"N-no," Ermengarde faltered. "Did you?"
"Perhaps I did n't," said Sara; "but I thought I did. It sounded as if something was on the slates—something that dragged softly."
"What could it be?" said Ermengarde. "Could it be—robbers?"
"No," Sara began cheerfully. "There is nothing to steal—"
She broke off in the middle of her words. They both heard the sound that checked her. It was not on the slates, but on the stairs below, and it was Miss Minchin's angry voice. Sara sprang off the bed, and put out the candle.
"She is scolding Becky," she whispered, as she stood in the darkness. "She is making her cry."
"Will she come in here? " Ermengarde whispered back, panic-stricken.
"No. She will think I am in bed. Don't stir."
It was very seldom that Miss Minchin mounted the last flight of stairs. Sara could only remember that she had done it once before. But now she was angry enough to be coming at least part of the way up, and it sounded as if she was driving Becky before her.
"You impudent, dishonest child!" they heard her say. "Cook tells me she has missed things repeatedly."
"'T war n't me, mum," said Becky, sobbing. "I was 'ungry enough, but 't war n't me—never!"
"You deserve to be sent to prison," said Miss Minchin's voice. "Picking and stealing! Half a meat-pie, indeed!"
