“If I'm a princess,” she was saying—“if I'm a princess—! When they were poor and driven from their thrones—they always shared—with the Populace—if they met one poorer and hungrier. They always shared. Buns are a penny each. If it had been sixpence! I could have eaten six. It won't be enough for either of us—but it will be better than nothing.”
“Wait a minute,” she said to the beggar-child. She went into the shop. It was warm and smelled delightfully. The woman was just going to put more hot buns in the window.
“If you please,” said Sara, “have you lost fourpence—a silver fourpence?” And she held the forlorn little piece of money out to her.
The woman looked at it and at her—at her intense little face and draggled, once-fine clothes.
“Bless us—no,” she answered. “Did you find it?”
“In the gutter,” said Sara.
“Keep it, then,” said the woman. “It may have been there a week, and goodness knows who lost it. You could never find out.”
“I know that,” said Sara, “but I thought I'd ask you.”
“Not many would,” said the woman, looking puzzled and interested and good-natured all at once. “Do you want to buy something?” she added, as she saw Sara glance toward the buns.
“Four buns, if you please,” said Sara; “those at a penny each.”