it was a speech—“that dear Sara is eleven years old today.”
“DEAR Sara!” murmured Lavinia.
“Several of you here have also been eleven years old, but Sara’s birthdays are rather different from other little girls’ birthdays. When she is older she will be heiress to a large fortune, which it will be her duty to spend in a meritorious manner.”
“The diamond mines,” giggled Jessie, in a whisper.
Sara did not hear her; but as she stood with her green-gray eyes fixed steadily on Miss Minchin, she felt
story—one after the other. It is queer.”
She had been at Miss Minchin’s school about two years when, one foggy winter’s afternoon, as she was getting out of her carriage, comfortably wrapped up in her warmest velvets and furs and looking very much grander than she knew, she caught sight, as she crossed