was sitting upon the battered footstool, and was dressed in her nightgown and wrapped up in a red shawl. It was Ermengarde.
“Ermengarde!” cried Sara. She was so startled that she was almost frightened. “You will get into trouble.”
Ermengarde stumbled up from her footstool. She shuffled across the attic in her bedroom slippers, which were too large for her. Her eyes and nose were pink with crying.
“I know I shall—if I’m found out.” she said. “But I don’t care—I don’t care a bit. Oh, Sara, please
to the scullery maid, but they knew nothing of certain delightful moments snatched perilously when, the upstairs rooms being set in order with lightning rapidity, Sara’s sitting room was reached, and the heavy coal box set down with a sigh of joy. At such times stories were told by installments, things