Sara put down her book and shook her head slowly.
"That 's almost like telling lies," she said. "And lies—well, you see, they are not only wicked—they 're vulgar. Sometimes"—reflectively—"I 've thought perhaps I might do something wicked,—might suddenly fly into a rage and kill Miss Minchin, you know, when she was ill-treating me,—but I could n't be vulgar. Why can't you tell your father I read them?"
"He wants me to read them," said Ermengarde, a little discouraged by this unexpected turn of affairs.
"He wants you to know what is in them," said Sara. "And if I can tell it to you in an easy way and make you remember it, I should think he would like that."
"He 'll like it if I learn anything in any way," said rueful Ermengarde. "You would if you-were my father."
"It 's not your fault that—" began Sara. She pulled herself up and stopped rather suddenly. She had been going to say, "It 's not your fault that you are stupid."
"That what?" Ermengarde asked.
"That you can't learn things quickly," amended Sara. "If you can't, you can't. If I can—why, I can; that 's all."
She always felt very tender of Ermengarde, and tried not to let her feel too strongly the difference between being able to learn anything at once, and not being able to learn anything at all. As she looked at her plump face, one of her wise, old-fashioned thoughts came to her.
"Perhaps," she said, "to be able to learn things quickly is n't everything. To be kind is worth a great deal to other
