“And I was `supposing' a kind of plan,” said Sara, when she had finished; “I was thinking I would like to do something.”
“What is it?” said her guardian in a low tone. “You may do anything you like to do, Princess.”
“I was wondering,” said Sara,—“you know you say I have a great deal of money—and I was wondering if I could go and see the bun-woman and tell her that if, when hungry children—particularly on those dreadful days—come and sit on the steps or look in at the window, she would just call them in and give them something to eat, she might send the bills to me and I would pay them—could I do that?”
“You shall do it to-morrow morning,” said the Indian Gentleman.
“Thank you,” said Sara; “you see I know what it is to be hungry, and it is very hard when one can't even pretend it away.”
“Yes, yes, my dear,” said the Indian Gentleman. “Yes, it must be. Try to forget it. Come and sit on this footstool near my knee, and only remember you are a princess.”
“Yes,” said Sara, “and I can give buns and bread to the Populace.” And she went and sat on the stool, and the Indian Gentleman (he used to like her to call him that, too, sometimes,—in fact very often) drew her small, dark head down upon his knee and stroked her hair.
The next morning a carriage drew up before the door of the baker's shop, and a gentleman and a little girl got out,—oddly enough, just as the bun-woman was putting a tray of smoking hotbuns into the window. When Sara entered the shop the woman turned and looked at her and, leaving the buns, came and stood behind the counter. For a moment she looked at Sara very hard indeed, and then her good-natured face lighted up.
“I'm that sure I remember you, miss,” she said. “And yet—”
“Yes,” said Sara, “once you gave me six buns for fourpence, and—”