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1.25

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U IIIIII.6

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

•MilMliadHMiiM

SAEA CEEWE

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S.

^N UPON HER, AND HEE i
KING ONF ROUND."

FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT.

TORONTO :

T. EATON & CO.,

190 YONGE STREET.

'•'.

crm

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■''4-

LIST OF ILLUST RAT IONS.

FROM DRAWINGS BY REGINALD B. BIRCH.

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

" She slowly advanced into the parlor, clutching her doll."

"Eat it," said Sara, " and you will not he so hungry."

" He was waiting for his Master to come out to the carriage,
and Sara stopped and spoke a few words to him." .

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

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

Page ^5

" 6)

I I

» '

SARA CREWE;

OR,

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S.

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

MISS MINCHIN'S

SELECT SEMINARY FOR YOUNC LADIES.

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

I t

SARA CREWE; OR,

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

Lm\

IVIfAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S,

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

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

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

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

S.^A\i CAV-'irA;.- ('A',

was iiuliilv>»^d .i m'oat :\l more lh.ni was ^huh\ for her. And
when l!ic Soloct vSc uiai went walking;, two hy \\\'o, she was
always il(n:kod or i. pr j^raiidcsl clolhrs, ami I(mI hy the
hand, at ih(^ hoai . ihc i;tMU<'«'l profession, hy Miss Minrhin
horsoH'. And when {\\v parents of \\\y of the p»ipih; cnne.
she was alwa)s dressed and caHetl inio the p mIot vvilh her
doll ; ai\d she usvA to liear Miss Minehin say thai her f;ilher
was a tlistini^nislicvl Indian ofTicer, and she would he heiress
to a j^reat fortm\e. That her father had inheril<'d a j;reat
deal of money, Sara had heard before; and also that some
day it woidd he hers, anvl that he would not remain lon^r in
the army, but would eome to li\M! in London. And every

tmie a

lell

er came

ihc li

1 th

ev were

to li

loped It would say he was ( oming
:tl

ive toei^ther ae"ain

\^'

Hut about the middle of th(; third year a letter came brinj^'-

ecause he was no

t a I

)UsnK!ss man

in*; viM'v different ntiws.

himself, her papa had i»;iven his affairs into th<! hands of a

friend he trusted. The friend had deceived and robbed him.

All the money was j^one, no one knew (exactly where!, and tl
shock was so i;reat to the poor, rash youn^^ officer, that, bein^^
attacked by jungU' fever shortly afterward, he had no stren^^h
to rally, and so died, Icavini; Sara with no one to take care
f h

er.

Miss Minchin's cold and fishy <!yes 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,

intiir nAri'HNi'.i) At' /i//.v,v minciiin's.

so, in Iht f)lil f;islH(ni<M| vv;iy, ';lic li.ul (lr( idrd lo IiikI .i hlack
(Irc'M'i Inr hcrfirll, ;iU(l 1i;hI pic kcd mil ;i l»l,i( k v(lv<l ".he had
(iMl^^invvn, and < aiiw iiiln the lonm in il, l(M»l<,in}; llir (|ii(('i"-
csl lillK' li^MiK' in ll"" world, and a sad liltl'- (ijmhc loo. I lie
dross was IoosImhI and looli|dil, li«i- fa( r was while, h<r ryc^n
had dark rili};:i anMiiid llum, and Ihi* doll, wra|)|»fd in a picco
oj old lilack ( ra(M\ was held iindci her arm. SI

v was not a

l>rclty

( i)ii(

I. SI

\v was linn, and had a wird, inlcicsl in^', IiIIm

lace, shoi'l hiack hair, aim viy lai;'/-, }^n"<n-[;ray eyes IrinjM'd
id! around with heavy l>la( k lash(!H.

" I am ihe n^diesl ( hild in th<* s( hool," she had said once,
;if(cr starin),^ al. IktscII in llw jdass lor soiik! ininiiles.

IliiJ. JiH'rc; had lir<ii a < Icvr, }'.ood-iialiired liiile I'rcncli
teacher who had said lo ih*- inn sic-maslcr :

"/al h'eile ( rewe. Val a (hild! A so o|dy heanly ! /.v

> lar^M' eyes I ze so III lie spirit iielle la(:(

lll<

lid I ill she };row

U|l

.hall

,(•( I

This niorninj.^, howevr, in ihe li^Hil, fanall Mack frock, she;
looked thinner and odder than ever, and her eyes werr lixed
on MisH Minchin with a (jueer steadiness as she, slowly ad-
vanced into the parlor, clntchin^^ lier doll.

" i'lit your doll down!" said Miss Mirnhin.
'No," said the child, " I won't ptit her down; I want her
with me. Sh<! is all I have. She has stay<Ml with \\\v. all the
time since my papa {|i(;(l."

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

! li

SARA CREWE i OR,

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

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

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

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

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

"What are you staring at?" demanded Miss Minchin
sharply. " Are you so stupid you don't understand what
I mean ? I tell you that you are quite alone in the world,
and have no one to do anything for you, unless I choose
to keep you here."

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

is Minchin had
lady felt even

> insist on her

ssible.
re," she said ;

-If, and make

acher and said

Miss Minchin
nd make you
ve no friends,
ind no one to

>usi(y, but the
kinchin's, and

SHE SLOWLY ADVANCED INTO THE PARLOR, CLUTCHING HER DOLL.

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MIN CHIN'S.

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

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

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

Sara turned away.

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

Sara turned toward her. The nervous twitch was to be

I i

I I

1 !.

* i

5^i?^ CREWE J OR,

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

''What for?" she said.

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

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

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

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

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

" Where is my room ? " asked Sara.

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

Sara vvalked on. She mount^^.d 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-rooted and whitewashed ;
there was a rusty grate, an iron bedstead, and some odd
articles of furniture, sent up from better rooms below, where
they had been used until they were considered to be worn
out. Under the skylight in the roof, which showed nothing

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S.

trying to con-

linchin, " For

Her thin little
e in a strange,

are not kind
room, leaving
figure in stony

r tightly to her
t the door she

*' That is not

look."

Its more, and
'. and went in,
t and looked
whitewashed ;
id some odd
below, where
d to be worn
3wed nothing

'ftut an oblong piece of dull gray sky, there was a battered
)ld red footstool.

Sara went to it and sat down. She was a queer child, as

have said before, and quite unlike other children. She

seldom cried. She did not cry now. She laid her doll,

lEmily, across her knees, and put her face down upon her,

land her arms around her, and sat there, her little black head

resting on the black crape, not saying one word, not making

[one sound.

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

I i

SAJ?A CREWE; OR,

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

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

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

" You are the only friend I have in the world," she would
say to her. " Why don't you say something ? Why don't
you speak ? Sometimes I am sure you could, if you would
try. It ought to make you try, to know you are the only
thing I have. If 1 were you, I should try. Why don't you
try ? "

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

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S.

;anng them out oP

he used to put her in a chair sometimes and sit opposite to

er on the old red footstool, and stare at her and think and

retend about her until her own eyes would grow large with

mething which was almost like fear, particularly at night,

hen the garret was so still, when the only sound that was

|o be heard was the occasional squeak and scurry of rats in

he wainscot. There were rat-holes in the garret, and Sara

etested rats, and was always glad Emily was with her when

,he heard their hateful squeak and rush and scratching. One

f her " pretends " was that Emily was a kind of good witch

nd could protect her. Poor little Sara ! everything was

I' pretend " with her. She had a strong imagination ; there

as almost more imagination than there was Sara, and her

hole forlorn, uncared-for child-life was made up of imagine

ngs. She imagined and pretended things until she almost be-

ieved them, and she would scarcely have been surprised at any

emarkable thing that could have happened. So she insisted

o herself that Emily understood all about her troubles and

as really her friend.

"As to answering/' she used to say, " I don't answer very
ften. I never answer when I can help it. When people
re insulting you, there is nothing so good for them as not
o say a word — just to look at them and think. Miss Min-
hin turns pale with rage when I do it. Miss Amelia looks
Tightened, 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

SARA CREWE; OR,

they hadn't said afterward. There's nothing so strong as]
rage, except what makes you hold it in — that's stronger. It'sl
a good thing not to answer your enemies. I scarcely evcrj
do. Perhaps Emily is m.ore like me than I am like myself.
Perhaps she would rather not answer her friends, even, She|
keeps it all in her heart."

But though she tried to satisfy herself with these argu-?
ments, Sara did not find it easy. When, after a long, hard
day, in which she had been sent here and there, sometimes!
on long errands, through wind and cold and rain ; and, when;
she came in wet and hungry, had been sent out again because|
nobody chose to remember that she was only a child, and
that her thin little legs might be tired, and her small body,
clad in its forlorn, too small finery, all too short and too tight,'
might be chilled ; when she had been given only harsh words |
and cold, slighting looks for thanks ; when the cook had been
vulgar and insolent ; when Miss Minchin had been in her |
worst moods, and when she had seen the girls sneering at her
among thems Ives 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- 1
self.

WHAT HAPPENED AT M/SS MINCHIN'S.

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

Emily stared.

" I can't bear this ! " said the poor child, trembling. " I
know I shall die. I'm cold, I'm wet, I'm starving to death.
I've walked a thousand miles to-day, and they have done
nothing but scold me from morning until night. And be-
cause I could not find that last thing they sent me for, they
would not give me any supper. Some men laughed at me
because my old shoes made me slip down in the mud. I'm
covered with mud now. And they laughed ! Do you
hear ! "

She looked at the staring glass eyes and complacent wax
face, and suddenly a sort of heart-broken rage seized lier.
She lifted her little savage hand and knocked Emily off the
chair, bursting into a passion of sobbing.

" You are nothing but a doll ! " she cried. " Nothing but
a doll — doll — doll ! You care for nothing. You are stuffed
with sawdust. You never had a heart. Nothing could ever
make you feel. You are a do// 1 "

Emily lay upon the floor, with her legs ignominiously
doubled up over 1 er 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 WcS 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

SARA CREWE; OR,

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

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

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

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCIITN'S.

A\o, in his despairing desire to encourage his daughter, con-
itantly sent her valuable and interesting books, which were a
:ontinual source of grief to her. Sara had once actually found
ler 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
rave Sara a hungry feeling, and she could not help drawing
lear 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
themf"

" Don't you like reading?" said Sara.
"I hate it!" replied Miss Ermengarde St. John. "And
Ihe will ask me questions when he sees me : he will want to
[know how much I remember; how would jv^?^ like to have to
Iread all those ? "

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

Ermengarde wiped her eyes to look at such a prodigy.
" Oh, gracious ! " she exclaimed,

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

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

SARA CREWE; OR,

ward, and I'll tell it to you so that you will remember it. I
know I can. The /. B C children always remember what l|
tell them."

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

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

Ermengarde put her handkerchief in her pocket.

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

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

"Take them, then," said Ermengarde ; "I wish I wanted I
them, but I am not clever, and my father is, and he thinks 11
ought to be."

