She had been at Miss Minchins school about two years when, one foggy winters afternoon, as she was getting out of her carriage, comfortably wrapped up in her warmest velvets and furs and looking very much grander than she knew, she caught sight, as she crossed the pavement, of a dingy little figure standing on the area steps, and stretching its neck so that
its wide-open eyes might peer at her through the railings. Something in the eagerness and timidity of the smudgy face made her look at it, and when she looked she smiled because it was her way to smile at people.
But the owner of the smudgy face and the wide-open eyes evidently was afraid that she ought not to have been caught looking at pupils of importance. She dodged out of sight like a Jack-in-the-box and scurried back into the kitchen, disappearing so suddenly that if she had not been such a poor, little forlorn thing, Sara would have laughed in spite of herself. That very evening, as Sara was sitting in the midst of a group of listeners in a corner of the school-room telling one of her stories, the very same figure timidly entered the room, carrying a coal-box much too heavy for her, and knelt down upon the hearth-rug to replenish the fire and sweep up the ashes.
She was cleaner than she had been when she peeped through the area railings, but she looked just as frightened. She was evidently afraid to look at the children or seem to be listening. She put on pieces of coal cautiously with her fingers so that she might make no disturbing noise, and she swept about the fire-irons very softly. But Sara saw in two minutes that she was deeply interested in what was going on, and that she was doing her work slowly in the hope of catching a word here and there. And realizing this, she raised her voice and spoke more clearly.
The Mermaids swam softly about in the crystal-green water, and dragged after them a fishing-net woven of deep-sea pearls, she said. The Princess sat on the white rock and watched them.
It was a wonderful story about a princess who was loved by a Prince Merman, and went to live with him in shining caves under the sea.
The small drudge before the grate swept the hearth once and then swept it again. Having done it twice, she did it three times; and, as she was doing it the third time, the sound of the story so lured her to listen that she fell under the spell and actually forgot that she had no right to listen at all, and also forgot everything else. She sat down upon her heels as she knelt on the hearth-rug, and the brush hung idly in her fingers. The voice of the story-teller went on and drew her with it into winding grottos under the sea, glowing with soft, clear blue light, and paved with pure golden sands. Strange sea flowers and grasses waved about her, and far away faint singing and music echoed.
The hearth-brush fell from the work-roughened hand, and Lavinia Herbert looked round.
That girl has been listening, she said.
The culprit snatched up her brush, and scrambled to her feet. She caught at the coal-box and simply scuttled out of the room like a frightened rabbit.
Sara felt rather hot-tempered.
I knew she was listening, she said. Why shouldnt she?
Lavinia tossed her head with great elegance.
Well, she remarked, I do not know whether your mamma would like you to tell stories to servant girls, but I know my mamma wouldnt like me to do it.
My mamma! said Sara, looking odd. I dont believe she would mind in the least. She knows that stories belong to everybody.
I thought, retorted Lavinia, in severe recollection, that your mamma was dead. How can she know things?
Do you think she doesnt know things? said Sara, in her stern little voice. Sometimes she had a rather stern little voice.
Saras mamma knows everything, piped in Lottie. So does my mamma cept Sara is my mamma at Miss Minchins my other one knows everything. The streets are shining, and there are fields and fields of lilies, and everybody gathers them. Sara tells me when she puts me to bed.
You wicked thing, said Lavinia, turning on Sara; making fairy stories about heaven.
There are much more splendid stories in Revelation, returned Sara. Just look and see! How do you know mine are fairy stories? But I can tell you with a fine bit of unheavenly temper you will never find out whether they are or not if youre not kinder to people than you are now. Come along, Lottie. And she marched out of the room, rather hoping that she might see the little servant again somewhere, but she found no trace of her when she got into the hall.
Who is that little girl who makes the fires? she asked Mariette that night.
Mariette broke forth into a flow of description.
Ah, indeed, Mademoiselle Sara might well ask. She was a forlorn little thing who had just taken the place of scullery-maid though, as to being scullery-maid, she was everything else besides. She blacked boots and grates, and carried heavy coal-scuttles up and down stairs, and scrubbed floors and cleaned windows, and was ordered