I don't care—I don't care a bit. Oh, Sara, please tell me. What is the matter? Why don't you like me any more?"
Something in her voice made the familiar lump rise in Sara's throat. It was so affectionate and simple—so like the old Ermengarde who had asked her to be "best friends." It sounded as if she had not meant what she had seemed to mean during these past weeks.
"I do like you," Sara answered. "I thought—you see, everything is different now. I thought you—were different."
Ermengarde opened her wet eyes wide.
"Why, it was you who were different!" she cried. "You did n't want to talk to me. I did n't know what to do. It was you who were different after I came back."
Sara thought a moment. She saw she had made a mistake.
"I am different," she explained, "though not in the way you think. Miss Minchin does not want me to talk to the girls. Most of them don't want to talk to me. I thought—perhaps—you did n't. So I tried to keep out of your way."
"Oh, Sara," Ermengarde almost wailed in her reproachful dismay. And then after one more look they rushed into each other's arms. It must be confessed that Sara's small black head lay for some minutes on the shoulder covered by the red shawl. When Ermengarde had seemed to desert her, she had felt horribly lonely.
Afterward they sat down upon the floor together, Sara clasping her knees with her arms, and Ermengarde rolled
