Racketty-Packetty House and Other Stories by Frances Hodgson; Burnett

sofa.
    Sara simply sat down, and looked, and looked again.
    â€œIt 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 could always look forward to was making her stronger. If she came home from her errands wet and tired, she knew she would soon be warm, after she had climbed the stairs. In a few weeks she began to look less thin. A little color came into her cheeks, and her eyes did not seem much too big for her face.
    It was just when this was beginning to be so apparent that Miss Minchin sometimes stared at her questioningly, that another wonderful thing happened. A man came to the door and left several parcels. All were addressed (in large letters) to “the little girl in the attic.” Sara herself was sent to open the door, and she took them in. She laid the two largest parcels down on the hall-table and was looking at the address, when Miss Minchin came down the stairs.
    â€œTake the things upstairs to the young lady to whom they belong,” she said. “Don’t stand there staring at them.”
    â€œThey belong to me,” answered Sara, quietly.
    â€œTo you!” exclaimed Miss Minchin. “What do you mean?”
    â€œI don’t know where they came from,” said Sara, “but they’re addressed to me.”
    Miss Minchin came to her side and looked at them with an excited expression.
    â€œWhat is in them?” she demanded.
    â€œI don’t know,” said Sara.
    â€œOpen them!” she demanded, still more excitedly.
    Sara did as she was told. They contained pretty and comfortable clothing,—clothing of different kinds; shoes and stockings and gloves, a warm coat, and even an umbrella. On the pocket of the coat was pinned a paper on which was written, “To be worn every day—will be replaced by others when necessary.”
    Miss Minchin was quite agitated. This was an incident which suggested strange things to her sordid mind. Could it be that she had made a mistake after all, and that the child so neglected and so unkindly treated by her had some powerful friend in the background? It would not be very pleasant if there should be such a friend, and he or she should learn all the truth about the thin, shabby clothes, the scant food, the hard work. She felt queer indeed and uncertain, and she gave a side-glance at Sara.
    â€œWell,” she said, in a voice such as she had never used since the day the child lost her father—“well, some one is very kind to you.