But though the lonely look passed away from Sara's face, she never quite
forgot the garret at Miss Minchin's; and, indeed, she always liked to
remember the wonderful night when the tired princess crept upstairs,
cold and wet, and opening the door found fairy-land waiting for her. And
there was no one of the many stories she was always being called upon to
tell in the nursery of the Large Family which was more popular than that
particular one; and there was no one of whom the Large Family were so
fond as of Sara. Mr. Carrisford did not die, but recovered, and Sara
went to live with him; and no real princess could have been better taken
care of than she was. It seemed that the Indian Gentleman could not do
enough to make her happy, and to repay her for the past; and the Lascar
was her devoted slave. As her odd little face grew brighter, it grew so
pretty and interesting that Mr. Carrisford used to sit and watch it many
an evening, as they sat by the fire together.

They became great friends, and they used to spend hours reading and
talking together; and, in a very short time, there was no pleasanter
sight to the Indian Gentleman than Sara sitting in her big chair on the
opposite side of the hearth, with a book on her knee and her soft, dark
hair tumbling over her warm cheeks. She had a pretty habit of looking
up at him suddenly, with a bright smile, and then he would often say to
her:

"Are you happy, Sara?"

And then she would answer:

"I feel like a real princess, Uncle Tom."