Sara Crewe | Page 8

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."
"He would like it better if I read them myself," replied Ermengarde.
"He will like it, I dare say, if you learn anything in any way," said Sara.
"I should, if I were your father."
And though this was not a flattering way of stating the case,

Ermengarde was obliged to admit it was true, and, after a little more
argument, gave in. And so she used afterward always to hand over her
books to Sara, and Sara would carry them to her garret and devour
them; and after she had read each volume, she would return it and tell
Ermengarde about it in a way of her own. She had a gift for making
things interesting. Her imagination helped her to make everything
rather like a story, and she managed this matter so well that Miss St.
John gained more information from her books than she would have
gained if she had read them three times over by her poor stupid little
self. When Sara sat down by her and began to tell some story of travel
or history, she made the travellers and historical people seem real; and
Ermengarde used to sit and regard her dramatic gesticulations, her thin
little flushed cheeks, and her shining, odd eyes with amazement.
"It sounds nicer than it seems in the book," she would say. "I never
cared about Mary, Queen of Scots, before, and I always hated the
French Revolution, but you make it seem like a story."
"It is a story," Sara would answer. "They are all stories. Everything is a
story--everything in this world. You are a story--I am a story--Miss
Minchin is a story. You can make a story out of anything."
"I can't," said Ermengarde.
Sara stared at her a minute reflectively.
"No," she said at last. "I suppose you couldn't. You are a little like
Emily."
"Who is Emily?"
Sara recollected herself. She knew she was sometimes rather impolite
in the candor of her remarks, and she did not want to be impolite to a
girl who was not unkind--only stupid. Notwithstanding all her sharp
little ways she had the sense to wish to be just to everybody. In the
hours she spent alone, she used to argue out a great many curious
questions with herself. One thing she had decided upon was, that a
person who was clever ought to be clever enough not to be unjust or

deliberately unkind to any one. Miss Minchin was unjust and cruel,
Miss Amelia was unkind and spiteful, the cook was malicious and
hasty- tempered--they all were stupid, and made her despise them, and
she desired to be as unlike them as possible. So she would be as polite
as she could to people who in the least deserved politeness.
"Emily is--a person--I know," she replied.
"Do you like her?" asked Ermengarde.
"Yes, I do," said Sara.
Ermengarde examined her queer little face and figure again. She did
look odd. She had on, that day, a faded blue plush skirt, which barely
covered her knees, a brown Cloth sacque, and a pair of olive-green
stockings which Miss Minchin had made her piece out with black ones,
so that they would be long enough to be kept on. And yet Ermengarde
was beginning slowly to admire her. Such a forlorn, thin,