Sara picked up the books and marched off with them. 1
But when she was at the door, she stopped and turned |
around.

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

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

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

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

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S.

11 remember it. I
remember what I

' Do you think you |

like to read, and l|
oks, too ; they willi
jive them back to|

;r pocket.

ou'll make me re-|
noney."

I want your books
.nd queer, and her

"I wish I wanted'
s, and he thinks I

id off with them,
pped and turned |

■ ? " she asked,
know; he'll think 1

eart really began
if you are going i

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

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

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

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

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

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

SARA CREWE; OR,

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

" It is a story," Sara would answer. " They arc 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 Ermcngarde.

Sara stared at her a minute reflectively,

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

-Who is Emily?"

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

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S.

she would say.

"before, and I

make it seem

arc all stories,
d. You are a
You can make

dn't. You are

^as sometimes

id she did not

— only stupid.

had the sense

urs she spent

ous questions

1 was, that a

Jg-h not to be

Minchin was

spiteful, the

[ were stupid,

) be as unlike

she could to

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

" Do you li4s:e 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, v/hich barely covered her knees, a
brown cloth sacque, and a pair of olive-green stockings which
Miss Minchin had made her piece out with black ones, so
that they would be long enough to be kept on. And yet
Ermengarde was beginning slowly to admire her. Such a
forlorn, thin, neglected little thing as that, who could read
and read and remember and tell you things so that they did
not tire you all out ! A child who could speak French, and
who had learned German, no one knew how ! One could not
help staring at her and feeling Interested, particularly one to
whom the simplest lesson was a trouble and a woe.

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

Sara hesitated one second, then she answered :

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

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

" That what ?" asked Ermengarde.

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

SARA CREWE; OR,

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

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

She stopped again and examined her companion's coun-
tenance.

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

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

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

And she plunged once more into the gory records of the
French Revolution, and told such stories of it, and made such
vivid pictures of Its horrors, that Miss St. John v;as afraid to
go to bed afterward, and hid her head under the blankets
when she did go, and shivered until she fell asleep. But
afterward she preserved lively recollections of the character
of Robespierre, and did not even forget Marie Antoinette
and the Princess de Lamballe.
-' " You know they put her head on a pike and danced around

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S.

nitted Ermen-

•mination, " I'll

danced around

lit," Sara had said ; " and she had beautiful blonde hair ; and
^hen I think of her, I never see her head on her body,
»ut always on a pike, with those furious people dancing and
lowling."

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

** Suppose there was a great, wide steel grate here, and
great glowing fire — a glowing fire — with beds of red-hot
:oal and lots of little dancing, flickering flames. Suppose
there was a soft, deep rug, and this was a comfortable chair,
ill cushions and crimson velvet ; and suppose I had a crimson
relvet frock on, and a deep lace c>,llar, like a child in a picture ;
md suppose all the rest of the room was furnished in lovely
colors, and there were book-shelves full of books, which
changed by magic as .soon as you had read them ; and sup-
)0se there was a little table here, with a snow-white cover
m it, and little silver dishes, and in one there was hot, hot
)Oup, and in another a roast chicken, and in another some
raspberry-jam tarts with criss-cross on them, and in another
;ome 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

..:.

SAJ^A CREWE; OR,

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

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

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

At another time she would "suppose" she was a pnn|
cess, and then she would go about the house with an exi
presslon on her face which was a source of great secret an-
noyance to Miss Minchin, because it seemed as If the childl
scarcely heard the spiteful, insulting things said to her, or,
If she heard them, did not care for them at all. Sometimes,
while she was in the midst of some harsh and cruel speech,
Miss Minchin would find the odd, unchildlsh eyes fixed uponj
her with something like a proud smile in them. At sucli|
times she did not know that Sara was saying to herself :

" You don't know that you are saying these things to al
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 knoA^j
any better."

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

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S.

1(5

i sleep as long

it, and it was net a bad thing for her. It really kept her from
being made rude and malicious by the rudeness and malice
of those about her.

"A princess must be polite," she said to herself. And so
when the servants, who took their tone from their mistress,
were insolent and ordered her about, she would hold her
head erect, and reply to them sometimes in a way which
made them stare at her, it was so quaintly civil.

" I am a princess in rags and tatters," she would think,
"but I am a princess, inside. It would be easy to be a
princess if I were dressed in cloth-of-gold ; it is a great deal
more of a triumph to be one all the time when no one knows
it. There was Marie Antoinette : when she was in prison,
and her throne was gone, and she had only a black gown on,
and her hair was white, and they insulted her and called her
the Widow Capet, — she was a great deal more like a queen
then than when she was so gay and had everything grand.
I like her best then. Those howling mobs of people did not
frighten her. She was stronger than they were even when
they cut her head off."

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

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

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

SARA CREWE J OR,

; f

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

" I was thinking," she said.

" Beg my pardon immediately," said Miss Minchln.

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

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

This occurred in the school-room, and all the girls looked
up from their books to listen. It always interested them
when Miss Minchin flew at Sara, because Sara always said
something queer, and never seemed in the least frightened.
She was not in the least frightened now, though her boxed
ears were scarlet, and her eyes were as bright as stars.

** I was thinking," she answered gravely and quite politely,
" that you did not know what you were doing."

" That I did not know what I was doing!" Miss Minchin
fairly gasped.

" Yes," said Sara, " and I was thinking what would hap- I
pen, if I were a princess and you boxed my ears — what I |
should do to you. And I was thinking that if I were one, you i
would never dare to do it, whatever I said or did. And I I
was thinking how surprised and frightened you would be if
you suddenly found out "

She had the imagined picture so clearly before her eyes,
that she spoke in a manner which had an effect even on Miss

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS M INCH IN' S.

Minchln. It almost seemed for the moment to her narrow,
unimaginative mind that there must be some real powfer 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 Minchln breathlessly,
"this instant. Leave the school-room. Attend to your les-
sons, young ladies."

Sara made a little bow.

" Excuse me for laughing, if it was impolite," she said,
and walked out of the room, leaving Miss Minchin in a rige
and the girls whispering over their books.

" I shouldn't be at all surprised If she did turn out to be
something," said one of them. " Suppose she should ! "

!" Miss Minchin

That very afternoon Sara had an opportunity of proving
to herself whether she was really a princess or not. It was
a dreadful afternoon. For several days it had rained con-
tinuously, the streets were chilly and sloppy ; there was mud
everywhere — sticky London mud — and over everything a pall
of fog and drizzle. Of course there were several long and
tiresome errands to be done, — there always were on days like
this, — and Sara was sent out again and again, until her shabby
clothes were damp through. The absurd old feathers on her
forlorn hat were more draggled and absurd than ever, and
her down-trodden shoes were so wet they could not hold any

SARA CREWE i OR,

more water. Added to this, she had been deprived of her
dinner, because Miss Minchin wished to punish her. She
was very hungry. She was so cold and hungry and tired that
her httle face had a pinched look, and now and then some
kind-hearted person passing her in the crowded street glanced
at her with sympathy. But she did not know that. She
hurried on, trying to comfort herself in that queer way of hers
by pretending and "supposing," — but really this time it was
harder than she had ever found it, and once or twice she
thought it almost made her more cold and hungry instead of
less so. But she persevered obstinately. "Suppose I had
dry clothes on," she thought. " Suppose I had good shoes
and a long, thick coat and merino stockings and a whole
umbrella. And suppose — suppose, just when I was near a
baker's where they sold hot buns, I should find sixpence —
which belonged to nobody. Suppose, if I did, I should go
into the shop and buy six of the hottest buns, and should eat
them all without stopping."

Some very odd things happen in this world sometimes.
It certainly was an odd thing which happened to Sara. She
had to cross the street just as she was saying this to herself
— the mud was dreadful — she almost had to wade. She
picked her way as carefully as she could,, but she could not
save herself much, only, in picking her way she had to look
down at her feet and the mud, and in looking down — just as
she reached the pavement — she saw something shining in the
gutter. A piece of silver — a tiny piece trodden upon by

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S,

many feet, but still with spirit enough left to shine a little.
Not quite a sixpence, but the next thing to it — a four-penny
piece! In one second it was in her cold, little red and blue
hand.

" Oh ! " she gasped. " It is true ! "

And then, if you will believe me, she looked straight be-
fore her at the shop directly facing her. And it was a baker's,
and a cheerful, stout, motherly woman, with rosy cheeks, was
just putting into the window a tray of delicious hot buns, —
large, plump, shiny buns, with currants in them.

It almost made Sara feel faint for a few seconds — the
shock and the sight of the buns and the delightful odors of
warm bread floating up through the baker's cellar-window.

She knew that she need not hesitate to use the little piece
of money. It had evidently been lying in the mud for some
time, and its owner was completely lost in the streams of pass-
ing people who crowded and jostled each other all through
the day.

" But I'll go and ask the baker's woman if she has lost a
piece of money," she said to herself, rather faintly.

So she crossed the pavement and put her wet foot on the
step of the shop ; and as she did so she saw something which
made her stop.

it was a little figure more forlorn than her own — a little
figure which was not much more than a bundle of rags, from
which small, bare, red and muddy feet peeped out — only
because the rags with which the wearer was trying to cover

SARA CREWE; OR,

them were not lon^^ enough. Above the rags appeared a
shock head of tangled hair and a dirty face, with big, hollow,
hungry eyes.

Sara knew they were hungry eyes the moment she saw
them, and she felt a sudden sympathy.

"This," she said to herself, with a little sigh, "is one of
the Populace — and she is hungrier than I am."

The child — this "one of the Populace" — stared up at
Sara, and shuffled herself aside a little, so as to give her more
room. She was used to being made to give room to every-
body. She knew >that if a policeman chanced to sec her,
he would tell her to " move on."

Sara clutched her little four-penny piece, and hesitated a
few seconds. Then she spoke to her.

" Are you hungry ? " she asked.

The child shuffled herself and her rags a little more.

" Ain't I jist ! " she said, in a hoarse voice. "Jist ain't I !"

" Haven't you had any dinner ? " said Sara.

" No dinner," more hoarsely still and with more shuffling,
"nor yet no bre'fast — nor yet no supper — nor nothin'."

" Since when ? " asked Sara.

" Dun'no. Never got nothin' to-day — nowhere. I've
axed and axed."

Just to look at her made Sara more hungry and faint.
But those queer little thoughts were at work in her brain, and
she was talking to herself though she was sick at heart.

" If I'm a princess," she was saying — " if I'm a prin-

IVJ/AT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCIflN'S.

iiomcnt she saw

iigli, "is one of

and hesitated a

lowhere. I've

cess — I When they were poor and driven from their
thrones — they always shared — with the Populace — if they
met one poorer and hungrier. They always shared. Buns
are a penny each. If it had been sixpence! I could have
eaten six. It won't be enough for either of us — but it will be
better than nothing."

