bout 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