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CHAPTER IX
THE FRONT STAIRS

Marjorie had been at Grandma Sherwood's about weeks, and as a general thing she had been a pretty good little girl. She had tried to obey her mother's orders, and though it was not easy to keep her troublesome curls always just as they ought to be and her ribbon always in place, yet she had accomplished this fairly well, and Grandma said that she really deserved credit for it.

But to obey Grandma implicitly was harder still. Not that Marjorie ever meant to disobey or ever did it wilfully, but she was very apt to forget and, too, it seemed to be natural for her to get into mischief. And as it was always some new sort of mischief, which no one could have thought of forbidding, and as she was always so sorry for it afterward, there was more or less repentance and forgiveness going on all the time.

But, on the whole, she was improving, and Uncle Steve sometimes said that he believed she would live to grow up without tumbling off of something and breaking her neck, after all.

Grandma Sherwood found it far easier to forgive Marjorie's unintentional mischief than her forgetting of explicit commands.

One command in particular had caused trouble all summer. There were two front doors to Grandma's house and two halls. One of these halls opened into the great drawing-room on one side and a smaller reception room on the other, where callers were received. The stairs in this hall were of polished wood and were kept in a state of immaculate, mirror-like shininess by Jane, who took great pride in this especial piece of work.

The other front door opened into a hall less pretentious. This hall was between the drawingroom and the family library, and the stairs here were covered with thick, soft carpet.

It was Grandma's wish that the members of the family should usually use the carpeted stairs, for she too took great pride in the glossy, shining surface of the others. Uncle Steve preferred the carpeted stairs, anyway, as they led to the upper hall which opened into his own room, and Grandma invariably used them.

As a means of distinction, the wooden stairs were habitually called the Front Stairs; and, though they were equally front, the carpeted flight was always spoken of as the Other Stairs.

From the first, Marjorie had been explicitly forbidden to go up and down the Front Stairs; and from the first Marjorie had found this rule most difficult to remember.

Rushing from her play into the house, often with muddy or dusty shoes, she would fly into the hall, clatter up the Front Stairs, and, perhaps, down again and out, without a thought of her wrongdoing. This would leave footprints, and often scratches and heel-marks on the beautiful steps, which meant extra work for Jane; and even then the scratches were not always effaceable.

Many a serious talk had Grandma and Marjorie had on the subject; many times had Marjorie faithfully promised to obey this particular command; and, alas! many times had the child thoughtlessly broken her promise.

At last, Grandma said: "I know, my dear, you do not MEAN to forget, but you DO forget. Now this forgetting must stop. If you run up those Front Stairs again, Marjorie, I'm going to punish you."

"Do, Grandma," said Marjorie, cheerfully; "perhaps that will make me stop it. For honest and true I just resolve I won't do it, and then before I know it I'm just like Jack and the Beanstalk, 'a-hitchet, a-hatchet, a-up I go!' and, though I don't mean to, there I am!"

Grandma felt like smiling at Marjorie's naive confession, but she said very seriously: "That's the trouble, dearie, you DO forget and you must be made to remember. I hope it won't be necessary, but if it is, you'll have to be punished."

"What will the punishment be, Grandma?" asked Marjorie, with great interest. She was hanging around Mrs. Sherwood's neck and patting her face as she talked. There was great affection between these two, and though Marjorie was surprised at the new firmness her grandmother was showing, she felt no resentment, but considerable curiosity.

"Never mind; perhaps you'll never deserve punishment and then you will never know what it would have been. Indeed, I'm not sure myself, but if you don't keep off those Front Stairs we'll both of us find out in short order."

Grandma was smiling, but Marjorie knew from her determined tone that she was very much in earnest.

For several days after that Marjorie kept carefully away from the Front Stairs, except when she was wearing her dainty house slippers. It was an understood exception that, when dressed for dinner or on company occasions and her feet shod with light, thin-soled shoes, Marjorie might walk properly up or down the Front Stairs. The restriction only applied to her heavy-soled play shoes or muddied boots.

So all went well, and the question of punishment being unnecessary, it was almost forgotten.

One morning, Marjorie was getting ready to go rowing with Carter. Molly was to go too, and as the girls had learned to sit moderately still in the boat, the good-natured gardener frequently took them on short excursions.

