A Little Princess HTML version
conclusion; he had been sure of the profoundness of Sara's wearied sleep; and then, with
a dark lantern, he had crept into the room, while his companion remained outside and
handed 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 exciting 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 Indian gentleman had never had a companion he liked
quite as much as he liked Sara. In a month's time he was, as Mr. Carmichael had
prophesied he would be, a new man. He was always amused and interested, and he began
to find an actual pleasure in the possession of the wealth he had imagined that he loathed
the burden of. There were so many charming things to plan for Sara. There was a little
joke between them that he was a magician, and it was one of his pleasures to invent
things to surprise her. She found beautiful new flowers growing 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 Indian gentleman loved more than the recollection of the little
princess in rags and tatters. The afternoons in which the Large Family, or Ermengarde
and Lottie, gathered to rejoice together were very delightful. But the hours when Sara and
the Indian gentleman sat alone and read or talked had a special charm of their own.
During their passing many interesting things occurred.
One evening, Mr. Carrisford, looking up from his book, noticed that his companion 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 Indian gentleman, with rather a sad
tone in his voice. "Which hungry day was it?"
"I forgot you didn't know," said Sara. "It was the day the dream came true."
Then she told him the story of the bun shop, and the fourpence she picked up out of the
sloppy mud, and the child who was hungrier than herself. She told it quite simply, and in
as few words as possible; but somehow the Indian gentleman 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."