" Wait a minute," she said to the beggar-child. She
went into the shop. It was warm and smelled delightfully.
The woman was just going to put more hot buns in the
window.

" If you please," said Sara, " have you lost fourpence — a
silver fourpence ? " And she held the forlorn little piece of
money out to her.

The woman looked at it and at her — at her intense little
face and draggled, once-fine clothes.

"Bless us — no," she answered. "Did you find it?"

" In the gutter," said Sara.

" Keep it, then," said the woman. " It may have been
there a week, and goodness knows who lost it. Yoii could
never find out."

" I know that," said Sara, "but I thought 'd ask you."

" Not many would," said the woman, looking puzzled and
interested and good-natured all at once. " Do you want to
buy something ? " she added, as she saw Sara glance toward
the buns.

" Four buns, if you please," said Sara; "those at a pennv
each."

SAI^A CREWE J OR,

The woman went to the window and put some in a paper
bag. Sara noticed that she put in six.

" I said four, if you please," she explained. " I have only
the fourpence."

" I'll throw in two for make-weight," said the woman, with
her o-ood-natured look. " I dare say you can eat them some
time. Aren't you hungry ? "

A mist rose before Sara's eyes.

" Yes," she answered. " I am very hungry, and I am
much obliged to you for your kindness, and," she was going
to add, " there is a child outside who is hungrier than I am."
But just at that moment two or three customers came in at
once and each one seemed in a hurry, so she could only thank
the woman again and go out.

The child was still huddled up on the corner of the steps.
She looked frightful in her wet and dirty rags. She was
staring with a stupid look of suffering straight before her,
and Sara saw her suddenly draw the back of her roughened,
black hand across her eyes to rub away the tears which
seamed to have surprised her by forcing their way from under
her lids. She was muttering to herself.

Sara opened the pap^r 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

>ome in a paper

he woman, with
eat them some

g^ry, and I am
she was going
ier than I am."
lers came in at
)uld only thank

tr of the steps,
ags. She was
ht before her,
er roughened,
e tears which
ay from under

t one of the
old hands a

I -

-I

iii:

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

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S.

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
wiw delight.

" Oh, my / "

Sara took out three more buns and put them down,

" She is hungrier than I am," she said to herself. " She's
starving." But her hand trembled when she put down the
fourth bun. " I'm not starving," she said — and she put down
the fifth.

The little starving London savage was still snatching and
devouring when she turned away. She was too ravenous to
give any thanks, even if she had been taught politeness —
which she had not. She was only a poor little wild animal.

"Good-bye," said Sara.

When she reached the other side of the street she looked
back. The child had a bun in both hands, and had stopped
in the middle of a bite to watch her. Sara gave her a
little nod, and the child, after another stare, — a curious, long-
ing stare, — jerked her shaggy head in response, and until
Sara was out of sight she did not take another bite or even
finish the one she had begun.

At that moment the baker-woman glanced out of her
shop-window.

"Well, I never!" she exclaimed. "If that young 'un
hasn't given her hurts to a beggar-child! It wasn't because
she didn't want them, either — well, well, she looked hungry

.)■'.■

SARA CREWM; OR,

enough. I'd give something to know what she did it for."
She stood behind her window for a few moments and pondered.
Then her curiosity got the better of her. She went to the
door and spoke to the beggar-child.

" Who gave you those buns ?" she asked her.

The child nodded her head toward Sara's vanishing figure.

" What did she say ? " inquired the woman.

" Axed me if I was 'ungry," replied the hoarse voice.

" What did you say ? "

" Said I was jist ! "

" And then she came in and got buns and came out and
gave them to you, did she ? "

The child nodded.

"How many ?"

" Five."

The woman thought it over. " Left just one for herselt/'
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."

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S.

rse voice.

:^ame out and

ain't so bad

" Come in here," said the woman, and she held open the
shop-door.

The child got up and shuffled in. To be invited into a
warm place full of bread seemed an incredible thing. She
did not know what was going to happen ; she did not care,
even.

" Get yourself v/arm," said the woman, pointing to a fire
in a tiny back room. "And, look here, — when you're hard
up for a bite of bread, you can come here and ask for it.
I'm blest if I won't give it to you for that young un's sake."

Sara found some comfort in her remaining bun. It was
hot ; and it was a great deal better than nothing. She broke
off small pieces and ate them slowly to make it last longer.

*' Suppose it was a magic bun," she said, "and a bite was
as much as a whole dinner. I should be over-eating myself
if I went on like this."

It was dark when she reached the square in which Miss
Minchin's Select Seminary was situated ; the lamps were
lighted, and in most of the windows gleams of light were to
be seen. It always interested Sara to catch glimpses of the
rooms before the shutters were closed. She liked to im-
agine things about people who sat before the fires in the
houses, or who bent over books at the tables. There was,
for instance, the Large Family opposite. She called these
people the Large Family — not because they were large, for
indeed most of them were little, — but because there were so

SARA CREWE J OR,

■ .11

' ^'Mi.

! t ■'■■-

• J

I M

■J-

.'' ■■■■;

many of them. There were eight children in the Large
Family, and a stout, rosy mother, and a stout, rosy father,
and a stout, rosy grandmamma, and any number of ser-
vants. The eight children were always either being taken
out to walk, or to ride in perambulators, by comfortable
nurses; or they were going to dn 'e with their mamma; or
they were flying to the door in the evening to kiss their
papa and dance arcund him and drag off his overcoat and
look for packages in the pockets of it ; or they were crowd-
ing about the nursery windows and looking out and pushing
each other and laughing, — in fact they were always doing
something which seemed enjoyable and suited to the tastes of
a large family. Sara was quite attached to them, and had given
them all names out of books. She called them the Mont-
morencys, when she did not call them the Large Family.
The fat, fair baby with the lace cap was Ethelberta Beau-
champ Montmorency ; the next baby was Violet Cholmondely
Montmorency; the little boy who could just stagger, and
who had such round legs, was Sydney Cecil Vivian Mont-
morency ; and then came Lilian Evangeline, Guy Clarence,
Maud Marian, Rosalind Gladys, Veronica Eustacia, and
Claude Harold Hector.

Next door to the Large Family lived the Maiden Lady,
who had a companion, and two parrots, and a King Charles
spaniel ; but Sara was not so very fond of her, because she
did nothing in particular but talk to the parrots and drive out
with the spaniel. The most interesting person of all lived

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S.

next door to Miss Minchin herself. Sara called him the
Indian Gentleman. He was an elderly gentleman who was
said to have lived in the East Indies, and to be immensely
rich and to have something the matter with his liver, — in
fact, it had been rumored that he had no liver at all, and was
much inconvenienced by the fact. At any rate, he was very
yellow and he did not look happy ; and when he went out to
his carriage, he was almost always wrapped up in shawls and
overcoats, as if he were cold. He had a native servant who
looked even colder than himself, and he had a monkey who
looked colder than the native servant. Sara had seen the
monkey sitting on a table, in the sun, in the parlor window,
and he always wore such a mournful expression that she
sympathized with him deeply.

" I dare say," she used sometimes to remark to herself,
**he is thinking all the time of cocoanut trees and of swing-
ing by his tail under a ^ropical sun. He might have had a
family dependent on him too, poor thing ! "

The native servant, whom she called the Lascar, looked
mournful too, but he was evidently very faithful to his mas-
ter.

" Perhaps he saved his master's life In the Sepoy rebellion,"
she thought. " They look as if they might have had all sorts
of adventures. I wish I could speak to the Lascar. I re-
member a little Hindustani."^

And one day she actually did speak to him, and his start
at the sound of his own language expressed a great deal

SARA CREWE J OR,

I I

of surprise and delight. He was waiting for his master to
come out to the carriage, and vSara, who was going on an
errand as usual, stopped and spoke a few words. She had
a special gift for languages and had remembered enough
Hindustani to make herself understood by him. When his
master came out, the Lascar spoke to him quickly, and the
Indian Gentleman turned and looked at her curiously. And
afterward the Lascar always greeted her with salaams of the
most profound description. And occasionally they exchanged
a few words. She learned that it was true that the Sahib
was very rich — that he was ill — and also that he had no wife
nor children, and that England did not agree with the
monkey.

" He must be as lonely as I am," thought Sara. "Being
rich does not seem to make him happy."

That evening, as she passed the windows, the Lascar
was closing the shutters, and she caught a glimpse of the
room inside. There was a bright fire glowing in the grate,
and the Indian Gentleman was sitting before it, in a luxuri-
ous chair. The room was richly furnished, and looked de-
lightfully comfortable, but the Indian Gentleman sat with his
head resting on his hand, and looked as lonely and unhappy
as ever.

** Poor man !" said Sara ; " I wonder -whoXyotc are * suppos-
ing'?"

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

his master to
going on an
ds. She had
lered enough
I. When his
ckly, and the
•ioiisly. And
ilaams of the
ey exchanged
lat the Sahib
i had no wife
•ee with the

the Lascar
mpse of the
in the grate^

in a luxuri-
d looked de-
1 sat with his
ind unhappy

are ' suppos-

5 Minchin in

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'he was waiting for his master to come out to the CARRlXSP, AND SARA STOPPED AND

SPOKE A FEW WORDS TO HIM." \ ,'".••, . . '•,'•!"

IVJIAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S.

"Where have you wasted your time?" said Miss Min-
chin. " You have been out for hours ! "

" It was so wet and muddy," Sara answered. " It was
hard to walk, because my shoes were so bad and slipped
about so."

"Make no excuses," said Miss Minchin, " and tell no false-
hoods."

Sara went downstairs to the kitchen.

"Why didn't you stay all night? " said the cook.

" Here are the things," said Sara, and laid her purchases
on the table.

The cook looked over them, grumbling. She was in a
very bad temper indeed.

" May I have something to eat ? " Sara asked rather
faintly.

" Tea's over and done with," was the answer. " Did you
expect me to keep it hot for you ? "

Sara was silent a second.

" I had no dinner," she said, and her voice was quite low.
She made it low, because she was afraid it would tremble.

" There's some bread in the pantry," said the cook.
" That's all you'll get at this time of day."

Sara went and found the bread. It was old and hard and
dry. The cook was in too bad a humor to give her anything
to eat with it. She had just been scolded by Miss Minchin,
and it was always safe and easy to vent her bwn spite on
Sara.

SARA CREWE J OR,

'It;

Really it was hard for the child to climb the three long
flights of stairs leading to her garret. She often found them
long and steep when she was tired, but to-night it seemed as
if she would never reach the top. Several times a lump rose
in her throat and she was obliged to stop to rest.

" I can't pretend anything more to-night," she said wearily
to herself. " I'm sure I can't. I'll eat my bread and drink
some water and then go to sleep, and perhaps a dream will
come and pretend for me. I wonder what dreams are."

Yes, when she reached the top landing there were tears
in her eyes, and she did not feel like a princess — only like a
tired, hungry, lonely, lonely child.

