6. The Diamond Mines

A Little Princess

by Francis Hodgson Burnett

Not very long after this a very exciting thing happened. Not only
Sara, but the entire school, found it exciting, and made it the chief
subject of conversation for weeks after it occurred. In one of his
letters Captain Crewe told a most interesting story. A friend who had
been at school with him when he was a boy had unexpectedly come to
see him in India. He was the owner of a large tract of land upon
which diamonds had been found, and he was engaged in developing the
mines. If all went as was confidently expected, he would become
possessed of such wealth as it made one dizzy to think of; and
because he was fond of the friend of his school days, he had given
him an opportunity to share in this enormous fortune by becoming a
partner in his scheme. This, at least, was what Sara gathered from
his letters. It is true that any other business scheme, however
magnificent, would have had but small attraction for her or for the
schoolroom; but "diamond mines" sounded so like the Arabian Nights
that no one could be indifferent. Sara thought them enchanting, and
painted pictures, for Ermengarde and Lottie, of labyrinthine passages
in the bowels of the earth, where sparkling stones studded the walls
and roofs and ceilings, and strange, dark men dug them out with heavy
picks. Ermengarde delighted in the story, and Lottie insisted on its
being retold to her every evening. Lavinia was very spiteful about
it, and told Jessie that she didn't believe such things as diamond
mines existed.

"My mamma has a diamond ring which cost forty pounds," she said.
"And it is not a big one, either. If there were mines full of
diamonds, people would be so rich it would be ridiculous."

"Perhaps Sara will be so rich that she will be ridiculous,"
giggled Jessie.

"She's ridiculous without being rich," Lavinia sniffed.

"I believe you hate her," said Jessie.

"No, I don't," snapped Lavinia. "But I don't believe in mines
full of diamonds."

"Well, people have to get them from somewhere," said Jessie.
"Lavinia," with a new giggle, "what do you think Gertrude says?"

"I don't know, I'm sure; and I don't care if it's something more
about that everlasting Sara."

"Well, it is. One of her `pretends' is that she is a princess.
She plays it all the time--even in school. She says it makes her
learn her lessons better. She wants Ermengarde to be one, too, but
Ermengarde says she is too fat."

"She is too fat," said Lavinia. "And Sara is too thin."

Naturally, Jessie giggled again.

"She says it has nothing to do with what you look like, or what
you have. It has only to do with what you think of, and what you
do." "I suppose she thinks she could be a princess if she was a
beggar," said Lavinia. "Let us begin to call her Your Royal
Highness."

Lessons for the day were over, and they were sitting before the
schoolroom fire, enjoying the time they liked best. It was the time
when Miss Minchin and Miss Amelia were taking their tea in the
sitting room sacred to themselves. At this hour a great deal of
talking was done, and a great many secrets changed hands,
particularly if the younger pupils behaved themselves well, and did
not squabble or run about noisily, which it must be confessed they
usually did. When they made an uproar the older girls usually
interfered with scolding and shakes. They were expected to keep
order, and there was danger that if they did not, Miss Minchin or
Miss Amelia would appear and put an end to festivities. Even as
Lavinia spoke the door opened and Sara entered with Lottie, whose
habit was to trot everywhere after her like a little dog.

"There she is, with that horrid child!" exclaimed Lavinia in a
whisper. "If she's so fond of her, why doesn't she keep her in her
own room? She will begin howling about something in five minutes."

It happened that Lottie had been seized with a sudden desire to
play in the schoolroom, and had begged her adopted parent to come
with her. She joined a group of little ones who were playing in a
corner. Sara curled herself up in the window-seat, opened a book, and
began to read. It was a book about the French Revolution, and she
was soon lost in a harrowing picture of the prisoners in the
Bastille--men who had spent so many years in dungeons that when they
were dragged out by those who rescued them, their long, gray hair and
beards almost hid their faces, and they had forgotten that an outside
world existed at all, and were like beings in a dream.

She was so far away from the schoolroom that it was not
agreeable to be dragged back suddenly by a howl from Lottie. Never
did she find anything so difficult as to keep herself from losing her
temper when she was suddenly disturbed while absorbed in a book.
People who are fond of books know the feeling of irritation which
sweeps over them at such a moment. The temptation to be unreasonable
and snappish is one not easy to manage.

