ne of her odd looks.

"Have you?" she answered.

"Yes," said Miss Minchin. "Amelia and I have always said you were the
cleverest child we had with us, and I am sure we could make you
happy--as a parlor boarder."

Sara thought of the garret and the day her ears were boxed,--and of that
other day, that dreadful, desolate day when she had been told that she
belonged to nobody; that she had no home and no friends,--and she kept
her eyes fixed on Miss Minchin's face.

"You know why I would not stay with you," she said.

And it seems probable that Miss Minchin did, for after that simple
answer she had not the boldness to pursue the subject. She merely sent
in a bill for the expense of Sara's education and support, and she made
it quite large enough. And because Mr. Carrisford thought Sara would
wish it paid, it was paid. When Mr. Carmichael paid it he had a brief
interview with Miss Minchin in which he expressed his opinion with much
clearness and force; and it is quite certain that Miss Minchin did not
enjoy the conversation.

Sara had been about a month with Mr. Carrisford, and had begun to
realize that her happiness was not a dream, when one night the Indian
Gentleman saw that she sat a long time with her cheek on her hand
looking at the fire.

"What are you 'supposing,' Sara?" he asked. Sara looked up with a bright
color on her cheeks.

"I _was_ 'supposing,'" she said; "I was remembering that hungry day, and
a child I saw."

"But there were a great many hungry days," said the Indian Gentleman,
with a rather sad tone in his voice. "Which hungry day was it?"

"I forgot you didn't know," said Sara. "It was the day I found the
things in my garret."

And then she told him the story of the bun-shop, and the fourpence, and
the child who was hungrier than herself; and somehow as she told it,
though she told it very simply indeed, the Indian Gentleman found it
necessary to shade his eyes with his hand and look down at the floor.

"And I was 'supposing' a kind of plan," said Sara, when she had
finished; "I was thinking I would like to do something."

"What is it?" said her guardian in a low tone. "You may do anything you
like to do, Princess."

"I was wondering," said Sara,--"you know you say I have a great deal of
money--and I was wondering if I could go and see the bun-woman and tell
her that if, when hungry children--particularly on those dreadful
days--come and sit on the steps or look in at the window, she wo