“Where does it all come from?” Becky broke forth once. “Laws! who does it, miss?”
“Don’t let us even ask,” said Sara. “If it were not that I want to say, ‘Oh, thank you,’ I would rather not know. It makes it more beautiful.”
From that time life became more wonderful day by day. The fairy story continued. Almost every day something new was done. Some new comfort or ornament appeared each time Sara opened the door at night, until in a short time the attic was a beautiful little room full of all sorts of odd and luxurious things. The ugly walls were gradually entirely covered with pictures and draperies, ingenious pieces of folding furniture appeared, a bookshelf was hung up and filled with books, new comforts and conveniences appeared one by one, until there seemed nothing left to be desired. When Sara went downstairs in the morning, the remains of the supper were on the table; and when she returned to the attic in the evening, the magician had removed them and left another nice little meal. Miss Minchin was as harsh and insulting as ever, Miss Amelia as peevish, and the servants were as vulgar and rude. Sara was sent on errands in all weathers, and scolded and driven hither and thither; she was scarcely allowed to speak to Ermengarde and Lottie; Lavinia sneered at the increasing shabbiness of her clothes; and the other girls stared curiously at her when she appeared in the schoolroom. But what did it all matter while she was living in this wonderful mysterious story? It was more romantic and delightful than anything she had ever invented to comfort her starved young soul and save herself from despair. Sometimes, when she was scolded, she could scarcely keep from smiling.
“If you only knew!” she was saying to herself. “If you only knew!”
The comfort and happiness she enjoyed were making her stronger, and she had them always to look forward to. If she came home from her errands wet and tired and hungry, she knew she would soon be warm and well fed after she had climbed the stairs. During the hardest day she could occupy herself blissfully by thinking of what she should see when she opened the attic door, and wondering what new delight had been prepared for her. In a very short time she began to look less thin. Color came into her cheeks, and her eyes did not seem so much too big for her face.
“Sara Crewe looks wonderfully well,” Miss Minchin remarked disapprovingly to her sister.
“Yes,” answered poor, silly Miss Amelia. “She is absolutely fattening. She was beginning to look like a little starved crow.”
“Starved!” exclaimed Miss Minchin, angrily. “There was no reason why she should look starved. She always had plenty to eat!”
“Of—of course,” agreed Miss Amelia, humbly, alarmed to find that she had, as usual, said the wrong thing.
“There is something very disagreeable in seeing that sort of thing in a child of her age,” said Miss Minchin, with haughty vagueness.
“What—sort of thing?” Miss Amelia ventured.
“It might almost be called defiance,” answered Miss Minchin, feeling annoyed because she knew the thing she resented was nothing like defiance, and she did not know what other unpleasant term to use. “The spirit and will of any other child would have been entirely humbled and broken by—by the changes she has had to submit to. But, upon my word, she seems as little subdued as if—as if she were a princess.”
“Do you remember,” put in the unwise Miss Amelia, “what she said to you that day in the schoolroom about what you would do if you found out that she was—”
“No, I don’t,” said Miss Minchin. “Don’t talk nonsense.” But she remembered very clearly indeed.
Very naturally, even Becky was beginning to look plumper and less frightened. She could not help it. She had her share in the secret fairy story, too. She had two mattresses, two pillows, plenty of bed-covering, and every night a hot supper and a seat on the cushions by the fire. The Bastille had melted away, the prisoners no longer existed. Two comforted children sat in the midst of delights. Sometimes Sara read aloud from her books, sometimes she learned her own lessons, sometimes she sat and looked into the fire and tried to imagine who her friend could be, and wished she could say to him some of the things in her heart.
Then it came about that another wonderful thing happened. A man came to the door and left several parcels. All were addressed in large letters, “To the Little Girl in the right-hand attic.”
Sara herself was sent to open the door and took them in. She laid the two largest parcels on the hall table, and was looking at the address, when Miss Minchin came down the stairs and saw her.
“Take the things to the young lady to whom they belong,” she said severely. “Don’t stand there staring at them.”
“They belong to me,” answered Sara, quietly.
“To you?” exclaimed Miss Minchin. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know where they come from,” said Sara, “but they are addressed to me. I sleep in the right-hand attic. Becky has the other one.”
Miss Minchin came to her side and looked at the parcels with an excited expression.
“What is in them?” she demanded.
“I don’t know,” replied Sara.
“Open them,” she ordered.
Sara did as she was told. When the packages were unfolded Miss Minchin’s countenance wore suddenly a singular expression. What she saw was pretty and comfortable clothing—clothing of different kinds: shoes, stockings, and gloves, and a warm and beautiful coat. There were even a nice hat and an umbrella. They were all good and expensive things, and on the pocket of the coat was pinned a paper, on which were written these words: “To be worn every day.—Will be replaced by others when
