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Updated: May 28, 2025
Ermengarde at first confronted her with a grim and furious glance, which seemed to show a soul fraught with more rage than the thin blood and rigid features of extreme old age had the power of expressing, and raised her ebony staff as if about even to proceed to some act of personal violence.
"Papa has sent me some more books, Sara," she said. "There they are." Sara looked round and got up at once. She ran to the table, and picking up the top volume, turned over its leaves quickly. For the moment she forgot her discomforts. "Ah," she cried out, "how beautiful! Carlyle's French Revolution. I have SO wanted to read that!" "I haven't," said Ermengarde.
Ermengarde was interested, as she always was. "When you talk about things," she said, "they seem as if they grew real. You talk about Melchisedec as if he was a person." "He IS a person," said Sara. "He gets hungry and frightened, just as we do; and he is married and has children. How do we know he doesn't think things, just as we do? His eyes look as if he was a person.
And when she saw that the pupils had been listening and that Lavinia and Jessie were giggling behind their French grammars, she felt infuriated. "Silence, young ladies!" she said severely, rapping upon the desk. "Silence at once!" And she began from that minute to feel rather a grudge against her show pupil. Ermengarde
"You are," said Jessie. "A great big tear just rolled down the bridge of your nose and dropped off at the end of it. And there goes another." "Well," said Ermengarde, "I'm miserable and no one need interfere." And she turned her plump back and took out her handkerchief and boldly hid her face in it. That night, when Sara went to her attic, she was later than usual.
She DOESN'T! She DOESN'T! She's so hungry sometimes that she eats crusts out of the ash barrel!" She pressed her hands hard against her face and burst into passionate little sobs, and Ermengarde, hearing this unusual thing, was overawed by it. Sara was crying! The unconquerable Sara! It seemed to denote something new some mood she had never known.
Anselm was born at Aosta, in Piedmont, of noble parents, and was well brought up by his pious mother, Ermengarde, under whose influence he applied himself to holy learning, and was anxious to embrace a religious life. She died when he was fifteen years of age, and his father was careless and harsh.
Ermengarde opened her wet eyes wide. "Why, it was you who were different!" she cried. "You didn't want to talk to me. I didn't know what to do. It was you who were different after I came back." Sara thought a moment. She saw she had made a mistake. "I AM different," she explained, "though not in the way you think. Miss Minchin does not want me to talk to the girls.
One could not help staring at her and feeling interested, particularly one to whom the simplest lesson was a trouble and a woe. "Do you like me?" said Ermengarde, finally, at the end of her scrutiny.
"The maiden speaks well and boldly, Berwine," said Dame Ermengarde; "and, in truth, pass we but over some of these vain fripperies, is attired in a comely fashion. Thy father, I hear, fell knight-like in the field of battle." "He did so," answered Eveline, her eyes filling with tears at the recollection of her recent loss.
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