"My dear Sara," she said, "Becky is the scullery-maid. Scullery-maids—er—are not little girls."
It really had not occurred to her to think of them in that light. Scullery-maids were machines who carried coal-scuttles and made fires.
"But Becky is," said Sara. " And I know she would enjoy herself. Please let her stay—because it is my birthday."
Miss Minchin replied with much dignity:
"As you ask it as a birthday favor—she may stay. Rebecca, thank Miss Sara for her great kindness."
Becky had been backing into the corner, twisting the hem of her apron in delighted suspense. She came forward, bobbing courtesies, but between Sara's eyes and her own there passed a gleam of friendly understanding, while her words tumbled over each other.
"Oh, if you please, miss! I 'm that grateful, miss! I did want to see the doll, miss, that I did. Thank you, miss. And thank you, ma'am,"— turning and making an alarmed bob to Miss Minchin,—"for letting me take the liberty."
Miss Minchin waved her hand again—this time it was in the direction of the corner near the door.
"Go and stand there," she commanded. "Not too near the young ladies."
Becky went to her place, grinning. She did not care where she was sent, so that she might have the luck of being inside the room, instead of being down-stairs in the scullery, while these delights were going on. She did not