"It makes me feel as if someone had hit me," Sara had told
Ermengarde once in confidence. "And as if I want to hit back. I
have to remember things quickly to keep from saying something ill-
tempered."

She had to remember things quickly when she laid her book on the
window-seat and jumped down from her comfortable corner.

Lottie had been sliding across the schoolroom floor, and, having
first irritated Lavinia and Jessie by making a noise, had ended by
falling down and hurting her fat knee. She was screaming and dancing
up and down in the midst of a group of friends and enemies, who were
alternately coaxing and scolding her.

"Stop this minute, you cry-baby! Stop this minute!" Lavinia
commanded.

"I'm not a cry-baby . . . I'm not!" wailed Lottle. "Sara, Sa--
ra!"

"If she doesn't stop, Miss Minchin will hear her," cried Jessie.
"Lottie darling, I'll give you a penny!"

"I don't want your penny," sobbed Lottie; and she looked down at
the fat knee, and, seeing a drop of blood on it, burst forth
again.

Sara flew across the room and, kneeling down, put her arms round
her.

"Now, Lottie," she said. "Now, Lottie, you promised Sara."

"She said I was a cry-baby," wept Lottie.

Sara patted her, but spoke in the steady voice Lottie knew.

"But if you cry, you will be one, Lottie pet. You promised."
Lottle remembered that she had promised, but she preferred to lift up
her voice.

"I haven't any mamma," she proclaimed. "I haven't--a bit--of
mamma."

"Yes, you have," said Sara, cheerfully. "Have you forgotten?
Don't you know that Sara is your mamma? Don't you want Sara for your
mamma?"

Lottie cuddled up to her with a consoled sniff.

"Come and sit in the window-seat with me," Sara went on, "and
I'll whisper a story to you."

"Will you?" whimpered Lottie. "Will you--tell me--about the
diamond mines?"

"The diamond mines?" broke out Lavinia. "Nasty, little spoiled
thing, I should like to slap her!"

Sara got up quickly on her feet. It must be remembered that she
had been very deeply absorbed in the book about the Bastille, and she
had had to recall several things rapidly when she realized that she
must go and take care of her adopted child. She was not an angel, and
she was not fond of Lavinia.

"Well," she said, with some fire, "I should like to slap you--
but I don't want to slap you!" restraining herself. "At least I both
want to slap you--and I should like to slap you--but I won't slap
you. We are not little gutter children. We are both old enough to
know better."

Here was Lavinia's opportunity.

"Ah, yes, your royal highness," she said. "We are princesses, I
believe. At least one of us is. The school ought to be very
fashionable now Miss Minchin has a princess for a pupil."

Sara started toward her. She looked as if she were going to box
her ears. Perhaps she was. Her trick of pretending things was the
joy of her life. She never spoke of it to girls she was not fond of.
Her new "pretend" about being a princess was very near to her heart,
and she was shy and sensitive about it. She had meant it to be
rather a secret, and here was Lavinia deriding it before nearly all
the school. She felt the blood rush up into her face and tingle in
her ears. She only just saved herself. If you were a princess, you
did not fly into rages. Her hand dropped, and she stood quite still
a moment. When she spoke it was in a quiet, steady voice; she held
her head up, and everybody listened to her.

"It's true," she said. "Sometimes I do pretend I am a princess.
I pretend I am a princess, so that I can try and behave like one."

Lavinia could not think of exactly the right thing to say.
Several times she had found that she could not think of a
satisfactory reply when she was dealing with Sara. The reason for
this was that, somehow, the rest always seemed to be vaguely in
sympathy with her opponent. She saw now that they were pricking up
their ears interestedly. The truth was, they liked princesses, and
they all hoped they might hear something more definite about this
one, and drew nearer Sara accordingly.

Lavinia could only invent one remark, and it fell rather
flat.

"Dear me," she said, "I hope, when you ascend the throne, you
won't forget us!"

"I won't," said Sara, and she did not utter another word, but
stood quite still, and stared at her steadily as she saw her take
Jessie's arm and turn away.