"If my papa had lived," she said, " they would not have
treated me like this. If my papa had lived, he would have
taken care of me."

Then she turned the handle and opened the garret-
door.

Can you imagine it — can you believe it ? I find it hard
to believe it myself. And Sara found it impossible ; for the
first few moments she thought something strange had hap-
pened to her eyes — to her mind — that the dream had come
before she had had time to fall asleep.

" Oh ! " she exclaimed breathlessly. " Oh ! It isn't true !
I know, I know it isn't true ! " And she slipped into the
room and closed the door and locked it, and stood with her
back against ^t, staring straight before her.

Do you wonder? In the grate, which had been empty

iVHAT HAPPENED AT Af/SS MINCHIN'S.

and rusty and cold when she left it, but which now was black-
ened and polished up quite respectably, there was a glowing,
blazing fire. On the hob was a little brass kettle, hissing and
boiling ; spread r on the floor was i warm, thick rug ; before
the fire was a fok. jig-chair, unfolded and with cushions on it ;
by the chair was a small folding-table, unfolded, covered with
a white cloth, and upon it w( ^ e spread small covered dishes, a
cup and saucer, and a tea-pot ; on the bed were new, warm
coverings, a curious wadded silk robe, and some books. The
little, cold, miserable room seemed changed into Fairyland.
It was actually warm and glowing.

" It is bewitched !" said Sara. " Or / am bewitched. I
only think I see it all ; but if I can only keep on thinking it,
I don't care — I don't care — if I can only keep it up ! "

She was afraid to move, for fear it would melt away. She
stood with her back aganist the door and looked and looked.
But soon she began to feel warm, and then she moved for-
ward.

" A fire that I only thoitght I saw surely wouldn't feel
warm," she said. "It feels real — real."

She went to it and knelt before it. She touched the
chair, the table ; she lifted the cover of one of the dishes.
There was something hot and savory in it — something deli-
cious. The tea-pot had tea in it, ready for the boiling water
from the little kettle ; one plate had toast on it, another,
muffins.

"It is real," said Sara. " The fire is real enough to warm

II ;H

SARA CREWE; OR,

me ; I can sit in the chair ; the things are real enough to

eat.

»»

It was like a fairy story come true — it was heavenly.
She went to the bed and touched the blankets and the wrap.
They were real too. She opened one book, and on the title-
page was written in a strange hand, " The little girl in the
attic."

Suddenly — was it a strange thing for her to do ? — Sara
put her face down on the queer, foreign-looking quilted robe
and burst into tears.

" I don't know who it is," she said, •* but somebody cares
about me a little — somebody is my friend."

Somehow that thought warmed her more than the fire.
She had never had a friend since those happy, luxurious days
when she had had everything ; and those days had seemed
such a long way off — so far away as to be only like dreams —
during these last years at Miss Minchin's.

She really cried more at this strange thought of having a
friend — even though an unknown one — than she had cried
over many of her worst troubles.

But these tears seemed different from the others, for when
she had wiped them away they did not seem to leave her eyes
and her heart hot and smarting.

And then imagine, if you can, what the rest of the even-
ing was like. The delicious comfort of taking off the damp
clothes and putting on the soft, warm, quilted robe before
the glowing fire — of slipping her cold feet into the luscious

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S.

little wool-lined slippers she found near her chair. And
then the hot tea and savory dishes, the cushioned chair and
the books !

It was just like Sara, that, once having found the things
real, she should give herself up to the enjoyment of them to
the very utmost. She had lived such a life of imagining, and
had found her pleasure so long in improbabilities, that she
was quite equal to accepting any wonderful thing that hap-
pened. After she was quite warm and had eaten her supper
and enjoyed herself for an hour or so, it had almost ceased to
be surprising to her that such magical surroundings should
be hers. As to finding out who had done all this, she knew
that it was out of the question. She did not know a human
soul by whom it could seem in the least degree probable that
it could have been done.

" There is nobody," she said to herself, " nobody." She
discussed the matter with Emily, it is true, but more because
it was delightful to talk about it than with a view to making
any discoveries.

** But we have a friend, Emily," she said ; " we have a
friend."

Sara could not even imagine a being charming enough to
fill her grand ideal of her mysterious benefactor. If she
tried to make in her mind a picture of him or her, it ended
by being something glittering and strange — not at all like a
real person, but bearing resemblance to a sort of Eastern
magician, with long robes and a wand. And when she fell

SARA CREWE J OR,

asleep, beneath the soft white blanket, she dreamed all night
of this magnificent personage, and talked to him in Hindu-
stani, and made salaams to him.

Upon one thing she was determined. She would not
speak to any one of her good fortune — it should be hi^r own
secret ; in fact, she was rather inclined to think that il 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, sY? shut her door very tight and did her best
to look as if nothing unusual had occurred. And yet this
was rather hard, because she could not help remembering,
every now and then, with a sort of start, and her heart would
beat quickly every time she repeated to herself, " I have a
friend ! "

It was a friend who evidently meant to continue to be
kind, for when she went to her garret the next night — and
she opened the door, it must be confessed, with rather an ex-
cited feeling — she found that the same hands had been again
at work, and had done even more than before. The fire and
the supper were again there, and beside them a number of
other things which so altered the look of the garret that Sara
quite lost her breath. A piece of bright, strange, heavy cloth
covered the battered mantel, and on it some ornaments had
been placed. All the bare, ugly things which could be cov-
ered with draperies had been concealed and made to look
quite pretty. Some odd materials in rich colors had been
fastened against the walls with sharp, fine tacks — so sharp that

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHINS.

they could be pressed into the wood without hammering. Some
brilliant fans were pinned up, and there were several large
cushions. A long, old wooden box was covered with a rug,
and some cushions lay on it, so that it wore quite the air of a
sofa.

Sara simply sat down, and looked, and looked again.

" It is exactly like something fairy come true," she said ;
'• there isn't the least difference. I feel as if I might wish for
anything — diamonds and bags of gold — and they would ap-
pear ! That couldn't be any stranger than this. Is this my
garret ? Am I the same cold, ragged, damp Sara ? And to
think how I used to pretend, and pretend, and wish there
were fairies ! The one thing I always wanted was to see a
fairy story come true. I am living in a fairy story ! I feel
as if I might be a fairy myself, and be able to turn things
into anything else ! "

It was like a fairy story, and, what was best of all, it con-
tinued. Almost every day something new was done to the
garret. Some new comfort or ornament appeared in it when
Sara opened her door at night, until actually, in a short time, it
was a bright little room, full of all sorts of odd and luxurious
things. And the magician had taken care that the child
should not be hungry, and that she should have as many
books as she could read. vVhen she left the room in the
morning, the remains of her supper were on the table, and
when she returned in the evening, the magician had removed
them, and left another nice little meal. Downstairs Miss

« 1 ■ ,u

lilll

SARA CREWE J OR,

Minchin was as cruel and insulting as ever, Miss Amelia
was as peevish, and the servants were as vulgar. 3ara was
sent on errands, and scolded, and driven hither and thither,
but somehow it seemed as if she could bear it all. The de-
lightful sense of romance and mystery lifted her above the.
cook's temper and malice. The comfort she enjoyed and
could always look forward to was making her stronger. If
she came home from her errands wet and tired, she knew
she would soon be warm, after she had climbed the stairs.
In a few weeks she began to look less thin. A little color
came into her cheeks, and her eyes did not seem much too
bior for her face.

It was just when this was beginning to be so apparent
that Miss Minchin sometimes stared at her questioningly,
that another wonderful thing happened. A man came to the
door and left several parcels. All were addressed (in large
letters) to "the little girl in the attic." Sara herself was sent
to open the door, and she took them in. She lai . the two
largest parcels down on the hall-table and was looking at the
address, when Miss Minchin came down the stairs.

" Take the things upstairs to the young lady to whom they
belong," she said. " Don't stand there staring at them."

" They belong to me," answered Sara, quietly.

"To you!" exclaimed Miss Minchin. "What do you
mean ? "

" I don't know where they came from," said Sara, " but
they're addressed to me."

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S.

i'^s Amelia
3ara was
nd thither,
The de-

above the.
jo^ed and
onger. If

she knew
the stairs,
ittle color

much too

apparent
stioningly,
ime to the
1 (in large
f was sent
. the two
:ing at the

vhom they

hem."

It do you
)ara, "but

Miss Minchin came to her side and looked at them with an
excited expression.

" What is in them ? " she demanded.

" I don't know," said Sara.

" Open them !" she demanded, still more excitedly.

Sara did as she was told. They contained pretty and
comfortable clothing, — clothing of different kinds ; shoes and
stockings and gloves, a warm coat, and even an umbrella
On the pocket of the coat was pinned a paper on which was
written, " To be worn every day — will be replaced by others
when necessary."

Miss Minchin was quite agitated. This was an incident
which suggested strange things to her sordid mind. Could it
be that she had made a mistake after all, and that the child so
neglected and so unkindly treated by her had some powerful
friend in the background ? It would not be very pleasant if
there should be such a friend, and he or she should learn all
the truth about the thin, shabby clothes, the scant food, the
hard work. She felt queer indeed and uncertain, and she
gave a side-glance at Sara.

" Well," she said, in a voice such as she had never used
since the day the child lost her father — "well, some one is
very kind to you. As you have the things and are to have
new ones when they are worn out, you may as well go and
put them on and look respectable ; and after you are dressed,
you may come downstairs and learn your le.sons in the
school-room."

i^
ii<i

SARA CREWE; OR,

So it happened that, about half an hour afterward, Sara
struck the entire school-room of pupils dumb with amazement,
by making her appearance in a costume such as she had never
worn since the change of fortune whereby she ceased to be a
show-pupil and a parlor-boarder. She scarcely seemed to be
the same Sara. She was neatly dressed in a pretty gown of
warm browns and reds, and even her stockings and slippers
were nice and dainty.

" Perhaps some one has left her a fortune," one of the girls
whispered. '' I always thought something would happen to
her, she is so queer."

That night when Sara went to her room she carried out a
plan she had been devising for some time. She wrote a note
to her unknown friend. It ran as follows :

" I hope you will not think it is not polite that I should write this note to
you when you wish to keep yourself a secret, but I do not mean to be impolite,
or to try to find out at all, only I want to thank you for being so kind to me —
so beautiful kind^ and making everything like a fairy story. I am so grateful
to you and I am so happy ! T 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 m.orning she left this on the little table, and it was
taken away with the other things ; so she felt sure the magi-
cian had received it, and she was happier for the thought.

A few niglits later a very odd thing happened. She found
something in the room which she certainly would never have

expecte
small ai
toward

-W
Gentler

It It
of a ch
Sara foi
light Wc
of his n
and per
agile th
on a toi
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elfish 1
arms.