It was a perfect summer day, and Marjorie sang a gay little tune as she made herself ready for her outing. She tied up her dark curls with a pink ribbon, and as a hat was deemed unnecessary by her elders, she was glad not to be bothered with one. She wore a fresh, pink gingham dress and thick, heavy-soled shoes, lest the boat should be damp. She took with her a small trowel, for she was going to dig some ferns to bring home; and into her pocket she stuffed a little muslin bag, which she always carried, in case she found anything in the way of pebbles or shells to bring home for her Memory Book. She danced down the Other Stairs, kissed Grandma good-by, and picking up her basket for the ferns, ran merrily off.

Molly was waiting for her, and together they trotted down the sandy path to the boathouse. It had rained the day before and the path was a bit muddy, but with heavy shoes the children did not need rubbers.

"Isn't it warm?" said Molly. "I 'most wish I'd worn a hat, it's so sunny."

"I hate a hat," said Marjorie, "but I'll tell you what, Molly, if we had my red parasol we could hold it over our heads."

"Just the thing, Mopsy; do skip back and get it. I'll hold your basket, and Carter isn't here yet."

Marjorie ran back as fast as she could, pattering along the muddy path and thinking only of the red parasol, bounded in at the front door and up the Front Stairs!

Grandma was in the upper hall, and her heart sank as she saw the child, thoughtlessly unconscious of wrongdoing, clatter up the stairs, her heavy boots splashing mud and wet on every polished step.

Her heart sank, not so much because of the mud on the steps as because of this new proof of Marjorie's thoughtlessness.

"My dear little girl!" she said, as Marjorie reached the top step, and in a flash Marjorie realized what she had done.

Crestfallen and horrified, she threw herself into her grandmother's arms.

"I'm sorry, Midget dear, but I cannot break my word. You know what I told you."

"Yes, Grandma, and I am so sorry, but please, oh, Grandma dear,—can't you just postpone the punishment till to-morrow? 'Cause Molly and I are going to Blossom Banks to dig ferns, and it's such a BEAUTIFUL day for ferns."

Grandma Sherwood hesitated. It almost broke her heart to deprive the child of her holiday, and yet it was for Marjorie's own good that an attempt must be made to cure her of her carelessness.

"No, Marjorie; I cannot postpone the punishment until to-morrow. If you wanted to go rowing to-day, you should have waited to run up these stairs until to-morrow. You didn't postpone your naughtiness, so I cannot postpone its punishment."

Marjorie looked dumfounded. She had not intended to be naughty, but also she had never supposed her gentle grandma could be so severe. She looked utterly disconsolate, and said in despairing tones: "But, Grandma, won't you let me go rowing this morning and give me the punishment this afternoon? I must go; Molly and Carter are down by the boathouse waiting for me! Please, Grandma!"

So difficult was it for Mrs. Sherwood to resist the child's pleading tones that her own voice was more stern than she intended to make it, lest she reveal her true feeling.

"No, Marjorie; you have been very naughty now, and so you must be punished now. Listen to me. I shall send Jane to tell Carter to go back to his work and to tell Molly to go home. I'm sorry to spoil your pleasure, but remember you have really spoiled it yourself."

Marjorie did not cry, she was not that sort of a child. But she had a broken-down, wilted air, the very despondency of which almost made her grandmother relent. Had it been a more important occasion she might have done so, but the children could go on the river any day, and though it was a very real disappointment to Marjorie to stay at home, yet discipline required it.

"Now, Marjorie," went on Mrs. Sherwood, after Jane had been despatched on her errand, "take off those muddy shoes and set them on the top step of the stairs."

Rather wondering at this command, Marjorie sat down on the top step, unlaced her shoes, and did with them as she had been bidden.

"Now, this is your punishment, my child; you came up these stairs when you had been told not to do so: now you may spend the rest of the day on the stairs. You are not to leave them until six o'clock to-night. With the muddy steps and your muddy shoes in front of your eyes all day long, you may, perhaps, learn to remember better in future."

Marjorie could scarcely believe her ears. To stay on the stairs all day long seemed a funny punishment; and except for missing the row on the river, it did not seem a very hard one.

