“No,” answered Sara.
Ermengarde crawled forward on the bed to look at her.
“You do look tired, Sara,” she said; “you are quite pale.”
“I am tired,” said Sara, dropping on to the lopsided footstool. “Oh, there’s Melchisedec, poor thing. He’s come to ask for his supper.”
Melchisedec had come out of his hole as if he had been listening for her footstep. Sara was quite sure he knew it. He came forward with an affectionate, expectant expression as Sara put her hand in her pocket and turned it inside out, shaking her head.
“I’m very sorry,” she said. “I haven’t one crumb left. Go home, Melchisedec, and tell your wife there was nothing in my pocket. I’m afraid I forgot because the cook and Miss Minchin were so cross.”
Melchisedec seemed to understand. He shuffled resignedly, if not contentedly, back to his home.
“I did not expect to see you tonight, Ermie,” Sara said.
Ermengarde hugged herself in the red shawl.
“Miss Amelia has gone out to spend the night with her old aunt,” she explained. “No one else ever comes and looks into the bedrooms after we are in bed. I could stay here until morning if I wanted to.”
She pointed toward the table under the skylight. Sara had not looked toward it as she came in. A number of books were piled upon it. Ermengarde’s gesture was a dejected one.
“Papa has sent me some more books, Sara,” she said. “There they are.”
Sara looked round and got up at once. She ran to the table, and picking up the top volume, turned over its leaves quickly. For the moment she forgot her discomforts.
“Ah,” she cried out, “how beautiful! Carlyle’s ‘French Revolution.’ I have so wanted to read that!”
“I haven’t,” said Ermengarde. “And papa will be so cross if I don’t. He’ll expect me to know all about it when I go home for the holidays. What shall I do?”
Sara stopped turning over the leaves and looked at her with an excited flush on her cheeks.
“Look here,” she cried, “if you’ll lend me these books, I’ll read them—and tell you everything that’s in them afterward—and I’ll tell it so that you will remember it, too.”
“Oh, goodness!” exclaimed Ermengarde. “Do you think you can?”
“I know I can,” Sara answered. “The little ones always remember what I tell them.”
“Sara,” said Ermengarde, hope gleaming in her round face, “if you’ll do that, and make me remember, I’ll—I’ll give you anything.”
“I don’t want you to give me anything,” said Sara. “I want your books—I want them!” And her eyes grew big, and her chest heaved.
“Take them, then,” said Ermengarde. “I wish I wanted them—but I don’t. I’m not clever, and my father is, and he thinks I ought to be.”
Sara was opening one book after the other. “What are you going to tell your father?” she asked, a slight doubt dawning in her mind.
“Oh, he needn’t know,” answered Ermengarde. “He’ll think I’ve read them.”
Sara put down her book and shook her head slowly. “That’s almost like telling lies,” she said. “And lies—well, you see, they are not only wicked—they’re vulgar. Sometimes”—reflectively—“I’ve thought perhaps I might do something wicked—I might suddenly fly into a rage and kill Miss Minchin, you know, when she was ill-treating me—but I couldn’t be vulgar. Why can’t you tell your father I read them?”
“He wants me to read them,” said Ermengarde, a little discouraged by this unexpected turn of affairs.
“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 it, I should think he would like that.”
“He’ll like it if I learn anything in any way,” said rueful Ermengarde. “You would if you were my father.”
“It’s not your fault that—” began Sara. She pulled herself up and stopped rather suddenly. She had been going to say, “It’s not your fault that you are stupid.”
“That what?” Ermengarde asked.
“That you can’t learn things quickly,” amended Sara. “If you can’t, you can’t. If I can—why, I can; that’s all.”
She always felt very tender of Ermengarde, and tried not to let her feel too strongly the difference between being able to learn anything at once, and not being able to learn anything at all. As she looked at her plump face, one of her wise, old-fashioned thoughts came to her.
“Perhaps,” she said, “to be able to learn things quickly isn’t everything. To be kind is worth a great deal to other people. If Miss Minchin knew everything on earth and 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 have been wicked. Look at Robespierre—”
She stopped and examined Ermengarde’s countenance, which was beginning to look bewildered. “Don’t you remember?” she demanded. “I told you about him not long ago. I believe you’ve forgotten.”
“Well, I don’t remember all of it,” admitted Ermengarde.
“Well, you wait a minute,” said Sara, “and I’ll take off my wet things and wrap myself in the coverlet and tell you over again.”
She took off her hat and coat and hung them on a nail against the wall, and she changed her wet shoes for an old pair of slippers. Then she jumped on the bed, and drawing the coverlet about her shoulders, sat with her arms round her knees.
“Now, listen,” she said.
She plunged into the gory records of the French Revolution, and told such stories of it that Ermengarde’s eyes grew round with alarm and she held her breath. But though she was rather terrified, there was a delightful thrill in listening, and she was not likely to forget Robespierre again, or to have any doubts about the Princesse de Lamballe.
“You know they put her head on a pike and danced round it,” Sara explained. “And she had beautiful floating blonde hair; and when I think of her, I never see her
