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

“though I’m sorry to have to do it. Oh, the company you would be to a person!”
    She lifted him from her shoulder, set him on her knee, and gave him a bit of cake. He sat and nibbled it, and then put his head on one side, looked at her, wrinkled his forehead, and then nibbled again, in the most companionable manner.
    â€œBut you must go home,” said Sara at last; and she took him in her arms to carry him downstairs. Evidently he did not want to leave the room, for as they reached the door he clung to her neck and gave a little scream of anger.
    â€œYou mustn’t be an ungrateful monkey,” said Sara. “You ought to be fondest of your own family. I am sure the Lascar is good to you.”
    Nobody saw her on her way out, and very soon she was standing on the Indian Gentleman’s front steps, and the Lascar had opened the door for her.
    â€œI found your monkey in my room,” she said in Hindustani. “I think he got in through the window.”
    The man began a rapid outpouring of thanks; but, just as he was in the midst of them, a fretful, hollow voice was heard through the open door of the nearest room. The instant he heard it the Lascar disappeared, and left Sara still holding the monkey.
    It was not many moments, however, before he came back bringing a message. His master had told him to bring Missy into the library. The Sahib was very ill, but he wished to see Missy.
    Sara thought this odd, but she remembered reading stories of Indian gentlemen who, having no constitutions, were extremely cross and full of whims, and who must have their own way. So she followed the Lascar.
    When she entered the room the Indian Gentleman was lying on an easy chair, propped up with pillows. He looked frightfully ill. His yellow face was thin, and his eyes were hollow. He gave Sara a rather curious look—it was as if she wakened in him some anxious interest.
    â€œYou live next door?” he said.
    â€œYes,” answered Sara. “I live at Miss Minchin’s.”
    â€œShe keeps a boarding-school?”
    â€œYes,” said Sara.
    â€œAnd you are one of her pupils?”
    Sara hesitated a moment.
    â€œI don’t know exactly what I am,” she replied.
    â€œWhy not?” asked the Indian Gentleman.
    The monkey gave a tiny squeak, and Sara stroked him.
    â€œAt first,” she said, “I was a pupil and a parlor boarder; but now——”
    â€œWhat do you mean by ‘at first’?” asked the Indian Gentleman.
    â€œWhen I was first taken there by my papa.”
    â€œWell, what has happened since then?” said the invalid, staring at her and knitting his brows with a puzzled expression.
    â€œMy papa died,” said Sara. “He lost all his money, and there was none left for me—and there was no one to take care of me or pay Miss Minchin, so——”
    â€œSo you were sent up into the garret and neglected, and made into a half-starved little drudge!” put in the Indian Gentleman. “That is about it, isn’t it?”
    The color deepened on Sara’s cheeks.
    â€œThere was no one to take care of me, and no money,” she said. “I belong to nobody.”
    â€œWhat did your father mean by losing his money?” said the gentleman, fretfully.
    The red in Sara’s cheeks grew deeper, and she fixed her odd eyes on the yellow face.
    â€œHe did not lose it himself,” she said. “He had a friend he was fond of, and it was his friend who took his money. I don’t know how. I don’t understand. He trusted his friend too much.”
    She saw the invalid start—the strangest start—as if he had been suddenly frightened. Then he spoke nervously and excitedly:
    â€œThat’s an old story,” he said. “It happens every day; but sometimes those who are blamed—those who do the wrong—don’t intend it, and are not so bad. It may happen through a mistake—a