"May I have a book, Grandma," she asked, still a little bewildered by the outlook.

Grandma considered. "Yes," she said at last; "you may go to your room, put on your worsted bedroom slippers, and then you may bring back with you any books or toys you care for."

"How many?" asked Marjorie, whose spirits were rising, for her punishment seemed to promise a novel experience.

"As many as you can carry at once," replied Grandma, turning aside to hide a smile.

In a few minutes Marjorie returned. She had turned up the short, full skirt of her pink gingham frock to form a sort of bag, and into it she had tumbled, helter-skelter, several books, some paper and pens, her paper-doll's house, her paintbox, her kitten, a few odd toys, her Memory Book, and her clock. Staggering under the bulging load, but in a more cheerful frame of mind, she reached the stairs again.

"I brought my clock," she observed, "because I shall want to know as the hours so by; but I'll be careful not to scratch the stairs with it, Grandma."

"Your carefulness comes too late, Marjorie. I shall have to send for a man from town to repolish the stairs, anyway, for the nails in the heels of your heavy boots have entirely ruined them."

"Oh, Grandma, I am so sorry; and if you think a day won't be punishment enough, I'll stay for a week. Do I get anything to eat?" she added, as a sudden thought of their picnic luncheon occurred to her. "You might just send me the picnic basket."

"Jane will bring you your dinner," said her grandmother, shortly, for she began to think the punishment she had devised was more like a new game.

"Goody!" cried Marjorie. "I do love dinner on a tray. Send plenty of strawberries, please; and, Grandma, don't think that I'm not truly being punished, for I am. I shall think over my naughtiness a good deal, and when I look at those awful shoes, I don't see how I COULD have done such a wicked thing. But you know yourself, Grandma, that we ought to make the best of everything, and so I'll just get what fun I can out of my books and my strawberries."

Mrs. Sherwood went away, uncertain whether she had succeeded in what she had intended to do or not. She knew Marjorie would not leave the stairs without permission, for the little girl was exceedingly conscientious.

Left to herself, Marjorie began to take in the situation.

She carefully unpacked her dressful of things, and arranged them on the steps. In this she became greatly interested. It was a novel way of living, to go always up and down and never sideways. She planned her home for the day with care and thought. She decided to reserve a narrow space next the banister to go up and down; and to arrange her belongings on the other side of the staircase. She put her clock on the top step that she might see it from any point of view; and on the other steps she laid neatly her books, her paint-box, her writing things, and her toys. She became absorbed in this occupation, and delightedly scrambled up and down, arranging and rearranging her shelved properties.

"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.

"The clock must have stopped!" she said, bending her ear to listen.

But it hadn't, and Marjorie suddenly realized that a whole day, solitary and alone, is an interminable length of time.

"Oh, dear," she sighed, putting her head down on her arms on the step above, "I do wish I had gone up the Other Stairs! This day is going to last forever! I just know it is! But if it ever DOES get over, I never want to see the Front Stairs again!"

CHAPTER X
A LONG DAY

Marjorie had expected to derive much satisfaction, during her sojourn on the stairs, from playing with her kitten. But Puff ran away almost immediately, and no amount of calling or coaxing could bring her back.

Sighing deeply, Marjorie tried to amuse herself reading the books she had brought. But the light was not very good on the stairs, and somehow, too, the books seemed to have lost their interest. Thinking over what she could do to make the time pass, she remembered her paint-box. She was fond of painting, and concluded she would try to paint a little sketch of the stairs to put in her Memory Book to represent this dreadful day.

"Not that I need anything to make me remember it," she thought, "for I'm sure I can never, never, never forget it." But when she had her other materials all prepared she realized she had no glass of water, so, of course, her paints were useless.

Even her paper-doll's house seemed to have lost its flavor. She had no new things to paste in, nor had she any paste.

She began to learn what a lot of little things make up the comforts of life, and, utterly discouraged, she tried to think of something to while away the time.

At last she concluded she would start at the top and go down, sitting on each step five minutes. "This," she calculated to herself, "will fill up a long time. There are seventeen steps, and seventeen times five is,—well, I don't know how much it is, exactly, but it must be several hours. Perhaps, when I get down to the bottom it will be afternoon!"