Sara, (
like a s
mother
to say 3
you ha^
are son
wonder
Th(

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MIN CHIN'S.

expected. When she came in as usual she saw something
small and dark in her chair, — an odd, tiny figure, which turned
toward her a little, weird-looking, wistful face.

"Why, it's the monkey! "she cried. "It is the Indian
Gentleman's monkey ! Where can he have come from ? "

It was the monkey, sitting up and looking so like a mite
of a child that it really was quite pathetic ; and very soon
Sara found out how he happened to be in her room. The sky-
light was open, and it was easy to guess that he had crept out
of his master's garret-window, which was only a few feet away
and perfectly easy to get in and out of, even for a climber less
agile than a monkey. He had probably climbed to the garret
on a tour of investigation, and getting out upon the roof, and
being attracted by the light in Sara's attic, had crept in. At
all events this seemed quite reasonable, and there he was ;
and when Sara went to him, he actually put out his queer,
elfish little hands, caught her dress, and jumped into her
arms.

" Oh, you queer, poor, ugly, foreign little thing ! " said
Sara, caressing him. " I can't help liking you. You look
like a sort of baby, but I am so glad you are not, because your
mother could not be proud of vow, and nobody would dare
to say you were like any of you. 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

ifei

|m!

SARA CREWE; OR,

seemed much interested in her remarks, if one could judge by
his eyes and his forehead, and the way he moved his head up
and down, and held it sideways and scratched it with his little
hand. He examined Sara quite seriously, and anxiously, too.
He felt the stuff of her dress, touched her hands, climbed up
and examined her ears, and then sat on her shoulder holding
a lock of her hair, looking mournful but not at all agitated.
Upon the whole, he seemed pleased with Sara.

"But I must take you back," she said to him, "though I'm
sorry to have to do it. Oh, the company you would be to a
person ! "

She lifted him from her shoulder, set him on her knee,
and gave him a bit of cake. He sat and nibbled it, and then
put his head on one side, looked at her, wrinkled his forehead,
and then nibbled again, in the most companionable manner.

" But you must go home," said Sara at last ; and she took
him in her arms to carry him downstairs. Evidently he did
not want to leave the room, for as they reached the door he
clung to her neck and gave a little scream of anger.

" You mustn't be an ungrateful monkey," said Sara. " You
ought to be fondest of your own family. I am sure the Las-
car is good to you."

Nobody saw her on her way out, and very soon she was
standing on the Indian Gentleman's front steps, and the Las-
car had opened the door for her.

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

"THE MONKEY SEEMED MUCH INTERESTED IN KER REMARKS.

I I

PVI

The ma
he was in i
through th<
heard it th
the monkey
It was I
bringing a i
into the lib
Missy.

Sara th*
of Indian j
tremely cro
way. So s

When
lying on ai
frightfully ;
hollow. H
wakened in
♦•You li
" Yes."
" She k
" Yes,"
*' And 5
Sara he
" I don'
- Why
The mo

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S.

«5

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 ex-
tremely cross and full of whims, and who must have their own
way. So she followed the Lascar.

When she entered the room the Indian Gentleman was
lying on an easy chair, propped up with pillows. He looked
frightfully ill. His yellow face was thin, and his eyes were
hollow. He gave Sara a rather curious look — it was as if she
wakened in him some anxious interest.

•• You live next door ? " he said.

" Yes," answered Sara. " I live at Miss Minchin's."

" She keeps a boarding-school ? "

** Yes," said Sara.

*• And you are one of her pupils ? "

Sara hesitated a moment.

" I don't know exactly what I am," she replied.

•* Why not ? " asked the Indian Gentleman.

The monkey gave a tiny squeak, and Sara stroked him.

SAHA CUE WE; OR,

"At first," she said, "I was a pupil and a parlor boarder ;
but now "

"What do you mean by 'at first'?" asked the Indian
Gentleman.

" When I was first taken there by my papa."

" Well, what has happened since then ? " said the invalid,
staring at her and knitting his brows with a puzzled expression.

" My papa died," said Sara " He lost all his money,
and there was none left for me — and there was no one to
take care of me or pay Miss Minchin, so "

" So you were sent up into the garret and neglected, and
made into a half-starved little drudge!" put in the Indian
Gentleman. " That is about it, isn't it ? "

The color deepened on Sara's cheeks. *

" There was no one to take care of me, and no money,"
she said. ** I belong to nobody."

•* What did your father mean by losing his money ? " .-.aid
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 V aself," 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 :

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S.

"That's an old story," he said. " It happens every day ;
but sometimes those who are blamed — those who do the
wrong — don't intend it, and are not so bad. It may happen
through a mistake — a miscalculation ; they may not be so
bad."

" No," said Sara, '* but the suffering is just as bad for the
others. It killed my papa:"

The Indian Gentleman pushed aside some of the gor-
geous wraps that covered him.

•' Come a little nearer, and let me look at you," he said.

His voice sounded very strange ; it had a more nervous
and excited tone than before. Sara had an odd fancy that
he was half afraid to look at her. She came and stood nearer,
the monkey clinging to her and watching his master anxiously
over his shoulder.

The Indian Gentleman's hollow, restless eyes fixed them-
selves on her.

"Yes," he said at last. "Yes; I can see it. Tell me
your father's name."

" His name was Ralph Crewe," said Sara. " Captain
Crewe. Perhaps," — a sudden thought flashing upon her, —
"perhaps you may have heard of him? He died in India."

The Indian Gentleman sank back upon his pillows. He
looked very weak, and seemed out of breath.

"Yes," he said, ' I knew him. I was his friend. I meant
no harm. If he hcd only lived he would have known. It
turned out well aft^r all. He was a fine young fellow. I

SARA CREWE; OR,

was fond of him. I will make it right. Call — call the

man.

Sara thought he was going to die. But there was no
need to call the Lascar. He must have been waiting at the
door. He was in the room and by his master's side in an
instant. He seemed to know what to do. He lifted the
drooping head, and gave the invalid something in a small
glass. The Indian Gentleman lay panting for a few minutes,
and then he spoke in an exhausted but eager voice, address-
ing the Lascar in Hindustani :

"Go for Carmichael," he said. "Tell him to come here
at once. Tell him I have found the child ! "

When Mr. Carmichael arrived (which occurred in a very
few minutes, for it turned out that he was no other than the
fathe** of the Large Family across the street), Sara went home,
and was allowed to take the monkey with her. She certainly
did not sleep very much that night, though the monkey
behaved beautifully, and did not disturb her in the least. It
was not the monkey that kept her awake — it v/as her thoughts,
and her wonders as to what the Indian Gentleman had meant
when he said, " Tell him I have found the child." " What
child ? " Sara kept asking herself. " I was the only child
there ; but how had he found me, and why did he want to
find me ? And what is he going to do, now I am found ? Is
it something about my papa ? Do I belong to somebody ?
Is he one of my relations ? Is something going to happen ? *'

But she found out the very next day, in the morning ; and

it seemed
she had i
interview
michael, I
to the Lj
affairs of
Indian G
Carmicl-a
Minchin i

•

Family h
and so, a
go and b
hearte( w
girl, ard
way. .

A4^d 1
drudg ; ar
in hei fot
and r gre
risfoid wl
the inves
his mone
Captain
seemed a
and prov
wealth, a
as well a!

WlfAT HAPPENED AT MISS MIN CHIN'S.

it seemed that she had been living in a story even more than
she had imagined. First, Mr. Carmichael came and had an
interview with Miss Minchin. And it appeared that Mr. Car-
michael, besides occupying the important situation of father
to the Large Family, was a lawyer, and had charge of the
affairs of Mr. Carrisford — which was the real name of the
Indian Gentleman — and, as Mr. Carrisford's lawyer, Mr.
Carmichael had come to explain something curious to Miss
Minchin regarding Srxa. 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-
heartec wife, so that she herself might talk to the little lonely
girl, ar d tell her everything in the best and most motherly
way. .

A-rd then Sara learned that she was to be a poor little
drudg and outcast no more, and that a great change had come
in hei fortunes ; for all the lost fortune had come back to her,
and r 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

SAHA CREWE; OR,

Mr. Carrisford had been very unhappy. He had truly loved
his poor, handsome, generous young friend, and the knowl-
edge that he had caused his death had weighed upon him
always, and broken both his health and spirit. The worst of
it had been that, when first he thought himself and Captain
Crewe ruined, he had lost courage and gone away because he
was not brave enough to face the consequences of what he had
done, and so he had not even known where the young soldier's
little girl had been placed. When he wanted to find her, and
make restitution, he could discover no trace of her ; and the
certainty that she was poor and friendless somewhere had made
him more miserable than ever. When he had taken the
house next to Miss Minchin's he had been so ill and wretched
that lie had for the time given up the search. His troubles
and die 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
i' caught a glimpse of her once or twice and he had not con-
nected her with the child of his friend, perhaps because he
was too languid to think much about anything. But the Las-
car had found out something of Sara's unhappy little life,
and about the garret. One evening he had actually crept
out of his own garret-window and looked into hers, which was
a very easy matter, because, as I have said, it was only a few
feet away — -and he had told his master what he had seen, and

in a momei

him to take

could carry

car, who hac

the child wl

pleased wit

agile moven

journeys ac

garret-wind

Sara's mov<

from her r

been able t^

he had ma

twice, wher

to go over

was never (

the work ai

valid's inte;

planning g

almost forg

brought he

her, and tb

" And r

Sara's han<

are to con

were one o

of having

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S.

In a moment of compassion the Indian Gentleman had told
him to take into the wretched little room such comforts as he
could carry from the one window to the other. And the Las-
car, who had developed an interest in, and an odd fondness for,
the child who had spoken to him in his own tongue, had been
pleased with the work ; and, having the silent swiftness and
agile movements of many of his race, he had made his evening
journeys across the few feet of roof from garret-window to
garret-vvindow, without any trouble at all. He had watched
Sara's movements until he knew exactly when she was absent
from her room and when she returned to it, and so he had
been able to calculate the best times for his work. Generally
he had made them in the dusk of the evening ; but once or
twice, when he had seen her go out on errands, he had dared
to go over in the daytime, being quite sure that the garret
was never entered by any one but herself. His pleasure in
the work and his reports of the results had added to the in-
valid's interest in it, and sometimes the master had found the
planning gave him something to think of, which made him
almost forget his weariness and pain. And at last, when Sara
brought home the truant monkey, he had felt a wish to seo.
her, and then her likeness to her father had done the rest.

" And now, my dear," said good Mrs. Carmichael, patting
Sara's hand, " all your troubles are over, I am sure, and you
are to come home with me and be taken care of as if you
were one of my own little girls ; and we are so pleased to think
of having yo« with us until everything is settled, and Mr,

• f***^"

SARA CREWE J OR,

Carrisford is better. The excitement of last night has made
him very weak, but we really think he will get well, now that
such a load is taken from his mind. And when he is
stronger, I am sure he will be as kind to you as your own
papa would have been. He has a very good heart, and he is
fond of children — and he has no family at all. But we must
make you happy and rosy, and you must learn to play and
run about, as my little girls do "

" As your little girls do ? " said Sara. " I wonder if I
could. I used to w^tch them and wonder what it was like.
Shall I feel as if I belonged to somebody?"

