giving a side glance at the occupant of the footstool; then he darted at the piece of bun with something very like the sudden boldness of the sparrow, and the instant he had possession of it fled back to the wall, slipped down a crack in the skirting board, and was gone.
“I knew he wanted it for his children,” said Sara. “I do believe I could make friends with him.”
A week or so afterward, on one of the rare nights when Ermengarde found it safe to steal up to the attic, when she tapped on the
figure to the other.
“My dear Sara,” she said, “Becky is the scullery maid. Scullery maids—er—are not little girls.”
It really had not occurred to her to think of them in that light. Scullery maids were machines who carried coal scuttles and made fires.
“But Becky is,” said Sara. “And I know she