"But there were a great many hungry days," said the Indian Gentleman, with a rather sad tone in his voice. "Which hungry day was it?"
"I forgot you didn't know," said Sara. "It was the day I found the things in my garret."
And then she told him the story of the bun-shop, and the fourpence, and the child who was hungrier than herself; and somehow as she told it, though she told it very simply indeed, the Indian Gentleman found it necessary to shade his eyes with his hand and look down at the floor.
"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.