The small drudge before the grate swept the hearth once and then swept
it again. Having done it twice, she did it three times; and, as she
was doing it the third time, the sound of the story so lured her
to listen that she fell under the spell and actually forgot that she
had no right to listen at all, and also forgot everything else.
She sat down upon her heels as she knelt on the hearth rug,
and the brush hung idly in her fingers. The voice of the storyteller
went on and drew her with it into winding grottos under the sea,
glowing with soft, clear blue light, and paved with pure golden sands.
Strange sea flowers and grasses waved about her, and far away faint
singing and music echoed.
The hearth brush fell from the work-roughened hand, and Lavinia
Herbert looked round.
"That girl has been listening," she said.
The culprit snatched up her brush, and scrambled to her feet.
She caught at the coal box and simply scuttled out of the room like
a frightened rabbit.
Sara felt rather hot-tempered.
"I knew she was listening," she said. "Why shouldn't she?"
Lavinia tossed her head with great elegance.
"Well," she remarked, "I do not know whether your mamma would
like you to tell stories to servant girls, but I know MY mamma
wouldn't like ME to do it."
"My mamma!" said Sara, looking odd. "I don't believe she would
mind in the least. She knows that stories belong to everybody."
"I thought," retorted Lavinia, in severe recollection, that your
mamma was dead. How can she know things?"
"Do you think she DOESN'T know things?" said Sara, in her stern
little voice. Sometimes she had a rather stern little voice.
"Sara's mamma knows everything," piped in Lottie. "So does
my mamma--'cept Sara is my mamma at Miss Minchin's--my other
one knows everything. The streets are shining, and there
are fields and fields of lilies, and everybody gathers them.
Sara tells me when she puts me to bed."
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