poetry; she would read anything. There was a sentimental housemaid in
the establishment who bought the weekly penny papers, and subscribed
to a circulating library, from which she got greasy volumes containing
stories of marquises and dukes who invariably fell in love with
orange-girls and gypsies and servant-maids, and made them the proud
brides of coronets; and Sara often did parts of this maid's work so that
she might earn the privilege of reading these romantic histories. There
was also a fat, dull pupil, whose name was Ermengarde St. John, who was
one of her resources. Ermengarde had an intellectual father, who, in
his despairing desire to encourage his daughter, constantly sent her
valuable and interesting books, which were a continual source of grief
to her. Sara had once actually found her crying over a big package of
them.

"What is the matter with you?" she asked her, perhaps rather
disdainfully.

And it is just possible she would not have spoken to her, if she had not
seen the books. The sight of books always gave Sara a hungry feeling,
and she could not help drawing near to them if only to read their
titles.

"What is the matter with you?" she asked.

"My papa has sent me some more books," answered Ermengarde woefully,
"and he expects me to read them."

"Don't you like reading?" said Sara.

"I hate it!" replied Miss Ermengarde St. John. "And he will ask me