" Ah, my love, yes! — yes !" said Mrs. Carmichael ; "dear
me, yes ! " And her motherly blue eyes grew quite moist,
and she suddenly took Sara in her arms and kissed her. That
very night, before she went to sleep, Sara had made the ac
quaintance of the entire Large Family, and sjch excitement
as she and the monkey had caused in that joyous circle could
hardly be described. There vv^as not a child in the nursery,
from the Eton boy who was the eldest, to the baby who was
the youngest, who had not laid some offering on her shrine.
All the older ones knew something of her wonderful story.
She had been born in India ; she had been poor and lonely
and unhappy, and had lived in a garret and been treated un-
kindly ; and now she was to be rich and happy, and be taken
care of. They were so sorry for her, and so delighted and
curious about her, all at once. The girls wished to be with
.her constantly, and the little boys wished to be told about

India ;
and sta
she hac
"I
to hers
turned
happy

Anc
room n(
came ai
she waj
the mo

-A
band, v^
lonely 1
couldn'
poor li
woman

But
she ne^
deed, s
the tire
the doc
one of
tell in t
ular th
the La

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S.

las made
now that
m he is
^our own
ind he is
we must
play and

ider if I
A^as like.

\ ; " dear
e moist,
r. That
the ac-
itement
le could
nursery,
v^ho was
r shrine,
il story.
1 lonely
ited un-
)e taken
ted and
be with
d 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 preser*:ly," Sara kept saying
to herself. "This one must be a dream. The other one
turned out to be real; but this coiddn't be. But, oh ! how
happy it is ! "

And even when she went to bed, in the bright, pretty
room not far from Mrs. Carmichael's own, and Mrs. Carmichael
came and kissed her and patted her and tucked her in cozily,
she was not sure that she would not wake up in the garret in
the morning.

" And oh, Charles, dear," Mrs. Carmichael said to her hus-
band, when she went downstairs to him, ** we must get that
lonely look out of her eyes ! It isn't a child's look at all. I
couldn't bear to see it in one of my own children. What the
poor little love must have had to bear in that dreadful
woman's house ! But, surely, she will forget it in time."

But though the lonely look passed away from Sara's face,
she never quite forgot the garret at Miss Minchin's ; and, in-
deed, she always liked to remember the wonderful night when
the tired princess crept upstairs, cold and wet, and opening
the door found fairy-land waiting for her. And there was no
one of the many stories she was always being called upon to
tell in the nursery of the Large Family which was more pop-
ular than that particular one ; and there ^ ""s no one of whom
the Large Family were so fond as of Sara. Mr. Carrisford

SARA CKEWE; OR,

did not die, but recovered, and Sam went to livt; with liini ; and
no real princess could have been better taken cwrv. of than she
was. It seemed that the Indian (ientleniaii (ould not do
enough to make her happy, and to repay her for the past; aiul
the Lascar was lier devoted slave. As her odd little face grew
l)righter, it grew so pretty and interesting that Mr. Carrisf(^r(l
used to sit and watch it many an rvcming, as they sat by the fire
together.

They became great friends, and they used lo spend hours
reading and talking together ; and, in a v(;ry 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, ^be had a pretty habit of looking up at
him suddenly, with a bright smile, and then he woiild often
say to her : t

" Are you happy, Sara ? "

And then she would answer :

" I feel like a real princess, Uncle Tom."

He had told her to call him Uncle Tom.

" There doesn't seem to be anything left to ' suppose,' "
she added.

There was a little joke between them that he was a magi-
cian, and so could do anything he liked ; and it was one of his
pleasures to invent plans to surprise her with enjoyments she
had not thought of. Scarcely a day passed in which he did
not do something new for her. Sometimes she found new

llowcrs i
into som
— once .1
scratch c
Sara w^er
splendid
lar. Sto
was deli^
Princess
Then
entertain
who wer
monkey,
of her.
the com[
good fot
regarded
particula
stories c
ment's n
French c
stani.

It Wi

watch he
to do, an
business
suggesti]

liin ; and
than slu:
not do
ast ; and
ice j^rcw
irrisfonl
/the (ire

d hours
ic, there
lan Sara
hearth,
ing over
g lip at
ivl often

ppose,

a magi-
le of his
ents she
I he did
ind new

W'JIAT HAPPENED AT MISS MJNCJIIN'S.

(lowers in her room ; sometimes a fanciful little gift tucked
into some odd corner ; sometimes a new book on her pillow ;
— onct^ as they sat together in the evening they heard the
scratch of a heavy paw on the door of the room, and wlu;n
Sara w^ent to fnul out what it was, there stood a great dog — a
splendid Russian boar-hound with a grand silver and gold col-
lar. Stooping to rc^ad the inscrij)t!on upon the collar, Sara
was delighted to read the words : " I am Boris ; I serve the
Princess Sara."

Then there was a sort of fairy nursery arranged for the
entertainment of the juvcmile members of the Large Family,
who were always coming to see vSara and the Lascar and the
monkey. Sara was as fond of the Large Family as they were
of her. She soon felt as if she were a member of it, and
the companionship of the healthy, happy children was very
good for her. All the children rather looked up to her and
regarded her as the cleverest and most brilliant of creatures —
particularly after it was discovered that she not only knew
stories of every kind, and could Invent new ones at a mo-
ment's notice, but that she could help with lessons, and speak
French and German, and discourse with the Lascar in Hindu-
stani.

It was rather a painful experience for Miss MInchin to
watch her ex-pupil's fortunes, as she had the dally 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

SARA CREIVE ; OR,

her car , and had gone U h; :ngth of making an appeal to
the child herself.

"I have always been very foi. of you," she said.

Then Sara fixed her eyes upon her and gave her one of
her odd looks.

" Have you ? " she answered.

" Yes," said Miss Minchin. " Amelia and I have always
said you were the cleverest child we had with us, and I am
sure we could make you happy — as a parlor boarder."

Sara thought of thi; garret ixud the day her ears were
boxed, — and of that other day, that dreadful, desolate day
when she had been told that she belonged to nobody ; that
she had no home and no friends, — and she kept her eyes fixed
on Miss Minchin's face.

" You know why I would not stay with you," she
said.

And it seems probable that ^diss Minchin did, for after
that simple answer she had not the boldness to pursue the
subject. She merely sent in a bill for the expense of Sara's
education and support, and she made it quite large enough.
And because Mr. Carrisford thought Sara would wish it paid,
it was paid. When Mr. Carmichael paid it he had a brief
interview with Miss Minchin in which he expressed his opin-
ion with much clearness and force ; and it is quite certain that
Miss Minchin did not enjoy the conversation.

Sara had been about a month with Mr. Carrisford, and
;o realize that her happiness was not a dream,

begui

when one

time with

"Wh;

looked uj

" I WL

hungry d

"But
dian Gen
hungry d

M fo
I found t

And 1
fourpenc*
somehow
deed, the
eyes witli

"And
had finisl

"Wh
may do z

"I w;
a great <
and see
children-
on the St
in and gi
to me an

ippeal to

id. ^

r one of

e always
md I am

irs were
late day
:ly ; that
^es fixed

>u," she

or after
rsue the
>f Sara's
enough.
. it paid,
a brief
lis opin-
tain that

)rd, and
dream,

WHAT HAP I' EN ED AT MISS MINCHIN'S.

when one night the Indian Gentleman saw that she sat a long
time with her cheek on her hand looking at the fire.

"What are you 'supposing,' Sara?" he asked. Sara
looked up with a bright color on her cheeks.

" I was, • supposing,' '' she said ; " I was remembei. ig Lhat
hungry day, and a child I saw."

" But there were a great many hungry days," s^id the In-
dian Gentleman, with a rather sad tone in his voice. ** Which
hungry day was it ? "

** I forgot you didn't know," said Sara. " It was the day
I found the things in my garret."

And then she told him the story of the bun-shop, and the
fourpence, and the child who was hungrier than herself ; and
somehow as she told it, though she told it very simply in-
deed, the Indian Gentleman found it necessary to shade his
eyes with his hand and look down at the floor.

"And I was * supposing' a kind of plan," said Sara, when she
had finished ; " I was thinking I would like to do something."

"What is it?" said her guardian in a low tone. "You
may do anything you like to do. Princess."

" I was wondering," said Sara, — " you know you say 1 have
a great deal of money — and I -was wondering if I could go
and see the bun-woman and tell her that if, when hungry
children — particularly on those dreadful days — come and sit
on the steps or look in at the window, she would just call them
in and give them something to eat, she might send the bills
to me and I would pay them — could I do that ? "

ill!

SAHA CREWE; OR,

" You shall do it to-morrow morning," said the Indian
Gentleman.

'* Thank you," said Sara; "you see I know what it is to
be hungry, and it is very hard when one can't ^v^n pretend it
away."

" Yes, yes, my dear," said the Indian Gentleman. " Yes,
it must be. Try to forget it. Come and sit on this foot-
stool near my knee, and only remember you are a prin-
cess."

" Yes," said Sara, "and I can give buns and bread to the
Populace." And she went and sat on the stool, and the In-
dian Gentleman (he used to like her to call him that, too,
sometimes, — in fact very often) drew her jmall, dark head
down upon his knee and stroked her hair.

The next morning a carriage drew up before the door of
the bakers shop, and a gentleman and a little girl got out, —
oddly enough, just as the bun-woman was putting a tray of
smoking hot buns into the window. When Sara entered
the shop the woman turned and looked at her and, leaving
the buns, came and stood behind the counter. For a moment
she looked at Sara very hard indeed, and then her good-
natured face lighted up.

" I'm that sure I remember you, miss," she said. " And
yet "

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

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

w^^ \

^^\i

IN,

** HE DREW

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

IVHA

woman. "!'
out at first,
people that r
of it many a
rosier and be

"I am b
happier, and
me.

'• Me, mis
miss ! Wha

And then
listened to it

" Why, b
"Yes, miss, i
ing woman, n
count, and th
excuse me, I
away since tl
An* how wet
you give awc

The Ind
smiled a littk
was hungrier

" She Wc
time she's t
wet, and fell
insides." .

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS iM IN CHIN'S.

woman. "I've always rememberer' it I couldn't make it
out at first. I beg pardon, sir, but there's not many young
people that notices a hungry face in that way, and I've thought
of it many a time. Excuse the ' ! erty, miss, but you look
rosier and better than you did that day."

" I am better, thank you," said Sara, " and — and I am
happier, and I have come to ask you to do something for

me.

'* Me, miss ! " exclaimed the woman, " why, bless you, yes,
miss ! What can I do ? "

And then Sara made her little proposal, and the woman
listened to it with an astonished face.

