situation.
She could not think of anything to say. She knew what had
happened, but, somehow, she had never imagined Sara could look
like this—so odd and poor and almost like a servant. It made
her quite miserable, and she could do nothing but break into a
short hysterical laugh and exclaim—aimlessly and as if without
any meaning, "Oh, Sara, is that you?"
"Yes," answered Sara, and suddenly a strange thought passed
through her mind and made her face flush. She held the pile of
garments in her arms, and her chin rested upon the top of it to
keep it steady. Something in the look of her straight-gazing
eyes made Ermengarde lose her wits still more. She felt as if
Sara had changed into a new kind of girl, and she had never known
her before. Perhaps it was because she had suddenly grown poor
and had to mend things and work like Becky.
"Oh," she stammered. "How—how are you?"
"I don't know," Sara replied. "How are you?"
"I'm—I'm quite well," said Ermengarde, overwhelmed with
shyness. Then spasmodically she thought of something to say
which seemed more intimate. "Are you—are you very unhappy?" she
said in a rush.
Then Sara was guilty of an injustice. Just at that moment her
torn heart swelled within her, and she felt that if anyone was as
stupid as that, one had better get away from her.
"What do you think?" she said. "Do you think I am very happy?"
And she marched past her without another word.
In course of time she realized that if her wretchedness had not
made her forget things, she would have known that poor, dull
Ermengarde was not to be blamed for her unready, awkward ways.
She was always awkward, and the more she felt, the more stupid
she was given to being.
But the sudden thought which had flashed upon her had made her
over-sensitive.
"She is like the others," she had thought. "She does not really
want to talk to me. She knows no one does."
So for several weeks a barrier stood between them. When they
met by chance Sara looked the other way, and Ermengarde felt too
stiff and embarrassed to speak. Sometimes they nodded to each
other in passing, but there were times when they did not even
exchange a greeting.
"If she would rather not talk to me," Sara thought, "I will keep
out of her way. Miss Minchin makes that easy enough."
Miss Minchin made it so easy that at last they scarcely saw each
other at all. At that time it was noticed that Ermengarde was
more stupid than ever, and that she looked listless and unhappy.
She used to sit in the window-seat, huddled in a heap, and stare
out of the window without speaking. Once Jessie, who was
passing, stopped to look at her curiously.
"What are you crying for, Ermengarde?" she asked.
"I'm not crying," answered Ermengarde, in a muffled, unsteady
voice.
"You are," said Jessie. "A great big tear just rolled down the
bridge of your nose and dropped off at the end of it. And there
goes another."
"Well," said Ermengarde, "I'm miserable—and no one need
interfere." And she turned her plump back and took out her
handkerchief and boldly hid her face in it.
That night, when Sara went to her attic, she was later than
usual. She had been kept at work until after the hour at which
the pupils went to bed, and after that she had gone to her
lessons in the lonely schoolroom. When she reached the top of
the stairs, she was surprised to see a glimmer of light coming
from under the attic door.
"Nobody goes there but myself," she thought quickly, "but
someone has lighted a candle."
Someone had, indeed, lighted a candle, and it was not burning in
the kitchen candlestick she was expected to use, but in one of
those belonging to the pupils' bedrooms. The someone was
sitting upon the battered footstool, and was dressed in her
nightgown and wrapped up in a red shawl. It was Ermengarde.
"Ermengarde!" cried Sara. She was so startled that she was
almost frightened. "You will get into trouble."
Ermengarde stumbled up from her footstool. She shuffled across
the attic in her bedroom
She could not think of anything to say. She knew what had
happened, but, somehow, she had never imagined Sara could look
like this—so odd and poor and almost like a servant. It made
her quite miserable, and she could do nothing but break into a
short hysterical laugh and exclaim—aimlessly and as if without
any meaning, "Oh, Sara, is that you?"
"Yes," answered Sara, and suddenly a strange thought passed
through her mind and made her face flush. She held the pile of
garments in her arms, and her chin rested upon the top of it to
keep it steady. Something in the look of her straight-gazing
eyes made Ermengarde lose her wits still more. She felt as if
Sara had changed into a new kind of girl, and she had never known
her before. Perhaps it was because she had suddenly grown poor
and had to mend things and work like Becky.
"Oh," she stammered. "How—how are you?"
"I don't know," Sara replied. "How are you?"
"I'm—I'm quite well," said Ermengarde, overwhelmed with
shyness. Then spasmodically she thought of something to say
which seemed more intimate. "Are you—are you very unhappy?" she
said in a rush.
Then Sara was guilty of an injustice. Just at that moment her
torn heart swelled within her, and she felt that if anyone was as
stupid as that, one had better get away from her.
"What do you think?" she said. "Do you think I am very happy?"
And she marched past her without another word.
In course of time she realized that if her wretchedness had not
made her forget things, she would have known that poor, dull
Ermengarde was not to be blamed for her unready, awkward ways.
She was always awkward, and the more she felt, the more stupid
she was given to being.
But the sudden thought which had flashed upon her had made her
over-sensitive.
"She is like the others," she had thought. "She does not really
want to talk to me. She knows no one does."
So for several weeks a barrier stood between them. When they
met by chance Sara looked the other way, and Ermengarde felt too
stiff and embarrassed to speak. Sometimes they nodded to each
other in passing, but there were times when they did not even
exchange a greeting.
"If she would rather not talk to me," Sara thought, "I will keep
out of her way. Miss Minchin makes that easy enough."
Miss Minchin made it so easy that at last they scarcely saw each
other at all. At that time it was noticed that Ermengarde was
more stupid than ever, and that she looked listless and unhappy.
She used to sit in the window-seat, huddled in a heap, and stare
out of the window without speaking. Once Jessie, who was
passing, stopped to look at her curiously.
"What are you crying for, Ermengarde?" she asked.
"I'm not crying," answered Ermengarde, in a muffled, unsteady
voice.
"You are," said Jessie. "A great big tear just rolled down the
bridge of your nose and dropped off at the end of it. And there
goes another."
"Well," said Ermengarde, "I'm miserable—and no one need
interfere." And she turned her plump back and took out her
handkerchief and boldly hid her face in it.
That night, when Sara went to her attic, she was later than
usual. She had been kept at work until after the hour at which
the pupils went to bed, and after that she had gone to her
lessons in the lonely schoolroom. When she reached the top of
the stairs, she was surprised to see a glimmer of light coming
from under the attic door.
"Nobody goes there but myself," she thought quickly, "but
someone has lighted a candle."
Someone had, indeed, lighted a candle, and it was not burning in
the kitchen candlestick she was expected to use, but in one of
those belonging to the pupils' bedrooms. The someone was
sitting upon the battered footstool, and was dressed in her
nightgown and wrapped up in a red shawl. It was Ermengarde.
"Ermengarde!" cried Sara. She was so startled that she was
almost frightened. "You will get into trouble."
Ermengarde stumbled up from her footstool. She shuffled across
the attic in her bedroom
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