You make up stories! she gasped. Can you do that as well as speak French? Can you?
Sara looked at her in simple surprise.
Why, any one can make up things, she said. Have you never tried?
She put her hand warningly on Ermengardes.
Let us go very quietly to the door, she whispered, and then I will open it quite suddenly; perhaps we may catch her.
She was half laughing, but there was a touch of mysterious hope in her eyes which fascinated Ermengarde, though she had not the remotest idea what it meant, or whom it was she wanted to catch, or why she wanted to catch her. Whatsoever she meant, Ermengarde was sure it was something delightfully exciting. So, quite thrilled with expectation, she followed her on tiptoe along the passage. They made not the least noise until they reached the door. Then Sara suddenly turned the handle, and threw it wide open. Its opening revealed the room quite neat and quiet, a fire gently burning in the grate, and a wonderful doll sitting in a chair by it, apparently reading a book.
Oh, she got back to her seat before we could see her! Sara exclaimed. Of course they always do. They are as quick as lightning.
Ermengarde looked from her to the doll and back again.
Can she walk? she asked breathlessly.
Yes, answered Sara. At least I believe she can. At least I pretend I believe she can. And that makes it seem as if it were true. Have you never pretended things?
No, said Ermengarde. Never. I tell me about it.
She was so bewitched by this odd, new companion that she actually stared at Sara instead of at Emily notwithstanding that Emily was the most attractive doll person she had ever seen.
Let us sit down, said Sara, and I will tell you. Its so easy that when you begin you cant stop. You just go on and on doing it always. And its beautiful. Emily, you must listen. This is Ermengarde St. John, Emily. Ermengarde, this is Emily. Would you like to hold her?
Oh, may I? said Ermengarde. May I, really? She is beautiful! And Emily was put into her arms.
Never in her dull, short life had Miss St. John dreamed of such an hour as the one she spent with the queer new pupil before they heard the lunch-bell ring and were obliged to go down-stairs.
Sara sat upon the hearth-rug and told her strange things. She sat rather huddled up, and her green eyes shone and her cheeks flushed. She told stories of the voyage, and stories of India; but what fascinated Ermengarde the most was her fancy about the dolls who walked and talked, and who could do anything they chose when the human beings were out of the room, but who must keep their powers a secret and so flew back to their places like lightning when people returned to the room.
We couldnt do it, said Sara, seriously. You see, its a kind of magic.
Once, when she was relating the story of the search for Emily, Ermengarde saw her face suddenly change. A cloud seemed to pass over it and put out the light in her shining eyes. She drew her breath in so sharply that it made a funny, sad little sound, and then she shut her lips and held them tightly closed, as if she was determined either to do or not to do something. Ermengarde had an idea that if she had been like any other little girl, she might have suddenly burst out sobbing and crying. But she did not.
Have you a a pain? Ermengarde ventured.
Yes, Sara answered, after a moments silence. But it is not in my body. Then she added something in a low voice which she tried to keep quite steady, and it was this: Do you love your father more than anything else in all the whole world?
Ermengardes mouth fell open a little. She knew that it would be far from behaving like a respectable child at a select seminary to say that it had never occurred to you that you could love your father, that you would do anything desperate to avoid being left alone in his society for ten minutes. She was, indeed, greatly embarrassed.
I I scarcely ever see him, she stammered. He is always in the library reading things.
I love mine more than all the world ten times over, Sara said. That is what my pain is. He has gone away.
She put her head quietly down on her little, huddled-up knees, and sat very still for a few minutes.
Shes going to cry out loud, thought Ermengarde, fearfully.
But she did not. Her short, black locks tumbled about her ears, and she sat still. Then she
spoke without lifting her head.
I promised him I would bear it, she said. And I will. You have to bear things. Think what soldiers bear! Papa is a soldier. If there was a war he would have to bear marching and thirstiness and, perhaps, deep wounds. And he would never say a word not one word.
Ermengarde could only gaze at her, but she felt that she was beginning to adore her. She was so wonderful and different from any one else.
Presently, she lifted her face and shook back her black locks, with a queer little smile.
If I go on talking and talking, she said, and telling you things about pretending, I shall bear it better. You dont forget, but you bear it better.