After this, the girls who were jealous of her used to speak of
her as "Princess Sara" whenever they wished to be particularly
disdainful, and those who were fond of her gave her the name among
themselves as a term of affection. No one called her "princess"
instead of "Sara," but her adorers were much pleased with the
picturesqueness and grandeur of the title, and Miss Minchin, hearing
of it, mentioned it more than once to visiting parents, feeling that
it rather suggested a sort of royal boarding school.

To Becky it seemed the most appropriate thing in the world. The
acquaintance begun on the foggy afternoon when she had jumped up
terrified from her sleep in the comfortable chair, had ripened and
grown, though it must be confessed that Miss Minchin and Miss Amelia
knew very little about it. They were aware that Sara was "kind" to
the scullery maid, but they knew nothing of certain delightful
moments snatched perilously when, the upstairs rooms being set in
order with lightning rapidity, Sara's sitting room was reached, and
the heavy coal box set down with a sigh of joy. At such times stories
were told by installments, things of a satisfying nature were either
produced and eaten or hastily tucked into pockets to be disposed of
at night, when Becky went upstairs to her attic to bed.

"But I has to eat 'em careful, miss," she said once; "'cos if I
leaves crumbs the rats come out to get 'em."

"Rats!" exclaimed Sara, in horror. "Are there rats there?"

"Lots of 'em, miss," Becky answered in quite a matter-of-fact
manner. "There mostly is rats an' mice in attics. You gets used to
the noise they makes scuttling about. I've got so I don't mind 'em
s' long as they don't run over my piller."

"Ugh!" said Sara.

"You gets used to anythin' after a bit," said Becky. "You have
to, miss, if you're born a scullery maid. I'd rather have rats than
cockroaches."

"So would I," said Sara; "I suppose you might make friends with
a rat in time, but I don't believe I should like to make friends with
a cockroach."

Sometimes Becky did not dare to spend more than a few minutes in
the bright, warm room, and when this was the case perhaps only a few
words could be exchanged, and a small purchase slipped into the
old-fashioned pocket Becky carried under her dress skirt, tied round
her waist with a band of tape. The search for and discovery of
satisfying things to eat which could be packed into small compass,
added a new interest to Sara's existence. When she drove or walked
out, she used to look into shop windows eagerly. The first time it
occurred to her to bring home two or three little meat pies, she felt
that she had hit upon a discovery. When she exhibited them, Becky's
eyes quite sparkled.

"Oh, miss!" she murmured. "Them will be nice an' fillin.' It's
fillin'ness that's best. Sponge cake's a 'evenly thing, but it melts
away like--if you understand, miss. These'll just stay in yer
stummick."

"Well," hesitated Sara, "I don't think it would be good if they
stayed always, but I do believe they will be satisfying."

They were satisfying--and so were beef sandwiches, bought at a
cook-shop--and so were rolls and Bologna sausage. In time, Becky
began to lose her hungry, tired feeling, and the coal box did not
seem so unbearably heavy.

However heavy it was, and whatsoever the temper of the cook, and
the hardness of the work heaped upon her shoulders, she had always
the chance of the afternoon to look forward to--the chance that Miss
Sara would be able to be in her sitting room. In fact, the mere
seeing of Miss Sara would have been enough without meat pies. If
there was time only for a few words, they were always friendly, merry
words that put heart into one; and if there was time for more, then
there was an installment of a story to be told, or some other thing
one remembered afterward and sometimes lay awake in one's bed in the
attic to think over. Sara--who was only doing what she unconsciously
liked better than anything else, Nature having made her for a
giver--had not the least idea what she meant to poor Becky, and how
wonderful a benefactor she seemed. If Nature has made you for a
giver, your hands are born open, and so is your heart; and though
there may be times when your hands are empty, your heart is always
full, and you can give things out of that--warm things, kind things,
sweet things--help and comfort and laughter--and sometimes gay, kind
laughter is the best help of all.

Becky had scarcely known what laughter was through all her poor,
little hard-driven life. Sara made her laugh, and laughed with her;
and, though neither of them quite knew it, the laughter was as
"fillin'" as the meat pies.

A few weeks before Sara's eleventh birthday a letter came to her
from her father, which did not seem to be written in such boyish high
spirits as usual. He was not very well, and was evidently
overweighted by the business connected with the diamond mines.

