“There was no one to take care of me, and no money,” she said. “I belong to nobody.”
“What did your father mean by losing his money?” said the gentleman, fretfully.
The red in Sara's cheeks grew deeper, and she fixed her odd eyes on the yellow face.
“He did not lose it himself,” she said. “He had a friend he was fond of, and it was his friend, who took his money. I don't know how. I don't understand. He trusted his friend too much.”
She saw the invalid start—the strangest start—as if he had been suddenly frightened. Then he spoke nervously and excitedly:
“That's an old story,” he said. “It happens every day; but sometimes those who are blamed—those who do the wrong—don't intend it, and are not so bad. It may happen through a mistake—a miscalculation; they may not be so bad.”
“No,” said Sara, “but the suffering is just as bad for the others. It killed my papa.”
The Indian Gentleman pushed aside some of the gorgeous wraps that covered him.
“Come a little nearer, and let me look at you,” he said.
His voice sounded very strange; it had a more nervous and excited tone than before. Sara had an odd fancy that he was half afraid to look at her. She came and stood nearer, the monkey clinging to her and watching his master anxiously over his shoulder.