' Mamma,' and it 
 said it very badly, too." 
 
 " She was foolish for saying it at all," remarked 
 the doll, haughtily. " We don't talk and walk 
 before ordinary people ; we keep our accomplish- 
 ments for our own amusement, and for the amuse- 
 ment of our friends. If you should chance to 
 get up in the middle of the night, some time, 
 or should run into the room suddenly some day, 
 after you have left it, you might hear — but what 
 is the use of talking to human beings?" 
 
 " You know a great deal, considering you are 
 only just finished," snapped Baby, who really was 
 a Tartar. 
 
 " I was finished," retorted the doll. " I did 
 not begin life as a baby ! " very scornfully. 
 
 " Pooh ! " said Baby. u We improve as we get 
 older." 
 
 "I hope so, indeed," answered the doll 
 u There is plenty of room for improvement." 
 And she walked away in great state. 
 
 S. C. looked at Baby and then shook his head. 
 " I shall not have to take very much care of you," 
 he said, absent-mindedly. " You are able to take 
 pretty good care of yourself/" 
 
Behind the White Brick 231 
 
 "I hope I am," said Baoy, tossing her head. 
 
 S. C. gave his head another shake. 
 
 " Don't take too good care of yourself," he 
 said. " That's a bad thing, too." 
 
 He showed them the rest of his wonders, and 
 then went with them to the door to bid them 
 good-bye. 
 
 " I am sure we are very much obliged to you, 
 Mr. Claus," said Jem, gratefully. " 1 shall never 
 again think you are not true, sir." 
 
 S. C. patted her shoulder quite affectionately. 
 
 " That's right," he said. " Believe in things 
 just as long as you can, my dear. Good-bye un- 
 til Christmas Eve. I shall see you then, if you 
 don't see me." 
 
 He must have taken quite a fancy to Jem, for 
 he stood looking at her, and seemed very reluc- 
 tant to close the door, and even after he had 
 closed it, and they had turned away, he opened 
 it a little again to call to her. 
 
 " Believe in things as long as you can, my 
 dear." 
 
 " How kind he is ! ' exclaimed Jem, full of 
 pleasure. 
 
 Baby shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " Well enough in his way," she said, " but 
 rather inclined to prose and be old-fashioned." 
 
 Jem looked at her, feeling rather frightened, 
 but she said nothing. 
 
232 Behind the White Brick 
 
 Baby showed very little interest in the next 
 room she took them to. 
 
 " I don't care about this place," she said, as she 
 threw open the door. " It has nothing but old 
 things in it. It is the Nobody -knows- where 
 room." 
 
 She had scarcely finished speaking before Jem 
 made a little spring and picked something up. 
 
 " Here's my old strawberry pincushion ! " she 
 cried out. And then, with another jump and 
 another dash at two or three other things, " And 
 here's my old fairy-book ! And here's my little 
 locket I lost last summer ! How did they come 
 here?" 
 
 " They went Nobody-knows-where," said Baby. 
 
 " And this is it." 
 
 " But cannot I have them again ? " asked Jem. 
 
 " No," answered Baby. " Things that go to 
 Nobody-knows-where stay there." 
 
 " Oh ! " sighed Jem, " I am so sorry." 
 
 " They are only old things," said Baby. 
 
 " But I like my old things," said Jem. " I love 
 them. And there is mother's needle case. I 
 wish I might take that. Her dead little sister 
 gave it to her, and she was so sorry when she 
 lost it." 
 
 " People ought to take better care of their 
 things," remarked Baby. 
 
 Jem would have liked to stay in this room and 
 
Behind the White Brick 233 
 
 wander about among her old favorites for a long 
 time, but Baby was in a hurry. 
 
 " You'd better come away," she said. " Sup- 
 pose I was to have to fall awake and leave 
 you?" 
 
 The next place they went into was the most 
 wonderful of all. 
 
 " This is the Wish room," said Baby. " Your 
 wishes come here — yours and mother's, and Aunt 
 Hetty's and father's and mine. When did you 
 wish that ? " 
 
 Each article was placed under a glass shade, 
 and labelled with the words and name of the 
 wishers. Some of them were beautiful, indeed; 
 but the tall shade Baby nodded at when she asked 
 her question was truly alarming, and caused Jem 
 a dreadful pang of remorse. Underneath it sat 
 Aunt Hetty, with her mouth stitched up so that 
 she could not speak a word, and beneath the stand 
 was a label bearing these words, in large black 
 letters — 
 
 " I wish Aunt Hetty's mouth was sewed up. 
 Jem." 
 
