“Never mind, child,” said I, a little sharply; “you take away my breath. Suppose you get me some lunch, and don’t ask any questions. I am going to stay all day, perhaps all night,” I said with a little desperation; “perhaps it’s the best thing I could do.” “Godmamma, something has happened!” cried Sara; and she came and knelt down on the stool at my feet, looking up in my face, with cheeks all crimsoned over, and eyes sparkling brighter than I had ever seen them. It was not anxiety but positive expectation that flushed the child’s face. I could not help thrusting her away from me with my hand, in the fulness of my heart. “Child!” cried I, “you are glad! you think something has happened to us, and it flushes you with pleasure. I did not expect as much from you!” Sara stumbled up to her feet, confused and affronted. She stood a moment irresolute, not sure, apparently, how to take it, or whether to show me to the full extent how angry and annoyed she was. However, I suppose she remembered that we were in her father’s house, and that I was her guest after a fashion; for she stammered some kind of apology. “You took me into your confidence before, and naturally I wanted to know,” cried the child, with half-subdued fury. She had never been taught how to manage her temper, and she could not do it when she tried. “You,” said I, “we are your godmothers, Sara, and have loved you all your life; but you want to know, just as if it were a story in a novel--though, for all you can tell, it may be something that involves our fortune, or our good name, or our life.” Now this was very foolish of me, and I confess it. It was not anger at Sara that made me say it--nothing of the sort. But I had come through a good deal, and my mind was so full that I could bear no more. It burst from me like something I could not retain, and after that I am ashamed to confess, I cried. It was merely the excitement and agitation of the day, so unusual to me, and coming after such a long strain of silent excitement as I had already come through. Sara stood before me confounded. She was quite unprepared for anything of this kind. She kept standing by me in a bewildered way, too much puzzled to say anything. At length she knelt down on the footstool and pressed my hand upon her little soft mouth. “Something dreadful has happened, godmamma?” said Sara, looking up at me wistfully. The poor child was really alarmed and full of anxiety now. “No, no,” said I, “nothing has happened at all. I am only too nervous and alarmed and unhappy to bear speaking to. I am not unhappy either. Sara, child, can’t you leave me by myself a little and order luncheon? I’ll tell you all about it then.”