room. "And, look here,--when you're hard up for a bite of bread, you can
come here and ask for it. I'm blest if I won't give it to you for that
young un's sake."


Sara found some comfort in her remaining bun. It was hot; and it was a
great deal better than nothing. She broke off small pieces and ate them
slowly to make it last longer.

"Suppose it was a magic bun," she said, "and a bite was as much as a
whole dinner. I should be over-eating myself if I went on like this."

It was dark when she reached the square in which Miss Minchin's Select
Seminary was situated; the lamps were lighted, and in most of the
windows gleams of light were to be seen. It always interested Sara to
catch glimpses of the rooms before the shutters were closed. She liked
to imagine things about people who sat before the fires in the houses,
or who bent over books at the tables. There was, for instance, the Large
Family opposite. She called these people the Large Family--not because
they were large, for indeed most of them were little,--but because there
were so many of them. There were eight children in the Large Family,
and a stout, rosy mother, and a stout, rosy father, and a stout, rosy
grand-mamma, and any number of servants. The eight children were
always either being taken out to walk, or to ride in perambulators, by
comfortable nurses; or they were going to drive with their mamma; or
they were flying to the door in the evening to kiss their papa and
dance around him and drag off his overcoat and look for packages in
the pockets of it; or they were crowding about the nursery windows
and looking out and pushing each other and laughing,--in fact they were
always doing something which seemed enjoyable and suited to the tastes