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"
Who
is
that
little
girl
who
makes
the
fires
?
"
she
asked
Mariette
that
night
.
Mariette
broke
forth
into
a
flow
of
description
.
Ah
,
indeed
,
Mademoiselle
Sara
might
well
ask
.
She
was
a
forlorn
little
thing
who
had
just
taken
the
place
of
scullery
maid
--
though
,
as
to
being
scullery
maid
,
she
was
everything
else
besides
.
She
blacked
boots
and
grates
,
and
carried
heavy
coal-scuttles
up
and
down
stairs
,
and
scrubbed
floors
and
cleaned
windows
,
and
was
ordered
about
by
everybody
.
She
was
fourteen
years
old
,
but
was
so
stunted
in
growth
that
she
looked
about
twelve
.
In
truth
,
Mariette
was
sorry
for
her
.
She
was
so
timid
that
if
one
chanced
to
speak
to
her
it
appeared
as
if
her
poor
,
frightened
eyes
would
jump
out
of
her
head
.
"
What
is
her
name
?
"
asked
Sara
,
who
had
sat
by
the
table
,
with
her
chin
on
her
hands
,
as
she
listened
absorbedly
to
the
recital
.
Her
name
was
Becky
.
Mariette
heard
everyone
below-stairs
calling
,
"
Becky
,
do
this
,
"
and
"
Becky
,
do
that
,
"
every
five
minutes
in
the
day
.
Sara
sat
and
looked
into
the
fire
,
reflecting
on
Becky
for
some
time
after
Mariette
left
her
.
She
made
up
a
story
of
which
Becky
was
the
ill-used
heroine
.
She
thought
she
looked
as
if
she
had
never
had
quite
enough
to
eat
.
Her
very
eyes
were
hungry
.
She
hoped
she
should
see
her
again
,
but
though
she
caught
sight
of
her
carrying
things
up
or
down
stairs
on
several
occasions
,
she
always
seemed
in
such
a
hurry
and
so
afraid
of
being
seen
that
it
was
impossible
to
speak
to
her
.
But
a
few
weeks
later
,
on
another
foggy
afternoon
,
when
she
entered
her
sitting
room
she
found
herself
confronting
a
rather
pathetic
picture
.
In
her
own
special
and
pet
easy-chair
before
the
bright
fire
,
Becky
--
with
a
coal
smudge
on
her
nose
and
several
on
her
apron
,
with
her
poor
little
cap
hanging
half
off
her
head
,
and
an
empty
coal
box
on
the
floor
near
her
--
sat
fast
asleep
,
tired
out
beyond
even
the
endurance
of
her
hard-working
young
body
.
She
had
been
sent
up
to
put
the
bedrooms
in
order
for
the
evening
.
There
were
a
great
many
of
them
,
and
she
had
been
running
about
all
day
.
Sara
's
rooms
she
had
saved
until
the
last
.
They
were
not
like
the
other
rooms
,
which
were
plain
and
bare
.
Ordinary
pupils
were
expected
to
be
satisfied
with
mere
necessaries
.
Sara
's
comfortable
sitting
room
seemed
a
bower
of
luxury
to
the
scullery
maid
,
though
it
was
,
in
fact
,
merely
a
nice
,
bright
little
room
.
But
there
were
pictures
and
books
in
it
,
and
curious
things
from
India
;
there
was
a
sofa
and
the
low
,
soft
chair
;
Emily
sat
in
a
chair
of
her
own
,
with
the
air
of
a
presiding
goddess
,
and
there
was
always
a
glowing
fire
and
a
polished
grate
.
Becky
saved
it
until
the
end
of
her
afternoon
's
work
,
because
it
rested
her
to
go
into
it
,
and
she
always
hoped
to
snatch
a
few
minutes
to
sit
down
in
the
soft
chair
and
look
about
her
,
and
think
about
the
wonderful
good
fortune
of
the
child
who
owned
such
surroundings
and
who
went
out
on
the
cold
days
in
beautiful
hats
and
coats
one
tried
to
catch
a
glimpse
of
through
the
area
railing
.
On
this
afternoon
,
when
she
had
sat
down
,
the
sensation
of
relief
to
her
short
,
aching
legs
had
been
so
wonderful
and
delightful
that
it
had
seemed
to
soothe
her
whole
body
,
and
the
glow
of
warmth
and
comfort
from
the
fire
had
crept
over
her
like
a
spell
,
until
,
as
she
looked
at
the
red
coals
,
a
tired
,
slow
smile
stole
over
her
smudged
face
,
her
head
nodded
forward
without
her
being
aware
of
it
,
her
eyes
drooped
,
and
she
fell
fast
asleep
.
She
had
really
been
only
about
ten
minutes
in
the
room
when
Sara
entered
,
but
she
was
in
as
deep
a
sleep
as
if
she
had
been
,
like
the
Sleeping
Beauty
,
slumbering
for
a
hundred
years
.
But
she
did
not
look
--
poor
Becky
--
like
a
Sleeping
Beauty
at
all
.
She
looked
only
like
an
ugly
,
stunted
,
worn-out
little
scullery
drudge
.
Sara
seemed
as
much
unlike
her
as
if
she
were
a
creature
from
another
world
.
