Part 3

Emily lay upon the floor, with her legs ignominiously doubled up over her head, and a new flat place on the end of her nose; but she was still calm, even dignified.

Sara hid her face on her arms and sobbed. Some rats in the wall began to fight and bite each other, and squeak and scramble. But, as I have already intimated, Sara was not in the habit of crying. After a while she stopped, and when she stopped she looked at Emily, who seemed to be gazing at her around the side of one ankle, and actually with a kind of glassy-eyed sympathy. Sara bent and picked her up. Remorse overtook her.

“You can't help being a doll,” she said, with a resigned sigh, “any more than those girls downstairs can help not having any sense. We are not all alike. Perhaps you do your sawdust best.”

None of Miss Minchin's young ladies were very remarkable for being brilliant; they were select, but some of them were very dull, and some of them were fond of applying themselves to their lessons. Sara, who snatched her lessons at all sorts of untimely hours from tattered and discarded books, and who had a hungry craving for everything readable, was often severe upon them in her small mind. They had books they never read; she had no books at all. If she had always had something to read, she would not have been so lonely. She liked romances and history and poetry; she would read anything. There was a sentimental housemaid in the establishment who bought the weekly penny papers, and subscribed to a circulating library, from which she got greasy volumes containing stories of marquises and dukes who invariably fell in love with orange-girls and gypsies and servant-maids, and made them the proud brides of coronets; and Sara often did parts of this maid's work so that she might earn the privilege of reading these romantic histories. There was also a fat, dull pupil, whose name was Ermengarde St. John, who was one of her resources. Ermengarde had an intellectual father, who, in his despairing desire to encourage his daughter, constantly sent her valuable and interesting books, which were a continual source of grief to her. Sara had once actually found her crying over a big package of them.

“What is the matter with you?” she asked her, perhaps rather disdainfully.

And it is just possible she would not have spoken to her, if she had not seen the books. The sight of books always gave Sara a hungry feeling, and she could not help drawing near to them if only to read their titles.

“What is the matter with you?” she asked.

“My papa has sent me some more books,” answered Ermengarde woefully, “and he expects me to read them.”

“Don't you like reading?” said Sara.

“I hate it!” replied Miss Ermengarde St. John. “And he will ask me questions when he sees me: he will want to know how much I remember; how would you like to have to read all those?”

“I'd like it better than anything else in the world,” said Sara.

Ermengarde wiped her eyes to look at such a prodigy.

“Oh, gracious!” she exclaimed.

Sara returned the look with interest. A sudden plan formed itself in her sharp mind.

“Look here!” she said. “If you'll lend me those books, I'll read them and tell you everything that's in them afterward, and I'll tell it to you so that you will remember it. I know I can. The A B C children always remember what I tell them.”

“Oh, goodness!” said Ermengarde. “Do you think you could?”

“I know I could,” answered Sara. “I like to read, and I always remember. I'll take care of the books, too; they will look just as new as they do now, when I give them back to you.”

Ermengarde put her handkerchief in her pocket.

“If you'll do that,” she said, “and if you'll make me remember, I'll give you--I'll give you some money.”

“I don't want your money,” said Sara. “I want your books--I want them.” And her eyes grew big and queer, and her chest heaved once.

“Take them, then,” said Ermengarde; “I wish I wanted them, but I am not clever, and my father is, and he thinks I ought to be.”

Sara picked up the books and marched off with them. But when she was at the door, she stopped and turned around.

“What are you going to tell your father?” she asked.

“Oh,” said Ermengarde, “he needn't know; he'll think I've read them.”

Sara looked down at the books; her heart really began to beat fast.

“I won't do it,” she said rather slowly, “if you are going to tell him lies about it--I don't like lies. Why can't you tell him I read them and then told you about them?”

“But he wants me to read them,” said Ermengarde.

“He wants you to know what is in them,” said Sara; “and if I can tell it to you in an easy way and make you remember, I should think he would like that.”