with the diamond mines, Lavinia
commented. "She does look an object. And she's queerer than
ever. I never liked her much, but I can't bear that way she has
now of looking at people without speaking—just as if she was
finding them out."
"I am," said Sara, promptly, when she heard of this. "That's
what I look at some people for. I like to know about them. I
think them over afterward."
The truth was that she had saved herself annoyance several times
by keeping her eye on Lavinia, who was quite ready to make
mischief, and would have been rather pleased to have made it for
the ex-show pupil.
Sara never made any mischief herself, or interfered with anyone.
She worked like a drudge; she tramped through the wet streets,
carrying parcels and baskets; she labored with the childish
inattention of the little ones' French lessons; as she became
shabbier and more forlorn-looking, she was told that she had
better take her meals downstairs; she was treated as if she was
nobody's concern, and her heart grew proud and sore, but she
never told anyone what she felt.
"Soldiers don't complain," she would say between her small, shut
teeth, "I am not going to do it; I will pretend this is part of a
war."
But there were hours when her child heart might almost have
broken with loneliness but for three people.
The first, it must be owned, was Becky—just Becky. Throughout
all that first night spent in the garret, she had felt a vague
comfort in knowing that on the other side of the wall in which
the rats scuffled and squeaked there was another young human
creature. And during the nights that followed the sense of
comfort grew. They had little chance to speak to each other
during the day. Each had her own tasks to perform, and any
attempt at conversation would have been regarded as a tendency to
loiter and lose time. "Don't mind me, miss," Becky whispered
during the first morning, "if I don't say nothin' polite. Some
un'd be down on us if I did. I MEANS 'please' an' 'thank you'
an' 'beg pardon,' but I dassn't to take time to say it."
But before daybreak she used to slip into Sara's attic and
button her dress and give her such help as she required before
she went downstairs to light the kitchen fire. And when night
came Sara always heard the humble knock at her door which meant
that her handmaid was ready to help her again if she was needed.
During the first weeks of her grief Sara felt as if she were too
stupefied to talk, so it happened that some time passed before
they saw each other much or exchanged visits. Becky's heart told
her that it was best that people in trouble should be left alone.
The second of the trio of comforters was Ermengarde, but odd
things happened before Ermengarde found her place.
When Sara's mind seemed to awaken again to the life about her,
she realized that she had forgotten that an Ermengarde lived in
the world. The two had always been friends, but Sara had felt
as if she were years the older. It could not be contested that
Ermengarde was as dull as she was affectionate. She clung to
Sara in a simple, helpless way; she brought her lessons to her
that she might be helped; she listened to her every word and
besieged her with requests for stories. But she had nothing
interesting to say herself, and she loathed books of every
description. She was, in fact, not a person one would remember
when one was caught in the storm of a great trouble, and Sara
forgot her.
It had been all the easier to forget her because she had been
suddenly called home for a few weeks. When she came back she
did not see Sara for a day or two, and when she met her for the
first time she encountered her coming down a corridor with her
arms full of garments which were to be taken downstairs to be
mended. Sara herself had already been taught to mend them. She
looked pale and unlike herself, and she was attired in the queer,
outgrown frock whose shortness showed so much thin black leg.
Ermengarde was too slow a girl to be equal to such a
commented. "She does look an object. And she's queerer than
ever. I never liked her much, but I can't bear that way she has
now of looking at people without speaking—just as if she was
finding them out."
"I am," said Sara, promptly, when she heard of this. "That's
what I look at some people for. I like to know about them. I
think them over afterward."
The truth was that she had saved herself annoyance several times
by keeping her eye on Lavinia, who was quite ready to make
mischief, and would have been rather pleased to have made it for
the ex-show pupil.
Sara never made any mischief herself, or interfered with anyone.
She worked like a drudge; she tramped through the wet streets,
carrying parcels and baskets; she labored with the childish
inattention of the little ones' French lessons; as she became
shabbier and more forlorn-looking, she was told that she had
better take her meals downstairs; she was treated as if she was
nobody's concern, and her heart grew proud and sore, but she
never told anyone what she felt.
"Soldiers don't complain," she would say between her small, shut
teeth, "I am not going to do it; I will pretend this is part of a
war."
But there were hours when her child heart might almost have
broken with loneliness but for three people.
The first, it must be owned, was Becky—just Becky. Throughout
all that first night spent in the garret, she had felt a vague
comfort in knowing that on the other side of the wall in which
the rats scuffled and squeaked there was another young human
creature. And during the nights that followed the sense of
comfort grew. They had little chance to speak to each other
during the day. Each had her own tasks to perform, and any
attempt at conversation would have been regarded as a tendency to
loiter and lose time. "Don't mind me, miss," Becky whispered
during the first morning, "if I don't say nothin' polite. Some
un'd be down on us if I did. I MEANS 'please' an' 'thank you'
an' 'beg pardon,' but I dassn't to take time to say it."
But before daybreak she used to slip into Sara's attic and
button her dress and give her such help as she required before
she went downstairs to light the kitchen fire. And when night
came Sara always heard the humble knock at her door which meant
that her handmaid was ready to help her again if she was needed.
During the first weeks of her grief Sara felt as if she were too
stupefied to talk, so it happened that some time passed before
they saw each other much or exchanged visits. Becky's heart told
her that it was best that people in trouble should be left alone.
The second of the trio of comforters was Ermengarde, but odd
things happened before Ermengarde found her place.
When Sara's mind seemed to awaken again to the life about her,
she realized that she had forgotten that an Ermengarde lived in
the world. The two had always been friends, but Sara had felt
as if she were years the older. It could not be contested that
Ermengarde was as dull as she was affectionate. She clung to
Sara in a simple, helpless way; she brought her lessons to her
that she might be helped; she listened to her every word and
besieged her with requests for stories. But she had nothing
interesting to say herself, and she loathed books of every
description. She was, in fact, not a person one would remember
when one was caught in the storm of a great trouble, and Sara
forgot her.
It had been all the easier to forget her because she had been
suddenly called home for a few weeks. When she came back she
did not see Sara for a day or two, and when she met her for the
first time she encountered her coming down a corridor with her
arms full of garments which were to be taken downstairs to be
mended. Sara herself had already been taught to mend them. She
looked pale and unlike herself, and she was attired in the queer,
outgrown frock whose shortness showed so much thin black leg.
Ermengarde was too slow a girl to be equal to such a
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