"Oh, Sara!" she said. "You are queer,—but you are nice."
"I know I am queer," admitted Sara, cheerfully; "and I try to be nice." She rubbed her forehead with her little brown paw, and a puzzled, tender look came into her face. "Papa always laughed at me," she said; "but I liked it. He thought I was queer, but he liked me to make up things. I—I can't help making up things. If I did n't, I don't believe I could live." She paused and glanced round the attic. "I 'm sure I could n't live here," she added in a low voice.
Ermengarde was interested, as she always was. "When you talk about things," she said, "they seem as if they grew real. You talk about Melchisedec as if he was a person."
"He is a person," said Sara. "He gets hungry and frightened, just as we do; and he is married and has children. How do we know he does n't think things, just as we do? His eyes look as if he was a person. That was why I gave him a name."
She sat down on the floor in her favorite attitude, holding her knees.
"Besides," she said, "he is a Bastille rat sent to be my friend. I can always get a bit of bread the cook has thrown away, and it is quite enough to support him."
"Is it the Bastille yet?" asked Ermengarde, eagerly. "Do you always pretend it is the Bastille?"
"Nearly always," answered Sara. "Sometimes I try to pretend it is another kind of place; but the Bastille is generally easiest—particularly when it is cold."