With a reviving sense of interest in something, she sat on the top step and waited for five minutes to pass. Never had a period of time seemed so long. It was twice as long as a church service, and a dozen times as long as the ride in the cars when she came up to Grandma's. But at last the five minutes was up, and with a little jounce Marjorie slid down to the next step, and prepared to spend another five. This was longer yet, and at the third-step Marjorie gave up this plan, as being the most dreadful thing she had ever tried.

She began to feel like crying, but was determined not to do anything so foolish.

Slowly and wearily the morning dragged away, and at last, when Marjorie had begun to feel that lassitude which comes from utter weariness, Jane appeared with a tray of luncheon.

Marjorie brightened up at once. "Oh, Jane," she cried, "I'm SO glad to see you! I AM so lonesome!"

"Pore lamb!" said Jane, sympathetically; "I'm thinkin' ye're purty nigh dead, be now. But here's the foine lunch for ye. See, darlint, here's chicken and strawberries and jelly and all the things ye like best! Cheer up, now, and ate yer food."

"Indeed, I will! Oh, Jane, what lovely things! Fresh little cakes, with pink icing; and gooseberry jam! But don't go away, Jane."

"I must, Miss Midget. Yer grandma towld me not to shtay wid yez."

"But I'm so lonesome," said Marjorie, who had just seemed to realize what the main trouble was.

But Jane dared not disobey orders, and setting the tray on the stairs, she went away, with fond backward glances at the forlorn little figure sitting there.

However, the lonesomest human heart is bound to cheer up a little under the influence of a specially fine feast, and as Marjorie ate her luncheon and drank a big glass of milk, the detested stairs began to assume a rather more attractive air.

And so, when Jane came to take the tray away she found on it only empty dishes, while Marjorie, who was cuddled up in a corner, reading, looked at her with a smile.

"The day is half gone!" she announced, triumphantly. "And, Jane, won't you ask Grandma if you may bring me a glass of water so I can paint. But tell her I don't want it unless she's perfectly willing."

Grandma smiled a little at the stipulation, but sent Marjorie the glass of water, and the child filled up half an hour or more painting pictures. But the cramped position was very uncomfortable, and Marjorie grew restless and longed for exercise. Suddenly an inspiration seized her, and she concluded it would be great fun to slide down the banister. For a few times this was amusing, but it stung her hands, and finally she fell off and bumped her head rather soundly.

"It's lucky I fell on the stair side," she said to herself, rubbing the lump on her forehead, "for I promised Grandma not to leave the stairs, and if I had fallen off on the other side I should have broken my promise!"

The afternoon hours seemed to move rather more slowly than the morning. Occasionally, Marjorie's naturally cheerful disposition would assert itself and she would bravely endeavor to occupy herself pleasantly in some way. But there was so little light, and stairs are uncomfortable at best to sit on, and the silence and loneliness were so oppressive, that her efforts successively failed.

And, though Marjorie did not realize it, her spirits were depressed because of the mere fact that she was undergoing punishment. Had she been there of her own free choice she could have played happily on the stairs all day long; or had the opportunity been bestowed upon her, as a great and special treat, the hours would have flown by.

At last, exhausted, Nature conquered all else, and, seated on one step, Marjorie folded her arms on the step above, laid her head down upon them, and went to sleep.

And it was thus that Uncle Steve found her when he came home at four o'clock.

"Hello, Queen of Mischief!" he cried, gayly. "Wake up here and tell me all about it!"

"Oh, Uncle Steve!" cried Marjorie, waking, flushed from her nap, and delighted at having some one to speak to; "do you know why I'm here? Did Grandma tell you?"

"Yes, she told me; and she told me something else, too. She says that if you are properly sorry for what you did,—really, AWFULLY sorry, you know,—that you may be excused for the rest of the day and may go out driving with me."

"Well, I just rather guess I AM sorry! I'm two sorries. One, because I disobeyed Grandma and tracked up her Front Stairs; and another, because I've had this terrible, dreadful punishment."

Uncle Steve looked at his niece a little gravely. "Which are you more sorry for, Marjorie," he asked: "because you did wrong or because you were punished?"

Marjorie considered. "About equal, I think. No, I'm more sorry I did wrong, because if I hadn't, I wouldn't have had the punishment; and, besides, it hurt Grandma's feelings."

