The Complete Works of Frances Hodgson Burnett. Frances Hodgson Burnett

you please, Miss Minchin,” said Sara, suddenly, “mayn’t Becky stay?”

      It was a bold thing to do. Miss Minchin was betrayed into something like a slight jump. Then she put her eyeglass up, and gazed at her show pupil disturbedly.

      “Becky!” she exclaimed. “My dearest Sara!”

      Sara advanced a step toward her.

      “I want her because I know she will like to see the presents,” she explained. “She is a little girl, too, you know.”

      Miss Minchin was scandalized. She glanced from one figure to the other.

      “My dear Sara,” she said, “Becky is the scullery maid. Scullery maids—er—are not little girls.”

      It really had not occurred to her to think of them in that light. Scullery maids were machines who carried coal scuttles and made fires.

      “But Becky is,” said Sara. “And I know she would enjoy herself. Please let her stay—because it is my birthday.”

      Miss Minchin replied with much dignity:

      “As you ask it as a birthday favor—she may stay. Rebecca, thank Miss Sara for her great kindness.”

      Becky had been backing into the corner, twisting the hem of her apron in delighted suspense. She came forward, bobbing curtsies, but between Sara’s eyes and her own there passed a gleam of friendly understanding, while her words tumbled over each other.

      “Oh, if you please, miss! I’m that grateful, miss! I did want to see the doll, miss, that I did. Thank you, miss. And thank you, ma’am,”—turning and making an alarmed bob to Miss Minchin—“for letting me take the liberty.”

      Miss Minchin waved her hand again—this time it was in the direction of the corner near the door.

      “Go and stand there,” she commanded. “Not too near the young ladies.”

      Becky went to her place, grinning. She did not care where she was sent, so that she might have the luck of being inside the room, instead of being downstairs in the scullery, while these delights were going on. She did not even mind when Miss Minchin cleared her throat ominously and spoke again.

      “Now, young ladies, I have a few words to say to you,” she announced.

      “She’s going to make a speech,” whispered one of the girls. “I wish it was over.”

      Sara felt rather uncomfortable. As this was her party, it was probable that the speech was about her. It is not agreeable to stand in a schoolroom and have a speech made about you.

      “You are aware, young ladies,” the speech began—for it was a speech—“that dear Sara is eleven years old today.”

      “DEAR Sara!” murmured Lavinia.

      “Several of you here have also been eleven years old, but Sara’s birthdays are rather different from other little girls’ birthdays. When she is older she will be heiress to a large fortune, which it will be her duty to spend in a meritorious manner.”

      “The diamond mines,” giggled Jessie, in a whisper.

      Sara did not hear her; but as she stood with her green-gray eyes fixed steadily on Miss Minchin, she felt herself growing rather hot. When Miss Minchin talked about money, she felt somehow that she always hated her—and, of course, it was disrespectful to hate grownup people.

      “When her dear papa, Captain Crewe, brought her from India and gave her into my care,” the speech proceeded, “he said to me, in a jesting way, ‘I am afraid she will be very rich, Miss Minchin.’ My reply was, ‘Her education at my seminary, Captain Crewe, shall be such as will adorn the largest fortune.’ Sara has become my most accomplished pupil. Her French and her dancing are a credit to the seminary. Her manners—which have caused you to call her Princess Sara—are perfect. Her amiability she exhibits by giving you this afternoon’s party. I hope you appreciate her generosity. I wish you to express your appreciation of it by saying aloud all together, ‘Thank you, Sara!’”

      The entire schoolroom rose to its feet as it had done the morning Sara remembered so well.

      “Thank you, Sara!” it said, and it must be confessed that Lottie jumped up and down. Sara looked rather shy for a moment. She made a curtsy—and it was a very nice one.

      “Thank you,” she said, “for coming to my party.”

      “Very pretty, indeed, Sara,” approved Miss Minchin. “That is what a real princess does when the populace applauds her. Lavinia”—scathingly—“the sound you just made was extremely like a snort. If you are jealous of your fellow-pupil, I beg you will express your feelings in some more ladylike manner. Now I will leave you to enjoy yourselves.”

      The instant she had swept out of the room the spell her presence always had upon them was broken. The door had scarcely closed before every seat was empty. The little girls jumped or tumbled out of theirs; the older ones wasted no time in deserting theirs. There was a rush toward the boxes. Sara had bent over one of them with a delighted face.

      “These are books, I know,” she said.

      The little children broke into a rueful murmur, and Ermengarde looked aghast.

      “Does your papa send you books for a birthday present?” she exclaimed. “Why, he’s as bad as mine. Don’t open them, Sara.”

      “I like them,” Sara laughed, but she turned to the biggest box. When she took out the Last Doll it was so magnificent that the children uttered delighted groans of joy, and actually drew back to gaze at it in breathless rapture.

      “She is almost as big as Lottie,” someone gasped.

      Lottie clapped her hands and danced about, giggling.

      “She’s dressed for the theater,” said Lavinia. “Her cloak is lined with ermine.”

      “Oh,” cried Ermengarde, darting forward, “she has an opera-glass in her hand—a blue-and-gold one!”

      “Here is her trunk,” said Sara. “Let us open it and look at her things.”

      She sat down upon the floor and turned the key. The children crowded clamoring around her, as she lifted tray after tray and revealed their contents. Never had the schoolroom been in such an uproar. There were lace collars and silk stockings and handkerchiefs; there was a jewel case containing a necklace and a tiara which looked quite as if they were made of real diamonds; there was a long sealskin and muff, there were ball dresses and walking dresses and visiting dresses; there were hats and tea gowns and fans. Even Lavinia and Jessie forgot that they were too elderly to care for dolls, and uttered exclamations of delight and caught up things to look at them.

      “Suppose,” Sara said, as she stood by the table, putting a large, black-velvet hat on the impassively smiling owner of all these splendors—“suppose she understands human talk and feels proud of being admired.”

      “You are always supposing things,” said Lavinia, and her air was very superior.

      “I know I am,” answered Sara, undisturbedly. “I like it. There is nothing so nice as supposing. It’s almost like being a fairy. If you suppose anything hard enough it seems as if it were real.”

      “It’s all very well to suppose things if you have everything,” said Lavinia. “Could you suppose and pretend if you were a beggar and lived in a garret?”

      Sara stopped arranging the Last Doll’s ostrich plumes, and looked thoughtful.

      “I BELIEVE I could,” she said. “If one was a beggar, one would have to suppose and pretend all the time. But it mightn’t be easy.”

      She often thought afterward how strange it was that just as she had finished saying this—just at that very moment—Miss Amelia came into the room.

      “Sara,”