Laura glowed with pleasure. Now at least the awful personage would know
that she was clever, and loved to learn. But Mrs. Gurley smiled the
chilliest thinkable smile of acknowledgment, and did not reply a word.

She escorted the other to the front door, and held it open for them to
pass out. Then, however, her pretence of affability faded clean away:
turning her head just so far that she could look down her nose at her
own shoulder, she said: "Follow me!"--in a tone Mother would not have
used even to Sarah. Feeling inexpressibly small Laura was about to obey,
when a painful thought struck her.

"Oh please, I had a box--with my clothes in it!" she cried. "Oh, I hope
they haven't forgotten and taken it away again."

But she might as well have spoken to the hatstand: Mrs. Gurley
had sailed off, and was actually approaching a turn in the hall before
Laura made haste to follow her and to keep further anxiety about her box
to herself. They went past one staircase, round a bend into shadows as
black as if, outside, no sun were shining, and began to ascend another
flight of stairs, which was the widest Laura had ever seen. The
banisters were as thick as your arm, and on each side of the
stair-carpeting the space was broad enough for two to walk abreast: what
a splendid game of trains you could have played there! On the other hand
the landing windows were so high up that only a giant could have seen
out of them.

These things occurred to Laura mechanically. What really occupied her,
as she trudged behind, was how she could please this hard-faced woman
and make her like her, for the desire to please, to be liked by all the
world, was the strongest her young soul knew. And there must be a way,