"You see, little Sara," he wrote, "your daddy is not a
businessman at all, and figures and documents bother him. He does
not really understand them, and all this seems so enormous. Perhaps,
if I was not feverish I should not be awake, tossing about, one half
of the night and spend the other half in troublesome dreams. If my
little missus were here, I dare say she would give me some solemn,
good advice. You would, wouldn't you, Little Missus?"

One of his many jokes had been to call her his "little missus"
because she had such an old-fashioned air.

He had made wonderful preparations for her birthday. Among
other things, a new doll had been ordered in Paris, and her wardrobe
was to be, indeed, a marvel of splendid perfection. When she had
replied to the letter asking her if the doll would be an acceptable
present, Sara had been very quaint.

"I am getting very old," she wrote; "you see, I shall never live
to have another doll given me. This will be my last doll. There is
something solemn about it. If I could write poetry, I am sure a poem
about `A Last Doll' would be very nice. But I cannot write poetry. I
have tried, and it made me laugh. It did not sound like Watts or
Coleridge or Shakespeare at all. No one could ever take Emily's
place, but I should respect the Last Doll very much; and I am sure
the school would love it. They all like dolls, though some of the
big ones--the almost fifteen ones-- pretend they are too grown
up."

Captain Crewe had a splitting headache when he read this letter
in his bungalow in India. The table before him was heaped with
papers and letters which were alarming him and filling him with
anxious dread, but he laughed as he had not laughed for weeks.

"Oh," he said, "she's better fun every year she lives. God
grant this business may right itself and leave me free to run home
and see her. What wouldn't I give to have her little arms round my
neck this minute! What wouldn't I give!"

The birthday was to be celebrated by great festivities. The
schoolroom was to be decorated, and there was to be a party. The
boxes containing the presents were to be opened with great ceremony,
and there was to be a glittering feast spread in Miss Minchin's
sacred room. When the day arrived the whole house was in a whirl of
excitement. How the morning passed nobody quite knew, because there
seemed such preparations to be made. The schoolroom was being decked
with garlands of holly; the desks had been moved away, and red covers
had been put on the forms which were arrayed round the room against
the wall.

When Sara went into her sitting room in the morning, she found
on the table a small, dumpy package, tied up in a piece of brown
paper. She knew it was a present, and she thought she could guess
whom it came from. She opened it quite tenderly. It was a square
pincushion, made of not quite clean red flannel, and black pins had
been stuck carefully into it to form the words, "Menny hapy
returns."

"Oh!" cried Sara, with a warm feeling in her heart. "What pains
she has taken! I like it so, it--it makes me feel sorrowful."

But the next moment she was mystified. On the under side of the
pincushion was secured a card, bearing in neat letters the name "Miss
Amelia Minchin."

Sara turned it over and over.

"Miss Amelia!" she said to herself "How can it be!"

And just at that very moment she heard the door being cautiously
pushed open and saw Becky peeping round it.

There was an affectionate, happy grin on her face, and she
shuffled forward and stood nervously pulling at her fingers.

"Do yer like it, Miss Sara?" she said. "Do yer?"

"Like it?" cried Sara. "You darling Becky, you made it all
yourself."

Becky gave a hysteric but joyful sniff, and her eyes looked
quite moist with delight.

"It ain't nothin' but flannin, an' the flannin ain't new; but I
wanted to give yer somethin' an' I made it of nights. I knew yer
could pretend it was satin with diamond pins in. _I_ tried to when I
was makin' it. The card, miss," rather doubtfully; "'t warn't wrong
of me to pick it up out o' the dust-bin, was it? Miss 'Meliar had
throwed it away. I hadn't no card o' my own, an' I knowed it
wouldn't be a proper presink if I didn't pin a card on-- so I pinned
Miss 'Meliar's."

Sara flew at her and hugged her. She could not have told
herself or anyone else why there was a lump in her throat.

"Oh, Becky!" she cried out, with a queer little laugh, "I love
you, Becky--I do, I do!"

"Oh, miss!" breathed Becky. "Thank yer, miss, kindly; it ain't
good enough for that. The--the flannin wasn't new."