19. Anne
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19. AnneNever had such jned in the nursery of the Large Family. Never had they dreamed of such delights as resulted from an intimate acquaintah the little-girl-who-was-not-a-beggar. The mere fact of her sufferings and adventures made her a priceless possession. Everybody wao be told over and aihings which had happeo her. When one was sitting by a warm fire in a big, glowing room, it was quite delightful to hear how cold it could be in an attic. It must be admitted that the attic was rather delighted in, and that its ess and bareness quite sank into insignifice when Melchisedec was remembered, and one heard about the sparrows and things one could see if one climbed oable and stues head and shoulders out of the skylight.
Of course the thing loved best was the story of the ba and the dream which was true. Sara told it for the first time the day after she had been found. Several members of the Large Family came to take tea with her, and as they sat or curled up on the hearth-rug she told the story in her own way, and the Indialeman listened and watched her. When she had finished she looked up at him and put her hand on his knee.
"That is my part," she said. "Now wont you tell your part of it, Uom?" He had asked her to call him always "Uom." "I dont know your part yet, and it must be beautiful."
So he told them how, whe alone, ill and dull and irritable, Ram Dass had tried to distract him by describing the passers by, and there was one child who passed oftehan any one else; he had begun to be ied in her--partly perhaps because he was thinking a great deal of a little girl, and partly because Ram Dass had been able to relate the i of his visit to the atti chase of the monkey. He had described its cheerless look, and the bearingbbr>藏书网</abbr> of the child, who seemed as if she was not of the class of those who were treated as drudges and servants. Bit by bit, Ram Dass had made discoveries ing the wretess of her life. He had found out how easy a matter it was to climb across the few yards of roof to the skylight, and this fact had been the beginning of all that followed.
"Sahib," he had said one day, "I could cross the slates and make the child a fire when she is out on some errand. Wheurned, wet and cold, to find it blazing, she would think a magi had do."
The idea had been so fanciful that Mr. Carrisfords sad face had lighted with a smile, and Ram Dass had been so filled with rapture that he had enlarged upon it and explaio his master how simple it would be to aplish numbers of other things. He had shown a childlike pleasure and iion, and the preparations for the carrying out of the plan had filled many a day with i which would otherwise have dragged wearily. On the night of the frustrated ba Ram Dass had kept watch, all his packages being in readiness iic which was his own; and the person who was to help him had waited with him, as ied as himself in the odd adventure. Ram Dass had been lying flat upon the slates, looking in at the skylight, when the ba had e to its disastrous clusion; he had been sure of the profoundness of Saras wearied sleep; and then, with a dark lantern, he had crept into the room, while his panion remained outside and han<big></big>ded the things to him. When Sara had stirred ever so faintly, Ram Dass had closed the lantern-slide and lain flat upon the floor. These and many other exg things the children found out by asking a thousand questions.
"I am so glad," Sara said. "I am so glad it was you who were my friend!"
There never were such friends as these two became. Somehow, they seemed to suit each other in a wonderful way. The Indialeman had never had a panion he liked quite as much as he liked Sara. In a months time he was, as Mr. Carmichael had prophesied he would be, a new man. He was always amused and ied, and he began to find an actual pleasure in the possession of the wealth he had imagihat he loathed the burden of. There were so .９9ｌiｂ.many charming things to plan for Sara. There was a little joke betweehat he was a magi, and it was one of his pleasures to ihings to surprise her. She fouiful new flrowing in her room, whimsical little gifts tucked under pillows, and once, as they sat together in the evening, they heard the scratch of a heavy paw on the door, and when Sara went to find out what it was, there stood a great dog--a splendid Russian boarhound--with a grand silver and gold collar bearing an inscription. "I am Boris," it read; "I serve the Princess Sara."
There was nothing the Indialeman loved more than the recolle of the little princess in rags and tatters. The afternoons in which the Large Family, arde and Lottie, gathered to rejoice together were very delightful. But the hours when Sara and the Indialeman sat alone and read or talked had a special charm of their own. During their passing many iing things occurred.
One evening, Mr. Carrisford, looking up from his book, noticed that his panion had not stirred for some time, but sat gazing into the fire.
"What are you `supposing, Sara?" he asked.
Sara looked up, with a bright color on her cheek.
"I was supposing," she said; "I was remembering that hungry day, and a child I saw."
"But there were a great many hungry days," said the Indialeman, with rather a sad tone in his voice. "Which hungry day was it?"
"I fot you didnt know," said Sara. "It was the day the dream came true."
Theold him the story of the bun shop, and the fourpence she picked up out of the sloppy mud, and the child who was huhan herself. She told it quite simply, and in as few words as possible; but somehow the Indialeman found it necessary to shade his eyes with his hand and look down at the carpet.
"And I was supposing a kind of plan," she said, when she had finished. "I was thinking I should like to do something."
