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
ten times over,” Sara said. “That is what my pain is. He has gone away.”
She put her head quietly down on her little, huddled-up knees, and sat very still for a few minutes.
“She’s going to cry out loud,” thought Ermengarde, fearfully.
But she did not. Her short, black locks tumbled about her ears,