"Which did?"

"Why, my running up the stairs! Of course, the punishment didn't hurt her," and Marjorie laughed merrily at the idea.

"I think it hurt her more than it did you," said Uncle Steve, but

Marjorie only stared, open-eyed, at this nonsense.

"Well, anyway, it's all over now; so bundle your belongings back where they belong and get yourself ready for a drive."

Marjorie flew to obey, but meeting Grandma in the hall, she dropped her dressful of books and toys, and flung herself into Mrs. Sherwood's waiting arms.

"Oh, Grandma!" she cried. "I AM so sorry I slam-banged upstairs, and I'll never do it again, and I had a perfectly awful, DREADFUL time, but of course you had to punish me for your own good,—I mean for my own good,—but now it's all over, and you love me just the same, don't you?"

The ardent embrace in progress left no doubt of the affection still existing between the pair, and if Marjorie's hugs were of the lovingly boisterous variety, Grandma Sherwood appeared quite willing to submit to them.

"I don't know," she thought to herself, after Marjorie had gone for her drive, "whether that child is impervious to discipline or whether she is unusually capable of receiving and assimilating it."

But at any rate, Marjorie never went up or down the front stairs again, except on the occasions when it was distinctly permissible.

The drive with Uncle Steve was a succession of delights. This was partly because it was such a sudden and pleasant change from the abominable staircase and partly because Uncle Steve was such an amiable and entertaining companion.

The two were alone in an old-fashioned, low basket-phaeton; and Uncle Steve was willing to stop whenever Marjorie wished, to note an especially beautiful bird on a neighboring branch or an extra-fine blossom of some wild flower.

Also, Uncle Steve seemed to know the names of all the trees and flowers and birds they chanced to see. Greatly interested in these things, Marjorie learned much nature-lore, and the lessons were but play. Tying the horse to a fence, the two cronies wandered into the wood and found, after much careful search, some Indian Pipes of an exquisite perfection. These fragile, curious things were Marjorie's great delight, and she carried them carefully home for her Memory Book.

"They won't be very satisfactory as mementoes," warned Uncle Steve, "for they will turn brown and lose their fair, white beauty."

Marjorie looked regretful, but an inspiration came to her.

"I'll tell you what, Uncle Steve, I'll get Stella to draw them in my book and paint them. She's so clever at copying flowers, and I'm sure she can do it."

"Let her try it, then, and if she doesn't succeed I'll photograph them for you, so you'll have at least a hint of the lovely things."

Hand in hand they walked through the wood, spying new beauties here and there. Sometimes they sat on a fallen log to rest a bit or to discuss some new marvel in Nature's kingdom.

At last, as the sun was sinking low in the west, they left the wood, untied old Betsy, who was patiently waiting for them, and jogged along homeward.

"Punishment is a strange thing," said Marjorie to Grandma, as they were having their little "twilight talk" that evening, before the child went to bed.

"Why?" asked Grandma.

"Because it makes you remember," said Marjorie, slowly; "I don't see why I couldn't remember to keep off the Front Stairs, just because you told me to, but somehow I couldn't. Now, after to-day, I'm sure I shall never forget again."

"That's the difference, my child, between youth and age. You are young and careless of other people's wishes. I want you to learn to consider others before yourself, and to remember to do so without a dreadful punishment to fix it in your memory."

"It's lucky, isn't it, that I don't get punished for all the naughty things I do? It would keep me busy being punished most of the time."

"You ARE a mischievous child, Marjorie; but your mischief is always the result of carelessness or forgetfulness. I have never known you purposely to disobey me or deliberately to cut up some naughty trick."

"No, I don't, Grandma; often I'm being just as good as an angel and as quiet as a mouse, when suddenly something pops into my head that would be fun to do; and I fly and do it, before I think, and just about every time it's something wrong!"

"Then suppose you try to act more slowly. When you think of some piece of fun, pause a moment, to make sure that it isn't mischief. There's quite enough innocent fun in the world to keep you busy all day, and every day."

"I 'spect there is; and truly, Grandma, after this, when I want to cut up jinks, I'll wait until I can think it out, whether they're good jinks or bad jinks! