Sara

           Onceonadarkwinter’sday,whentheyellowfoghungsothickandheavyinthestreetsofLondonthatthelampswerelightedandtheshopwindowsblazedwithgasastheydoatnight,anodd-lookinglittlegirlsatinacabwithherfatherandwasdrivenratherslowlythroughthebigthoroughfares.

           Shesatwithherfeettuckedunderher,andleanedagainstherfather,whoheldherinhisarm,asshestaredoutofthewindowatthepassingpeoplewithaqueerold-fashionedthoughtfulnessinherbigeyes.

           Shewassuchalittlegirlthatonedidnotexpecttoseesuchalookonhersmallface.Itwouldhavebeenanoldlookforachildoftwelve,andSaraCrewewasonlyseven.Thefactwas,however,thatshewasalwaysdreamingandthinkingoddthingsandcouldnotherselfrememberanytimewhenshehadnotbeenthinkingthingsaboutgrown-uppeopleandtheworldtheybelongedto.Shefeltasifshehadlivedalong,longtime.

           AtthismomentshewasrememberingthevoyageshehadjustmadefromBombaywithherfather,CaptainCrewe.Shewasthinkingofthebigship,oftheLascarspassingsilentlytoandfroonit,ofthechildrenplayingaboutonthehotdeck,andofsomeyoungofficers’wiveswhousedtotrytomakehertalktothemandlaughatthethingsshesaid.

           Principally,shewasthinkingofwhataqueerthingitwasthatatonetimeonewasinIndiaintheblazingsun,andtheninthemiddleoftheocean,andthendrivinginastrangevehiclethroughstrangestreetswherethedaywasasdarkasthenight.Shefoundthissopuzzlingthatshemovedclosertoherfather.

           "Papa,"shesaidinalow,mysteriouslittlevoicewhichwasalmostawhisper,"papa."