mother."

"Go away, Pin," said Laura snappily. "I told you yesterday you could say
Laura, and . . . and you're more like a spider than ever."

"Spider" was another nickname for Pin, owed to her rotund little body
and mere sticks of legs--she was "all belly" as Sarah put it--and the
mere mention of it made Pin fly; for she was very touchy about her legs.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Laura sprang out of bed and,
waiting neither to wash herself nor to say her prayers, began to pull on
her clothes, confusing strings and buttons in her haste, and quite
forgetting that on this eventful morning she had meant to dress herself
with more than ordinary care. She was just lacing her shoes when Sarah
looked in.

"Why, Miss Laura, don't you know your ma wants you?"

"It's too late. I'm dressed now," said Laura darkly.

Sarah shook her head. "Missis'll be fine an' angry. An' you needn't 'ave
'ad a row on your last day."

Laura stole out of the door and ran down the garden to the summer-house.
This, the size of a goodly room, was formed of a single dense,
hairy-leafed tree, round the trunk of which a seat was built. Here she
cowered, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands. Her face wore
the stiff expression that went by the name of "Laura's sulks," but her
eyes were big, and as watchful as those of a scared animal. If Sarah
came to fetch her she would hold on to the seat with both hands. But