" Why, bless me ! " she said, when she had heard it all.
"Yes, miss, it'll be a pleasure to me to do it. I am a work-
ing woman, myself, and can't afford to do much on my own ac-
count, and there's l ights of trouble on every side ; but if you'll
excuse me, I'm bounu to say I've given many a bit of bread
away since that wet afternoon, just along o' thinkin' of you.
An' how wet an' cold you was, an' how you looked, — an' yet
you give away your hot buns as if you was a princess."

The Indian Gentleman smiled involuntarily, and Sara
smiled a little too. " She looked so hungry," she said. '* She
was hungrier than I was."

" She was starving," said the woman. " Many's the
time she's told me of it since — how she sat there in the
wet, and felt as if a wolf was a-tearing at her poor young
insides." . . . , ,

iiii

SARA CREWE J OR,

**0h, have you seen her since then?" exclaimed Sara.
*' Do you know where she is ?"

" I know ! " said the woman. " Why, she's in that there
back room now, miss, an' has been for a month, an' a de-
cent, well-meaning girl she's going to turn out, an' such a
help to me in the day shop, an' in the kitchen, as you'd scarce
believe, knowing how she's lived."

She stepped to the door of the little back parlor and spoive ;
and the next minute a girl came out and followed her behind
the counter. And actually it was the beggar-child, clean and
neatly clothed, and kicking as if she had not been hungry for
a long time. ^Jhe looked shy, but she had a nice face, now
that shi 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 couid never look enough.

" You sf^e," said the woman, " I told her to come here
when she was hungry, and when she'd come I'd give her odd
jobs to do. an' I found she was willing, an' somehow I got to
like her ; an' the end of it was I've given her a place an' a
home, an' she helps me, an' behaves as well, an' is as thank-
ful as a girl can be. Her name's Anne — she has no otiier."

The two children stood and looked at each other a few
moments. In Sara's eyes a new thought was growing.

" I'm glad you have such a good home," she said. " Per-
haps Mrs. Brown will let you give the buns and bread to the
children — perhaps you would like to do it — because you know
what it is to be hungry, too."

''Ye

And

the girl

and looi

into the

WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN'S.

"Yes, miss," said the girl.

And somehow Sara felt as if she understood her, thpugh
the girl said nothing more, and only stood still and looked,
and looi ^d after her as she went out oi the shop and got
into the carriat{e and drove away.

IHE END.

\i.

■A

A I

One volun

Mr. Bei
he really wc
which he cc
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has made z
inventing ai

SUM]

Kite Tij
Fishing — I
to Stock,
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Dredge, 1
made Bot
Boats— H

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Dogs — I
Snow Hoi

— Wintei
How to
Shows —
atrical C
of tt kind

"It is t

practical Ai:
of things, 1)1
theinventiv
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"Each
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exercFsed t
and an emh

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:/lTTR ACTIVE 'BOOKS FOTi THE YOUNG.

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THE

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SUMMARY OF CONTENTS.

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Dogs — Practical Taxidermy for Boys —
Snow H ouses and Statuary — Winged Skaters

— Winter Fishing — Indoor Amusements —
How to Make a Magic Lantern — Pu pet
Shows — Home-made Masquerade and 'I'he-
atrical Costumes — With many other subjects
of a kindred nature.

LCBearcLi

Ncw%rlc -.]>
Charles ^/.j
-Scribner^^f
^/SonsW

'^ii

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

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

''The boy who has learned to play all the games and mike all the toys of which it '-aches, has unconsciously
exercFsed the inventive faculty that is in him, has acquired skill with his hands, and has i.ecome a good mechanic
and an embryo inventor withoHt knowing it." — Milwaukee Evening W isconsin.

dIT TRACTIVE 'BOOKS FOT{ THE YOUNG.

THE MAKING OF THE GREAT WEST.

1512-1853.

BY SAMUEL ADAMS DRAKE.

With 14^ Illustrations and Maps.

One voluiue, 121110,

»i.75

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

" The author's aim in these books is that they shall occupy a place between the larger and lesser histories of the
lands and the periods of vhich they treat, and that each topic therein shall be treated as a unit, and worked out to a
clcitr understanding of its objects and results before passing 10 another topic. In the furtherance of this method each
•abject has its own descriptive notes, maps, plans, and illustrations, the whole contributing to a thorough though
^»/idensed knowledge of the subject iu ha.nA,"—Tke New York Mail and Expreti,

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

THE MAKING OF NEW ENGLAND.

1580-1643.
With 148 Illustration'- ar.-^' Map^. _

One volume, zxiuot v't'^ 1^*

•♦I have read 'The Making of Ncv/ .^.iglit'.'',' urri like it
exceedingly. The matter is well chosen and well arranged.
I particularly like the presentation of the v;uious minor settle-
ments between the coming of the Pilgrims and the great
Massachusetts Emigration — a matter of which many people
are almost ignorant. The picture of early colonial life is clear
and excellent." — Fhancis Parkman.

" The book seems to me admirably adapted for its purpose,
and tells the T'.ory of our fathers' migration and settlement
in the most lucid way," — Prof. H. B. Adams, Jokm Hopkint
Univertity,

FIRST CHURCH OF BOSTON.

J^7

A STi

With a S

In this boo!
diaeval romanc
Story of Siegf ri
young people
narrative the le
the romantic ai
a form most a
their elders as
beauty, reveali
In perfect hara

With a\

" Mr, Baldv
vividly that his 1

"The story I
with keeninterel
details. There i
Roland have nod
our American y|
— Thf Boston l\

THE A.

,^»!SJ

«M

./ITTRACTIVE 'BOOKS FOTi THE YOUNG.

A STORY OF THE GOLDEN AGE,

BY JAMES BALDWIN.

With a Series of Superb Full-page Illustrations by

Howard Pyle.

One volume, square izhuo, 41I2.0O0

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

1 1

li!

M
I

THE STORY OF SIEGFRIED.

BY JAMES BALDWIN.
With a Series of Illustrations by Howard Pyle,

One volume, square 121U0, 4it2.oo.

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

" No more delightful readmg for the young can be imagined than that provided
in this interesting book."— TA^ Boston Saturday Evening izetie.

THE STORY OF ROLAND.

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

One volume, square aamo, 4JI2.00.

" Mr. Baldwin enjoys his task and puts it before 'ms readers so crisply and
vividly that his boys' book is good meat for men." — TAe Ne7u York Times.

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

THE ABOVE THREE VOLUMES IN A BOX. ffi.oo-

I:!

d^TTRACTiyE 'BOOKS FOTi THE YOUNG.

The American Girl^s Handy Book

HOW TO AMUSE YOURSELF AND OTHERS.

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

One volume, square 8vo,

4[kj.oo.

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

I>ecome proficient in. The volume is fully and

handsomely illustrated from drawings by the

authors, whose designs are in the best sense illus-

y HnW trt "^""BM^f^ trative of the text.

Amuse

Yourself

and
Others

The:AMERI6AN:GiR

•HandyjBoo*^

LinaBeard
and
Adelia BiBear^/

N eWYo rk
Charles
ScribnerS *"
Sons

SUMMARY OF CONTENTS.

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

FROM THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE.

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

We desire also to help awaken the inveiitive faculty, usually unrultivated in girls, and, by giving detailed methods
of new work and amusemem, to put them on the '■oad which ihey can travel and explore alone.

We k low well the feeling of hopelessness wtt'ch accompanie* vague directio.is, and, lo make our explanations
plain and lucid, we have ourselves, with very few exceptions, made all of the articles, played the games, and solved
the problems described.

The materials employed in the construction of the various articles are within easy reach of all, and the outlay, i«
most cases, little or rothing.

tHEei

Witl

One TOlunK

"The little o
and the kindred s
Fashioned Fairy '
metamorphosed p
the stories which
in different scenes
but still the same
Emmet has given
pages accord well

BRl

m-.

llkj.oo.

volume
present
es, and
rtaining
ircuit of
loliHays,
s like to
ully and
by the
nse illus*

'S.

id Their
-Easter-
i -Tennis
ner-Eve
re Deco-

Impres-
d Corn-
t— Quiet
Make a

Dolls—
ive — Na-
se Them
Paint in
c — China
d Home-
ats and

d ability to
Dus French -
ydo't.'"
led methods

jcplanations
, and solved

le outlay,!*

ATTRACTIVE 'BOOKS FOT{ THE YOUNG.

The 0l2l>FASHI0NEB fAIRY BOOK

BY MRS. BURTON HARRISON.
With many Qtiaint Ilhistratiotis by Miss Rosina Emmet.

One TOlume^ square i6niO) _ . . . -

$i*a5*

" The little ones, who so willingly go back with us to 'Jack the Giant-Killer,' 'Blue-beard,'
and the kindred stories of our childhood, will gladly welcome Mrs. Burton Harrison's ' Old-
Fashioned Fairy Tales,' where the giant, the dwarf, the fairy, the wicked princess, the ogre, the
metamorphosed prince, and all the heroes of that line come into play and action. As they read
the stories which compose this book they will meet with all the familiar actors of the fairy world,
in different scenes indeed, and with new deeds of daring, witchcraft, or charming benevolence,
but still the same characters of the old-fashioned fairy lore. The graceful pencil of Miss Rosina
Emmet has given a pictorial interest to the book, and the many pictures scattered through its
pages accord well with the good old-fashioned character of the tales." — Frank R. Stockton.

BRIG=A = BRAG STORIES.

BY MRS. BURTON HARRISON.

Illustrated and Cover designed by
Walter Zrane.

One volume, i^mo, f a.oo.

Spicimtn Il/usiratioH^ Rtduied.

"When the little boy for whose
jenefit the various articles of bric-i-brac
m his father's drawing-room relate stories
appropriate to their several native coun-
tries, exclaims, at the conclusion of one of
hem, 'I almost think there can't be a
hetter one than that!' the reader, of
whatever age, will probably feel inclined
to agree with him. Upon the whole, it is
to be wished that every boy and grl in
America, or anywhere else, might become
intimatelv acquainted with the contents
of this book. There is more virtue in one
of these stories than in the entire library
of modern juvenile literature."— /«/»a»
Hawthorne.

"Few volumes will receive a warmer
welcome from children. . . . It is
praise enough for Mr. Crane's illustrations
to say that they harmonize with the stories.
We confess to have been beguiled by the
book into a forgetfulness of time, cares,
and pretty much everything for two con-
secutive \io\xx^."— Christian Intelligencer.

^TTRACTiyE 'BOOKS FOT{ THE YOUNG.

CHILDREN'S STORIES OF AMERICAN PROGRESS.

^^^' HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT.

With twelve full-page Illustritions from Drawings by J, Stetple Davis.

One volume, i2mo, ...... . . . . , $1.50.

