"Well,"hesitated Sara,"I don't think it would be good if they stayed always,but I do believe they will be satisfying."
They were satisfying--and so were beef sandwiches,bought at a cook-shop--and so were rolls and Bologna sausage.In time,Becky began to lose her hungry,tired feeling,and the coal box did not seem so unbearably heavy.
However heavy it was,and whatsoever the temper of the cook,and the hardness of the work heaped upon her shoulders,she had always the chance of the afternoon to look forward to--the chance that Miss Sara would be able to be in her sitting room.In fact,the mere seeing of Miss Sara would have been enough without meat pies.
If there was time only for a few words,they were always friendly,merry words that put heart into one;and if there was time for more,then there was an installment of a story to be told,or some other thing one remembered afterward and sometimes lay awake in one's bed in the attic to think over.Sara--who was only doing what she unconsciously liked better than anything else,Nature having made her for a giver--had not the least idea what she meant to poor Becky,and how wonderful a benefactor she seemed.
If Nature has made you for a giver,your hands are born open,and so is your heart;and though there may be times when your hands are empty,your heart is always full,and you can give things out of that--warm things,kind things,sweet things--help and comfort and laughter--and sometimes gay,kind laughter is the best help of all.
Becky had scarcely known what laughter was through all her poor,little hard-driven life.Sara made her laugh,and laughed with her;and,though neither of them quite knew it,the laughter was as "fillin'"as the meat pies.
A few weeks before Sara's eleventh birthday a letter came to her from her father,which did not seem to be written in such boyish high spirits as usual.He was not very well,and was evidently overweighted by the business connected with the diamond mines.
"You see,little Sara,"he wrote,"your daddy is not a businessman at all,and figures and documents bother him.He does not really understand them,and all this seems so enormous.Perhaps,if I was not feverish I should not be awake,tossing about,one half of the night and spend the other half in troublesome dreams.If my little missus were here,I dare say she would give me some solemn,good advice.You would,wouldn't you,Little Missus?"
One of his many jokes had been to call her his "little missus"
because she had such an old-fashioned air.
He had made wonderful preparations for her birthday.Among other things,a new doll had been ordered in Paris,and her wardrobe was to be,indeed,a marvel of splendid perfection.When she had replied to the letter asking her if the doll would be an acceptable present,Sara had been very quaint.
"I am getting very old,"she wrote;"you see,I shall never live to have another doll given me.This will be my last doll.
There is something solemn about it.If I could write poetry,I am sure a poem about `A Last Doll'would be very nice.
But I cannot write poetry.I have tried,and it made me laugh.
It did not sound like Watts or Coleridge or Shake{}speare at all.
