her sitting room. In fact, the mere seeing of
Miss Sara would have been enough without meat pies. If there was time
only for a few words, they were always friendly, merry words that put
heart into one; and if there was time for more, then there was an
installment of a story to be told, or some other thing one remembered
afterward and sometimes lay awake in one's bed in the attic to think
over. Sara--who was only doing what she unconsciously liked better
than anything else, Nature having made her for a giver--had not the
least idea what she meant to poor Becky, and how wonderful a benefactor
she seemed. If Nature has made you for a giver, your hands are born
open, and so is your heart; and though there may be times when your
hands are empty, your heart is always full, and you can give things out
of that--warm things, kind things, sweet things--help and comfort and
laughter--and sometimes gay, kind laughter is the best help of all.

Becky had scarcely known what laughter was through all her poor, little
hard-driven life. Sara made her laugh, and laughed with her; and,
though neither of them quite knew it, the laughter was as "fillin'" as
the meat pies.

A few weeks before Sara's eleventh birthday a letter came to her from
her father, which did not seem to be written in such boyish high
spirits as usual. He was not very well, and was evidently overweighted
by the business connected with the diamond mines.

"You see, little Sara," he wrote, "your daddy is not a businessman at
all, and figures and documents bother him. He does not really
understand them, and all this seems so enormous. Perhaps, if I was not
feverish I should not be awake, tossing about, one half of the night
and spend the other half in troublesome dreams. If my little missus
were here, I dare say she would give me some solemn, good advice. You
would, wouldn't you, Little Missus?"

One of his many jokes had been to call her his "little missus" because
she had such an old-fashioned air.

He had made wonderful preparations for her birthday. Among other
things, a new doll had been ordered in Paris, and her wardrobe was to
be, indeed, a marvel of splendid perfection. When she had replied to
the letter asking her if the doll would be an acceptable present, Sara
had been very quaint.

"I am getting very old," she wrote; "you see, I shall never live to
have another doll given me. This will be my last doll. There is
something solemn about it. If I