staggered to the books and opened the one which lay upon the
top. Something was written on the flyleaf--just a few words, and they
were these:

"To the little girl in the attic. From a friend."

When she saw that--wasn't it a strange thing for her to do--she put her
face down upon the page and burst into tears.

"I don't know who it is," she said; "but somebody cares for me a
little. I have a friend."

She took her candle and stole out of her own room and into Becky's, and
stood by her bedside.

"Becky, Becky!" she whispered as loudly as she dared. "Wake up!"

When Becky wakened, and she sat upright staring aghast, her face still
smudged with traces of tears, beside her stood a little figure in a
luxurious wadded robe of crimson silk. The face she saw was a shining,
wonderful thing. The Princess Sara--as she remembered her--stood at
her very bedside, holding a candle in her hand.

"Come," she said. "Oh, Becky, come!"

Becky was too frightened to speak. She simply got up and followed her,
with her mouth and eyes open, and without a word.

And when they crossed the threshold, Sara shut the door gently and drew
her into the warm, glowing midst of things which made her brain reel
and her hungry senses faint. "It's true! It's true!" she cried.
"I've touched them all. They are as real as we are. The Magic has come
and done it, Becky, while we were asleep--the Magic that won't let
those worst things EVER quite happen."

16

The Visitor

Imagine, if you can, what the rest of the evening was like. How they
crouched by the fire which blazed and leaped and made so much of itself
in the little grate. How they removed the covers of the dishes, and
found rich, hot, savory soup, which was a meal in itself, and
sandwiches and toast and muffins enough for both of them. The mug from
the washstand was used as Becky's tea cup, and the tea was so delicious
that it was not necessary to pretend that it was anything but tea.
They were warm and full-fed and happy, and it was just like Sara that,
having found her strange good fortune real, she should give herself up
to the enjoyment of it to the utmost. She had lived such a life of
imaginings that she was quite equal to accepting any wonderful thing
that happened, and almost to cease, in a short time, to find it
bewildering.

"I don't know anyone in the world who could have done it," she said;
"but there has been someone. And here we are sitting by their
fi