"What was it?" said Mr. Carrisford, in a low tone. "You may do anything you like to do, princess."
"I was w," rather hesitated Sara--"you know, you say I have so much money--I was w if I could go to see the bun- woman, and tell her that if, when hungry children--particularly on those dreadful days--e and sit oeps, or look in at the window, she would just call them in and give them something to eat, she might send the bills to me. Could I do that?"
"You shall do it tomorrow m," said the Indialeman.
"Thank you," said Sara. "You see, I know what it is to be hungry, and it is very hard when one ot eveend it away."
"Yes, yes, my dear," said the Indialeman. "Yes, yes, it must be. Try tet it. e and sit on this footstool near my knee, and only remember you are a princess."
"Yes," said Sara, smiling; "and I give buns and bread to the populace." And she went and sat oool, and the Indialeman (he used to like her to call him that, too, sometimes) drew her small dark head down on his knee and stroked her hair.
The m, Miss Min, in looking out of her window, saw the things she perhaps least enjoyed seeing. The Indialemans carriage, with its tall horses, drew up before the door of the house, and its owner and a little figure, warm with soft, rich furs, desded the steps to get into it. The little figure was a familiar one, and reminded Miss Min of days in the past. It was followed by another as familiar--the sight of which she found very irritating. It was Becky, who, in the character of delighted attendant, always apanied her young mistress to her carriage, carrying s and belongings. Already Becky had a pink, round face.
A little later the carriage drew up before the door of the bakers shop, and its octs got out, oddly enough, just as the bun-woman utting a tray of smoking-hot buns into the window.
When Sara ehe shop the woman turned and looked at her, and, leaving the buns, came and stood behind the ter. For a moment she looked at Sara very hard indeed, and then her good- natured face lighted up.
"Im sure that I remember you, miss," she said. "A--"
"Yes," said Sara; "once you gave me six buns for fourpence, and--"
"And you gave five of em to a beggar child," the woman broke in on her. "Ive always remembered it. I couldnt make it out at first." She turned round to the Indialeman and spoke her words to him. "I beg your pardon, sir, but theres not many young people that notices a hungry fa that way; and Ive thought of it many a time. Excuse the liberty, miss,"--to Sara-- "but you look rosier and--well, better than you did that--that--"
"I am better, thank you," said Sara. "And--I am much happier-- and I have e to ask you to do something for me."
"Me, miss!" exclaimed the bun-woman, smiling cheerfully. "Why, bless you! Yes, miss. What I do?"
And then Sara, leaning on the ter, made her little proposal ing the dreadful days and the hungry waifs and the buns.
The woman watched her, and listened with an astonished face.
"Why, bless me!" she said again when she had heard it all; "itll be a pleasure to me to do it. I am a w-woman myself and ot afford to do muy own at, and theres sights of trouble on every side; but, if youll excuse me, Im bound to say Ive given away many a bit of bread sihat wet afternoon, just along o thinking of you--an how wet an cold you was, an how hungry you looked; a you gave away your hot buns as if you rincess."
The Indialeman smiled involuntarily at this, ?and Sara smiled a little, too, remembering what she had said to herself whe the buns down on the ravenous childs ragged lap.
"She looked so hungry," she said. "She was even huhan I was."
"She was starving," said the woman. "Manys the time shes told me of it since--how she sat there i, a as if a wolf was a-tearing at her poor young insides."
"Oh, have you seen her sihen?" exclaimed Sara. "Do you know where she is?"
"Yes, I do," answered the woman, smiling mood-naturedly than ever. "Why, shes in that there ba, miss, an has been for a month; an a det, well-meanin girl shes goin to turn out, an such a help to me in the shop an i as youd scarce believe, knowin how shes lived."
She stepped to the door of the little b<q>..</q>ack parlor and spoke; and the minute a girl came out and followed her behind the ter. And actually it was the beggar-child, aly clothed, and looking as if she had not been hungry for a long time. She looked shy, but she had a nice faow that she was no longer a savage, and the wild look had gone from her eyes. She knew Sara in an instant, and stood and looked at her as if she could never look enough.
"You see," said the woman, "I told her to e when she was hungry, and when shed e Id give her odd jobs to do; an I found she was willing, and somehow I got to like her; and the end of it was, Ive given her a pla a home, and she helps me, an behaves well, an is as thankful as a girl be. Her names Anne. She has no other."
The children stood and looked at each other for a few minutes; and then Sara took her hand out of her muff and held it out across the ter, and Aook it, and they looked straight into each others eyes.
"I am so glad," Sara said. "And I have just thought of something. Perhaps Mrs. Brown will let you be the oo give the buns and bread to the children. Perhaps you would like to do it because you know what it is to be hungry, too."
"Yes, miss," said the girl.
And, somehow, Sara felt as if she uood her, though she said so little, and only stood still and looked and looked after her as she went out of the shop with the Indialeman, and they got into the carriage and drove away.
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