ill-tempered than ever. Becky was driven like a little slave.
"'T war n't for you, miss," she said hoarsely to Sara one night when she had crept into the attic—"'t war n't for you, an' the Bastille, an' bein' the prisoner in the next cell, I should die. That there does seem real now, does n't it? The missus is more like the head jailer every day she lives. I can jest see them big keys you say she carries. The cook she 's like one of the under-jailers. Tell me some more, please, miss—tell me about the subt'ranean passage we 've dug under the walls."
"I 'll tell you something warmer," shivered Sara. "Get your coverlet and wrap it round you, and I 'll get mine, and we will huddle close together on the bed, and I 'll tell you about the tropical forest where the Indian gentleman's monkey used to live. When I see him sitting on the table near the window and looking out into the street with that mournful expression, I always feel sure he is thinking about the tropical forest where he used to swing by his tail from cocoanut-trees. I wonder who caught him, and if he left a family behind who had depended on him for cocoanuts."
"That is warmer, miss," said Becky, gratefully; "but, some ways, even the Bastille is sort of heatin' when you gets to tellin' about it."
"That is because it makes you think of something else," said Sara, wrapping the coverlet round her until only her small dark face was to be seen looking out of it. "I 've noticed this. What you have to do with your mind, when