^TTRA

PlDVENI

Miss Wrifiht
in dealing with
the remote .-ind
partially legend-
ary episodes oi
the earlier his-
tory of our coun-
try in her C/n7-
dren's Stories in
AtHerican His-
tory displayed a
remarkable tal-
ent for vivid and
picturesque iiai
ration, which in-
sures. or her new
volume a cordial
reception.

"■ The Storits
of American
Pro£Tessconta\n
a series of pic-
tures of events
of the first half
of the present
century, and the
scope of the hook
comprehends all
the prominent
steps by which
we have reached
our present
position both as regards extent nf cuntry and industrial prosperity. They inclu'le an account of the first Ste.-»m-
boat, the Railroad, and the Teltgraph, as well as of the purchase of Florida, the War of 1812, and the discovery
of Gold. It will be found that no event of importance has been omitted and any child fond of story telling will
gain from these two books an amount of knowledge which may far exceed that which is usually acquired from the
rigid instruction of the School-room "

CHILDREN'S STORIES IN AMERICAN HISTORY.

BY HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT.
JVit/t twelve full-page Illustrations from Drawings by J. Steeple Davis.

One volume, quart
Young.RlCHi

In this book, unci
rtist, Mr. Pyle has gi
omplete and consecu
iorest. There is som
le boll outlaw. Hi
lion, his love of faii
unterpirt in the fol

Lrn

One volume, lamo,

$1.50.

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

" Mr. Pyle has|
is own fresh, sim^
ould have done.

ESS.

^TTRACTiyE 'BOOKS FO% THE YOUNG.

$i.50.|

tiss Wripiht
ealing with,
remote and
ially legeiul-
episodes of
earlier his-
of ourcoiin-
iii her C/til-
^s Stories in
erican His-
' displayed a
arkable tal-
f or vivid and
uresque n:it
on, vhichin-
es.orhernew
Jme a cordial
eption.
The Stories
American
ogressconl^\n

tre merry

DVENtaRES OF R0BIN HOOB.

Of Great Renown in Nottinghamshire.

WRIITEN AND II-LUSTRATED BY

HOWARD PYLE.

he volume J quarto, full embossed leather, ,4.^0; cloth.

^).oo.

eries of

1 Vbung.KlCHARD»PARTINGTON'Comcfh-to-reek-y^erry.RoBlN'HooDi

pic-

es of events
the first lialf
the present
itury, and the
pc of the book
iprehends all
prominent
ps by which
have reached
r present
e first Steam-
;he discovery
■y telling will
ired from the

ORY.

In this book, undoubtedly the most original and elaborate ever produced by an American
rtist, Mr. Pyle has gathered irom the old ballads and legends, and told with pencil and pen, ihe
omplete and consecutive story of Robin Hood and his merry men in their haunts in Sherwood
orest. There is something thoroughly English and home-bred in these episodes in the life of
\e boll outlaw. His sunny, open-air nr.ture, his matchless skill at archery, his generous dispo-
ition, his love of fair play, and his ever-present courtesy to women, form a picture that has no
Dunterp-'.rt in the folk-lore of any other people.

$1.50.

ere is some-
vill prove a
I clearly and
if fairy tales

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

ATTRACTIVE 'BOOKS FOTi THE YOUNG.

THE BeV'S
LIBRARY OF I2EGENB & GHIVALR

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

^TTRAC

N INCID

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

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

.>■ "^

jfjliMipi-Mff, -..i,

.PWA^.VV.*""

■■^

^^-ince, King,

THE BOY'S KING ARTHUR.

Being Sir Thomas Mallory's History of King Arthur
AND His Knights of the Round Table.

THE BOY'S FROISSART.

Being Sir John Froissart's Chronicles of Adventure,
Battle, and Custom in England, France, Spain, Etc.

THE BOY'S PERCY.

m^':,

THE

'll^'

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

"Amid all the strange and fanciful scenery of these stories, character and the ideals of chnracter remain aJ
simplest and purest. The romantic hstory transpires in the healthy atmosphere of the open air on the green ?L „ , •, l jJ

beneath the open sky. * * * The figures of Right, Truth, Justice, Honor^ Purity, Courage, Reverence for H " A fresh, breezy, still
are always in the background ; and the grand passion inspired by the book is for strength to do well and nobt^**"" of the continent mi
the world."— The Independent. \ " If the young readerf

*' It is quite the beau ideal of a book for a present to an intelligent boy or girl." — Baltimore Gaatite. |d he will be hard to pie

d^r TRACTIVE 'BOOKS FOT{ THE YOUNG.

WHITE COCKADES,

LRIn incident of the "forty-five.

BY EDWARD IREM/EUS STEVENSON.

One volume, lamio,

#i.ou.

iiiM^Mr

^<^'^>''"

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

A U^EIV ^ND CHEAPER EDITION.

MY KALULU.

|:ince, King, and Slave. A Story of Central Africa.

BY HENRY M. STANLEY.

-^^i

One volume, izmo, Mrltlt many illustrations, 4^1.50.

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

ter remain ai

iverence for 1 " A fresh, breezy, stirring story for youths, interesting in itself and full of information regarding life in the
veil and noblief'or of the continent in which its scenes are laid,*' — TAe New York Times.

" If the young reader is fond of strange adventures, he will find enough in this volume to delight him all winter,
'a%*tt€, d ho will be hard to please who is not charmed by its graphic pages."— 7** Boston Journal.

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

1.0

I.I

1.25

■so "'"^^

IIIIIM
IIIM

1=
1.6

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C 'VWJ,

Photographic

Sciences
Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

.^fi3'

~:^n:>!':

'V,.-'Vr "•"^Tl"''' '*'*I'' "-.-■

^TTRACTiyE 'BOOKS FOT{ THE YOUNG.

SreDBARB^S BOOKS FOR BOYS

DAB KINZER. a Sioo'o/aGr.win^Boy. SALTILLO BOYS.

THE QUARTET, a se.ueno "m j^inzer." AMONG THE LAKES

WINTER PUN.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

Five 'volumes, i2tno, In a box,
Sold separately, price per volume,

#5.00.
1. 00.

" William O. Stoddard has written capital books for boys. His ' Dab Kinzer,' and * The Quartet,' are amo
thebest specimens of 'Juveniles' produced anywhere. In his latest volume, ' Winter Fun,' Mr. Stoddard giv
free rein to his remarkable gift of story telling for boys. It is a connected tale of winter life in the country,
which a party of bright lads extract their fun from hunting rabbits, trapping bears, snow balling, coasting, skatln
making maple sugar, and leading a semi-wild life in the woods and fields part of the time. They are good bo
too, and neglect none of their home duties while furnishing the materials for this entertaining book. Healthf
works of this kind cannot be too freely distributed among the little men of America as a counterpoi;* to tl
pernicious literature too often provided for them." — y our nal 0/ Commerce.

A NEW AND REVISED EDITION OF

THE ILLUSTRATED

LIBRARY er W ONBERS.

THE WONDERS OF MAN AND NATURE,

Intelligence of Aninnals — Mountain Adventures — Bodily Strength and Skill — Wonderful Escapei
—Thunder and Lightning— Adventures on the Great Hunting Grounds — Wonders of the Humai
Body— The Sublime in Nature.

THE WONDERS OF SCIENCE,

Vvu.^ders of Heat — Wonders of the Heavens — Wonders of Optics — The Sun —Wonders o
Acoustics — Wonders of Water — Wonders of the Moon — Meteors, Aerolites, Storms, and Atmos-
pheric Phenomena.

THE WONDERS OF ART AND ARCHAEOLOGY.

Egypt 3,300 Years Ago — Wonders of Sculpture — Wonders of Glass Making — Wonders of Bur»j
pean Art — Wonders of Pompeii — Wonders of Architecture — The Wonders of Italian Art— Thw
Wonders of Bneraving. ^

Twenty-four volumes, containing over a Thousand Valuable Illustrations^ \

lEacb Set, 8 volumes, In a Box, - #8.00. <

Each volume, i2mo, complete in itself. Sold separately at $1.00 per volumcj

JiTTRA

A NEIV

JULES

((

9 vols., 8vo,
Price, per set, i

Michael Strogoff;

the Czar

A Floating City i

Runners

Hector Servadac.

Oick Sands

A Journey to the C

5*oo.

I.OO.

are amo
ddard giv

country
ng, skatin

good bo

Hcalthf

oi»« to tl

■\

ATTRACTIVE 'BOOKS FOTi THE YOUNG.

A NEW AND CHEAPER EDITION IN THREE PARTS.

JULES VERNE'S GREATEST WORK.

" THE EXPLORATION OF THE WORLD."

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

Tbo tliree vols, lit a, set, $7.50; slnsly, II2.50.

FAMOUS TRAVELS AND TRAVELLERS.

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

THE GREAT NAVIGATORS OF THE XVIUTH CENTURY.

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

TSE GREAT EXPLORERS OF THE XIXTH CENTURY.

With over 100 full-page Illus'ns, Fac-similes, etc., 8vo, $2.50

" The Prince of Story Tellers:"— Inv. London Times.

JULES VERNE'S STORIES.

UNIFORM ILLUSTRATED EDITION.

9 vols., 8vo, extra clotli, with over 750 full-paKe Illustrations.
Price, per set, in a box, ......... 41x7.50*

Sold also In separate volumes.

il Bscapei
le Hutnai

onders oi
id AttnoB-

rY,

t of Euro4
Art— Tb«

tions.

T volumw'

- ... {

Michael Strogoff; or, The Courier of

the Czar $2.00

A Floating City and the Blockade

Runners 2.00

Hector Seryadac a.oo

Oick Sands 2.00

A Journey to the Cs^ntre of the Earth. 2 00

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

it $2.00

The Steam House 2.00

The Giant Raft 2.00

The Mysterious Island 2.50

■I

.-. .-.■■/:..-^>jjMU-i-^.a«,-.»::^^^^^.

diiiytaiui

ATTRACTIVE 'BOOKS FOTi THE YOUNG.
THE BOY'S LIBRARY OF PLUCK AND ACTION.

Pour volumes, izmo, lu a box. Illustrated,
Sold separately, vtrlce per volume.

4I5.00
I.50

A JOLLY Fellowship.

BY FRANK R, STOCKTON.

HANS BRINKER;
OR, the; sii^ve^r skaters.

A Story of Life in Holland.
BY MRS. MARY MAPES DODGE.

THE Boy Emigrants.

BY NOAH BROOKS.

Phaeton Rogers.

BY ROSSITER JOHNSON.

In the ** Boy's Library 0/ Pluck and Action," ihe Assign was to bring together the repre-
sentative and most popular books of four of the best known writers for young people. The
volumes are beautifully illustrated and uniformly bound in a most attractive orm.

Illustrated library of travel

BY BAYARD TAYLOR.

Per set, six volumes, X2mo, #6.00. Eiacli wltli many illustratlous.

Sold separately, per volu««te, - - II1.25.

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

AFRICA.
SIAM, THE LAND OF THE WHITE

ELEPHANT.

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

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

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