“Something’s there, miss,” she whispered.
“Yes,” said Sara, slowly. “It sounds—rather like a cat—trying to get in.”
She left her chair and went to the skylight. It was a queer little sound she heard—like a soft scratching. She suddenly remembered something and laughed. She remembered a quaint little intruder who had made his way into the attic once before. She had seen him that very afternoon, sitting disconsolately on a table before a window in the Indian gentleman’s house.
“Suppose,” she whispered in pleased excitement—“just suppose it was the monkey who had got away again. Oh, I wish it was!”
She climbed on a chair, very cautiously raised the skylight, and peeped out. It had been snowing all day, and on the snow, quite near her, crouched a tiny, shivering figure, whose small black face wrinkled itself piteously at sight of her.
“It is the monkey,” she cried out. “He has crept out of the Lascar’s attic, and he saw the light.”
Becky ran to her side.
“Are you going to let him in, miss?” she said.
“Yes,” Sara answered joyfully. “It’s too cold for monkeys to be out. They’re delicate. I’ll coax him in.”
She put a hand out delicately, speaking in a coaxing voice—as she spoke to the sparrows and to Melchisedec—as if she were some friendly little animal herself and lovingly understood their timid wildness.
“Come along, monkey darling,” she said. “I won’t hurt you.”
He knew she would not hurt him. He knew it before she laid her soft, caressing little paw on him and drew him toward her. He had felt human love in the slim brown hands of Ram Dass, and he felt it in hers. He let her lift him through the skylight, and when he found himself in her arms he cuddled up to her breast and took friendly hold of a piece of her hair, looking up into her face.
“Nice monkey! Nice monkey!” she crooned, kissing his funny head. “Oh, I do love little animal things.”
He was evidently glad to get to the fire, and when she sat down and held him on her knee he looked from her to Becky with mingled interest and appreciation.
“He is plain-looking, miss, ain’t he?” said Becky.
“He looks like a very ugly baby,” laughed Sara. “I beg your pardon, monkey; but I’m glad you are not a baby. Your mother couldn’t be proud of you, and no one would dare to say you looked like any of your relations. Oh, I do like you!”
She leaned back in her chair and reflected.
“Perhaps he’s sorry he’s so ugly,” she said, “and it’s always on his mind. I wonder if he has a mind. Monkey, my love, have you a mind?”
But the monkey only put up a tiny paw and scratched his head.
“What shall you do with him?” Becky asked.
“I shall let him sleep with me tonight, and then take him back to the Indian gentleman tomorrow. I am sorry to take you back, monkey; but you must go. You ought to be fondest of your own family; and I’m not a real relation.”
And when she went to bed she made him a nest at her feet, and he curled up and slept there as if he were a baby and much pleased with his quarters.
XVII
“It Is the Child!”
The next afternoon three members of the Large Family sat in the Indian gentleman’s library, doing their best to cheer him up. They had been allowed to come in to perform this office because he had specially invited them. He had been living in a state of suspense for some time, and today he was waiting for a certain event very anxiously. This event was the return of Mr. Carmichael from Moscow. His stay there had been prolonged from week to week. On his first arrival there, he had not been able satisfactorily to trace the family he had gone in search of. When he felt at last sure that he had found them and had gone to their house, he had been told that they were absent on a journey. His efforts to reach them had been unavailing, so he had decided to remain in Moscow until their return. Mr. Carrisford sat in his reclining-chair, and Janet sat on the floor beside him. He was very fond of Janet. Nora had found a footstool, and Donald was astride the tiger’s head which ornamented the rug made of the animal’s skin. It must be owned that he was riding it rather violently.
“Don’t chirrup so loud, Donald,” Janet said. “When you come to cheer an ill person up you don’t cheer him up at the top of your voice. Perhaps cheering up is too loud, Mr. Carrisford?” turning to the Indian gentleman.
But he only patted her shoulder.
“No, it isn’t,” he answered. “And it keeps me from thinking too much.”
“I’m going to be quiet,” Donald shouted. “We’ll all be as quiet as mice.”
“Mice don’t make a noise like that,” said Janet.
Donald made a bridle of his handkerchief and bounced up and down on the tiger’s head.
“A whole lot of mice might,” he said cheerfully. “A thousand mice might.”
“I don’t believe fifty thousand mice would,” said Janet, severely; “and we have to be as quiet as one mouse.”
Mr. Carrisford laughed and patted her shoulder again.
“Papa won’t be very long now,” she said. “May we talk about the lost little girl?”
“I don’t think I could talk much about anything else just now,” the Indian gentleman answered, knitting his forehead with a tired look.
“We like her so much,” said Nora. “We call her the little un-fairy princess.”
“Why?” the Indian gentleman inquired, because the fancies of the Large Family always made him forget things a little.
It was Janet who answered.
“It is because, though she is not exactly a fairy, she will be so rich when she is found that she will be like a princess in a fairy tale. We called her
