This was my favourite book when I was 8 or 9, I read and reread it so many times. I loved this story so much. 
It’s been over 40 years since I’ve even looked at it, and I thought it had mostly faded away from my mind. Yet once I started it this time, it all came back so clearly I almost felt like I had it memorised. I began this read with a sense of trepidation; I remembered enough to know that I would find racism and a deeply colonial pov, but I didn’t remember enough to know any details or to guess how this reading would leave me feeling. 
What I found was a book that encapsulates the hypocrisy and neglect of white supremacy and christian ‘benevolence’. Some will say, oh it’s ok, it’s a book of its time, so the racism and classism, and all the other isms in this story, can be excused. But why? The child that I was, that desperately needed a fairy tale about being rescued, deserved to also have books that allowed a more complex world to exist. That didn’t create paradigms that center her potential for rescue based on her whiteness, her class, her politeness, her stoic ness, or her feminine ‘goodness’. A book that didn’t reinforce class amongst white people, and completely devalue and dehumanise all people of colour. Children deserve to have magical fairytales to escape in to, without the burden of white supremacist messaging. There are so many wonderful children’s and middle grade novels available now. For me, this one is best left in memory for what it was then.