all Sara was sitting in her garret talking to
Melchisedec, who had come out for his evening meal.

"It has been hard to be a princess today, Melchisedec," she said. "It
has been harder than usual. It gets harder as the weather grows colder
and the streets get more sloppy. When Lavinia laughed at my muddy
skirt as I passed her in the hall, I thought of something to say all in
a flash--and I only just stopped myself in time. You can't sneer back
at people like that--if you are a princess. But you have to bite your
tongue to hold yourself in. I bit mine. It was a cold afternoon,
Melchisedec. And it's a cold night."

Quite suddenly she put her black head down in her arms, as she often
did when she was alone.

"Oh, papa," she whispered, "what a long time it seems since I was your
'Little Missus'!"

This was what happened that day on both sides of the wall.

13

One of the Populace

The winter was a wretched one. There were days on which Sara tramped
through snow when she went on her errands; there were worse days when
the snow melted and combined itself with mud to form slush; there were
others when the fog was so thick that the lamps in the street were
lighted all day and London looked as it had looked the afternoon,
several years ago, when the cab had driven through the thoroughfares
with Sara tucked up on its seat, leaning against her father's shoulder.
On such days the windows of the house of the Large Family always looked
delightfully cozy and alluring, and the study in which the Indian
gentleman sat glowed with warmth and rich color. But the attic was
dismal beyond words. There were no longer sunsets or sunrises to look
at, and scarcely ever any stars, it seemed to Sara. The clouds hung
low over the skylight and were either gray or mud-color, or dropping
heavy rain. At four o'clock in the afternoon, even when there was no
special fog, the daylight was at an end. If it was necessary to go to
her attic for anything, Sara was obliged to light a candle. The women
in the kitchen were depressed, and that made them more ill-tempered
than ever. Becky was driven like a little slave.

"'Twarn't for you, miss," she said hoarsely to Sara one night when she
had crept into the attic--"'twarn't for you, an' the Bastille, an'
bein' the prisoner in the next cell, I should die. That there does
seem real now, doesn't it? The missus is more like the head jailer
every day she lives. I can jest see them big key