with the childish inattention of the little ones' French lessons; as she became shabbier and more forlorn-looking, she was told that she had better take her meals down-stairs; she was treated as if she was nobody's concern, and her heart grew proud and sore, but she never told any one what she felt.
"Soldiers don't complain," she would say between her small, shut teeth. "I am not going to do it; I will pretend this is part of a war."
But there were hours when her child heart might almost have broken with loneliness but for three people.
The first, it must be owned, was Becky—just Becky. Throughout all that first night spent in the garret, she had felt a vague comfort in knowing that on the other side of the wall in which the rats scuffled and squeaked there was another young human creature. And during the nights that followed the sense of comfort grew. They had little chance to speak to each other during the day. Each had her own tasks to perform, and any attempt at conversation would have been regarded as a tendency to loiter and lose time.
"Don't mind me, miss," Becky whispered during the first morning, "if I don't say nothin' polite. Some un 'd be down on us if I did. I means 'please' an' 'thank you' an' 'beg pardon,' but I dass n't to take time to say it."
But before daybreak she used to slip into Sara's attic and button her dress and give her such help as she required before she went down-stairs to light the kitchen fire. And when night came Sara always heard the humble knock at
