as she had. There was a head and a part of a body emerging from the skylight, but it was not the head or body of a little girl or a housemaid; it was the picturesque white-swathed form and dark-faced, gleaming-eyed, white-turbaned head of a native Indian manservant—“a Lascar,” Sara said to herself quickly—and the sound she had heard came from a small monkey he held in his arms as if he were fond of it, and which was snuggling and chattering against his breast.
As Sara looked toward him he looked
under the table.”
“You have been there all the time, listening,” said Miss Minchin.
“No, mum,” Becky protested, bobbing curtsies. “Not listenin’—I thought I could slip out without your noticin’, but I couldn’t an’ I had to stay. But I didn’t listen, mum—I wouldn’t for nothin’. But I couldn’t help