happier for the thought. She was reading one of her new books to Becky just before they went to their respective beds, when her attention was attracted by a sound at the skylight. When she looked up from her page she saw that Becky had heard the sound also, as she had turned her head to look and was listening rather nervously.
"Something 's there, miss," she whispered.
"Yes," said Sara, slowly. "It sounds—rather like a cat—trying to get in."
She left her chair and went to the skylight. It was a queer little sound she heard—like a soft scratching. She suddenly remembered something and laughed. She remembered a quaint little intruder who had made his way into the attic once before. She had seen him that very afternoon, sitting disconsolately on a table before a window in the Indian gentleman's house.
"Suppose," she whispered in pleased excitement—"just suppose it was the monkey who had got away again. Oh, I wish it was!"
She climbed on a chair, very cautiously raised the skylight, and peeped out. It had been snowing all day, and on the snow, quite near her, crouched a tiny, shivering figure, whose small black face wrinkled itself piteously at sight of her.
"It is the monkey," she cried out. "He has crept out of the Lascar's attic, and he saw the light."
Becky ran to her side.
"Are you going to let him in, miss?" she said.
