, 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 a