But I can tell you"--with a fine bit of unheavenly temper--"you will never find out whether they are or not if you're 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 about by everybody.She was fourteen years old,but was so stunted in growth that she looked about twelve.In truth,Mariette was sorry for her.She was so timid that if one chanced to speak to her it appeared as if her poor,frightened eyes would jump out of her head.
"What is her name?"asked Sara,who had sat by the table,with her chin on her hands,as she listened absorbedly to the recital.
Her name was Becky.Mariette heard everyone below-stairs calling,"Becky,do this,"and "Becky,do that,"every five minutes in the day.
Sara sat and looked into the fire,reflecting on Becky for some time after Mariette left her.She made up a story of which Becky was the ill-used heroine.She thought she looked as if she had never had quite enough to eat.Her very eyes were hungry.
She hoped she should see her again,but though she caught sight of her carrying things up or down stairs on several occasions,she always seemed in such a hurry and so afraid of being seen that it was impossible to speak to her.
But a few weeks later,on another foggy afternoon,when she entered her sitting room she found herself confronting a rather pathetic picture.In her own special and pet easy-chair before the bright fire,Becky--with a coal smudge on her nose and several on her apron,with her poor little cap hanging half off her head,and an empty coal box on the floor near her--sat fast asleep,tired out beyond even the endurance of her hard-working young body.
She had been sent up to put the bedrooms in order for the evening.
There were a great many of them,and she had been running about all day.Sara's rooms she had saved until the last.
They were not like the other rooms,which were plain and bare.
Ordinary pupils were expected to be satisfied with mere necessaries.
Sara's comfortable sitting room seemed a bower of luxury to the scullery maid,though it was,in fact,merely a nice,bright little room.
But there were pictures and books in it,and curious things from India;
there was a sofa and the low,soft chair;Emily sat in a chair of her own,with the air of a presiding goddess,and there was always a glowing fire and a polished grate.Becky saved it until the end of her afternoon's work,because it rested her to go into it,and she always hoped to snatch a few minutes to sit down in the soft chair and look about her,and think about the wonderful good fortune of the child who owned such surroundings and who went out on the cold days in beautiful hats and coats one tried to catch a glimpse of through the area railing.
On this afternoon,when she had sat down,the sensation of relief to her short,aching legs had been so wonderful and delightful that it had seemed to soothe her whole body,and the glow of warmth and comfort from the fire had crept over her like a spell,until,as she looked at the red coals,a tired,slow smile stole over her smudged face,her head nodded forward without her being aware of it,her eyes drooped,and she fell fast asleep.She had really been only about ten minutes in the room when Sara entered,but she was in as deep a sleep as if she had been,like the Sleeping Beauty,slumbering for a hundred years.But she did not look--poor Becky--like a Sleeping Beauty at all.She looked only like an ugly,stunted,worn-out little scullery drudge.
Sara seemed as much unlike her as if she were a creature from another world.
On this particular afternoon she had been taking her dancing lesson,and the afternoon on which the dancing master appeared was rather a grand occasion at the seminary,though it occurred every week.
The pupils were attired in their prettiest frocks,and as Sara danced particularly well,she was very much brought forward,and Mariette was requested to make her as diaphanous and fine as possible.
Today a frock the color of a rose had been put on her,and Mariette had bought some real buds and made her a wreath to wear on her black locks.She had been learning a new,delightful dance in which she had been skimming and flying about the room,like a large rose-colored butterfly,and the enjoyment and exercise had brought a brilliant,happy glow into her face.
When she entered the room,she floated in with a few of the butterfly steps--and there sat Becky,nodding her cap sideways off her head.
"Oh!"cried Sara,softly,when she saw her."That poor thing!"
It did not occur to her to feel cross at finding her pet chair occupied by the small,dingy figure.To tell the truth,she was quite glad to find it there.When the ill-used heroine of her story wakened,she could talk to her.She crept toward her quietly,and stood looking at her.Becky gave a little snore.
"I wish she'd waken herself,"Sara said."I don't like to waken her.
But Miss Minchin would be cross if she found out.I'll just wait a few minutes."
She took a seat on the edge of the table,and sat swinging her slim,rose-colored legs,and wondering what it would be best to do.
Miss Amelia might come in at any moment,and if she did,Becky would be sure to be scolded.
"But she is so tired,"she thought."She is so tired!"
A piece of flaming coal ended her perplexity for her that very moment.
It broke off from a large lump and fell on to the fender.
