pressed into the wood without hammering. Some brilliant fans were pinned
up, and there were several large cushions. A long, old wooden box was
covered with a rug, and some cushions lay on it, so that it wore quite
the air of a sofa.

Sara simply sat down, and looked, and looked again.

"It is exactly like something fairy come true," she said; "there isn't
the least difference. I feel as if I might wish for anything--diamonds
and bags of gold--and they would appear! That couldn't be any stranger
than this. Is this my garret? Am I the same cold, ragged, damp Sara?
And to think how I used to pretend, and pretend, and wish there were
fairies! The one thing I always wanted was to see a fairy story come
true. I am living in a fairy story! I feel as if I might be a fairy
myself, and be able to turn things into anything else!"

It was like a fairy story, and, what was best of all, it continued.
Almost every day something new was done to the garret. Some new comfort
or ornament appeared in it when Sara opened her door at night, until
actually, in a short time it was a bright little room, full of all sorts
of odd and luxurious things. And the magician had taken care that the
child should not be hungry, and that she should have as many books as
she could read. When she left the room in the morning, the remains of
her supper were on the table, and when she returned in the evening, the
magician had removed them, and left another nice little meal. Downstairs
Miss Minchin was as cruel and insulting as ever, Miss Amelia was as
peevish, and the servants were as vulgar. Sara was sent on errands, and
scolded, and driven hither and thither, but somehow it seemed as if she
could bear it all. The delightful sense of romance and mystery lifted
her above the cook's temper and malice. The comfort she enjoyed and