 " Oh, dear ! " cried Jem, in great distress. " How 
 it must have hurt her ! How unkind of me to say 
 it ! I wish I hadn't wished it. I wish it would 
 come undone." 
 
 She had no sooner said it than her wish was 
 gratified. The old label disappeared and a new 
 
234 Behind the White Brick 
 
 one showed itself, and there sat Aunt Hetty, look- 
 ing herself again, and even smiling. 
 
 Jem was grateful beyond measure, but Baby 
 seemed to consider her weak minded. 
 
 " It served her right," she said. 
 
 " But when, after looking at the wishes at that 
 end of the room, they went to the other end, her 
 turn came. In one corner stood a shade with a 
 baby under it, and the baby was Miss Baby her- 
 self, but looking as she very rarely looked ; in 
 fact, it was the brightest, best tempered baby one 
 could imagine." 
 
 " I wish I had a better tempered baby. Mother," 
 was written on the label. 
 
 Baby became quite red in the face with anger 
 and confusion. 
 
 " That wasn't here the last time I came," she 
 said. " And it is right down mean in mother ! " 
 
 This was more than Jem could bear. 
 
 " It wasn't mean," she said. " She couldn't help 
 it. You know you are a cross baby — everybody 
 says so." 
 
 Baby turneu i\vo shades redder. 
 
 " Mind your own business," she retorted. " It 
 was mean ; and as to that silly little thing being 
 better than I am," turning up her small nose, 
 which was quite turned up enough by Nature — 
 " I must say I don't see anvthing so very grand 
 about her. So, there ! '* 
 
Behind the White Brick 235 
 
 She scarcely condescended to speak to them 
 while they remained in the Wish room, and when 
 they left it, and went to the last door in the pas- 
 sage, she quite scowled at it. 
 
 " I don't know whether I shall open it at all," 
 she said. 
 
 "Why not?" asked Flora. "You might as 
 well." 
 
 " It is the Lost pin room," she said. " I hate pins." 
 
 She threw the door open with a bang, and then 
 stood and shook her little fist viciously. The 
 room was full of pins, stacked solidly together. 
 There were hundreds of them — thousands — mill- 
 ions, it seemed. 
 
 " I'm glad they are lost ! " she said. " I wish 
 there were more of them there." 
 
 " I didn't know there were so many pins in the 
 world," said Jem. 
 
 " Pooh ! " said Baby. " Those are only the lost 
 ones that have belonged to our family." 
 
 After this they went back to Flora's room and 
 sat down, while Flora told Jem the rest of her 
 story. 
 
 " Oh ! " sighed Jem, when she came to the end. 
 " How delightful it is to be here ! Can I never 
 come again ? " 
 
 " In one way you can," said Flora. " When 
 you want to come, just sit down and be as quiet 
 as possible, and shut your eyes and think very 
 
236 Behind the White Brick 
 
 hard about it. You can see everything you have 
 seen to-day, if you try." 
 
 " Then I shall be sure to try," Jem answered. 
 She was going to ask some other question, but 
 Baby stopped her. 
 
 " Oh ! I'm falling awake," she whimpered, cross- 
 ly, rubbing her eyes. " I'm falling awake again." 
 
 And then, suddenly, a very strange feeling came 
 over Jem. Flora and the pretty room seemed to 
 fade away, and, without being able to account for 
 it at all, she found herself sitting on her little stool 
 again, with a beautiful scarlet and gold book on 
 her knee, and her mother standing by laughing at 
 her amazed face. As to Miss Baby, she was cry- 
 ing as hard as she could in her crib. 
 
 " Mother ! " Jem cried out, " have you really 
 come home so early as this, and — and," rubbing 
 her eyes in great amazement, " how did I come 
 down ? " 
 
 " Don't I look as if I was real ? " said her mother, 
 laughing and kissing her. " And doesn't your 
 present look real ? I don't know how you came 
 down, I'm sure. Where have you been ? " 
 
 Jem shook her head very mysteriously. She 
 saw that her mother fancied she had been asleep, 
 but she herself knew better. 
 
 " I know you wouldn't believe it was true if I 
 told you," she said ; " I have been 
 
 Behind the White Brick."