"It's a good deal like my shelf in my own room," she thought,
"except it's all in little pieces instead of straight ahead. But
that doesn't really matter, and I'm not sure but I like it better
this way. Now, I think I'll write a letter to Mother, first, and
confess this awful thing I've done. I always feel better after I
get my confessions off of my mind, and when Jane brings my dinner
I expect she'll take it to be mailed."

Marjorie scrambled up to a step near the top where her little
writing tablet was. She arranged her paper and took up her pen,
only to discover that in her haste she had forgotten to bring any
ink.

"But it doesn't matter," she thought, cheerfully, "for it would
have upset in my dress probably, and, anyway, I can just as well
use a pencil."

But the pencil's point was broken, and, of course, it had not
occurred to her to bring a knife. She had promised Grandma not to
leave the stairs without permission, so there was nothing to do
but to give up the idea of letter-writing, and occupy herself with
something else.

"And, anyway," she thought, "it must be nearly dinner time, for
I've been here now for hours and hours."

She glanced at the clock, and found to her amazement that it was
just twenty minutes since her grandmother had left her alone.