For the first year she was a favorite pupil;
at least she was indulged a great deal more than
was good for her.  And when the Select Seminary
went walking, two by two, she was always decked
out in her grandest clothes, and led by the hand
at the head of the genteel procession, by Miss
Minchin herself.  And when the parents of any
of the pupils came, she was always dressed and
called into the parlor with her doll; and she used
to hear Miss Minchin say that her father was a
distinguished Indian officer, and she would be
heiress to a great fortune.  That her father had
inherited a great deal of money, Sara had heard
before; and also that some day it would be
hers, and that he would not remain long in
the army, but would come to live in London. 
And every time a letter came, she hoped it would
say he was coming, and they were to live together again.

But about the middle of the third year a letter
came bringing very different news.  Because he
was not a business man himself, her papa had
given his affairs into the hands of a friend
he trusted.  The friend had deceived and robbed him. 
All the money was gone, no one knew exactly where,
and the shock was so great to the poor, rash young
officer, that, being attacked by jungle fever
shortly afterward, he had no strength to rally,
and so died, leaving Sara, with no one to take care
of her.

Miss Minchin's cold and fishy eyes had never
looked so cold and fishy as they did when Sara
went into the parlor, on being sent for, a few days
after the letter was received.

No one had said anything to the child about
mourning, so, in her old-fashioned way, she had
decided to find a black dress for herself, and had
picked out a black velvet she had outgrown, and
came into the room in it, looking the queerest little
figure in the world, and a sad little figure too. 
The dress was too short and too tight, her face
was white, her eyes had dark rings around them,
and her doll, wrapped in a piece of old black
crape, was held under her arm.  She was not a
pretty child.  She was thin, and had a weird,
interesting little face, short black hair, and very
large, green-gray eyes fringed all around with
heavy black lashes.

I am the ugliest child in the school," she had
said once, after staring at herself in the glass for
some minutes.

But there had been a clever, good-natured little
French teacher who had said to the music-master:

"Zat leetle Crewe.  Vat a child!  A so ogly beauty! 
Ze so large eyes! ze so little spirituelle face. 
Waid till she grow up.  You shall see!"

This morning, however, in the tight, small
black frock, she looked thinner and odder than
ever, and her eyes were fixed on Miss Minchin
with a queer steadiness as she slowly advanced
into the parlor, clutching her doll.

"Put your doll down!" said Miss Minchin.

"No," said the child, I won't put her down;
I want her with me.  She is all I have.  She has
stayed with me all the time since my papa died."

She had never been an obedient child.  She had
had her own way ever since she was born, and there
was about her an air of silent determination under
which Miss Minchin had always felt secretly uncomfortable. 
And that lady felt even now that perhaps it would be
as well not to insist on her point.  So she looked
at her as severely as possible.

"You will have no time for dolls in future,"
she said; "you will have to work and improve
yourself, and make yourself useful."

Sara kept the big odd eyes fixed on her teacher
and said nothing.

"Everything will be very different now," Miss
Minchin went on.  "I sent for you to talk to
you and make you understand.  Your father
is dead.  You have no friends.  You have
no money.  You have no home and no one to take
care of you."

The little pale olive face twitched nervously,
but the green-gray eyes did not move from Miss
Minchin's, and still Sara said nothing.