larly when it is cold."

Just at that moment Ermengarde almost jumped off the bed, she was so
startled by a sound she heard. It was like two distinct knocks on the
wall.

"What is that?" she exclaimed.

Sara got up from the floor and answered quite dramatically:

"It is the prisoner in the next cell."

"Becky!" cried Ermengarde, enraptured.

"Yes," said Sara. "Listen; the two knocks meant, 'Prisoner, are you
there?'"

She knocked three times on the wall herself, as if in answer.

"That means, 'Yes, I am here, and all is well.'"

Four knocks came from Becky's side of the wall.

"That means," explained Sara, "'Then, fellow-sufferer, we will sleep in
peace. Good night.'"

Ermengarde quite beamed with delight.

"Oh, Sara!" she whispered joyfully. "It is like a story!"

"It IS a story," said Sara. "EVERYTHING'S a story. You are a story--I
am a story. Miss Minchin is a story."

And she sat down again and talked until Ermengarde forgot that she was
a sort of escaped prisoner herself, and had to be reminded by Sara that
she could not remain in the Bastille all night, but must steal
noiselessly downstairs again and creep back into her deserted bed.

10

The Indian Gentleman

But it was a perilous thing for Ermengarde and Lottie to make
pilgrimages to the attic. They could never be quite sure when Sara
would be there, and they could scarcely ever be certain that Miss
Amelia would not make a tour of inspection through the bedrooms after
the pupils were supposed to be asleep. So their visits were rare ones,
and Sara lived a strange and lonely life. It was a lonelier life when
she was downstairs than when she was in her attic. She had no one to
talk to; and when she was sent out on errands and walked through the
streets, a forlorn little figure carrying a basket or a parcel, trying
to hold her hat on when the wind was blowing, and feeling the water
soak through her shoes when it was raining, she felt as if the crowds
hurrying past her made her loneliness greater. When she had been the
Princess Sara, driving through the streets in her brougham, or walking,
attended by Mariette, the sight of her bright, eager little face and
picturesque coats and hats had often caused people to look after her.
A happy, beautifully cared for little girl naturally attracts
attention. Shabby, poorly dressed children are not rare enough and
pretty enough to make people turn around to look at them and smile. No
one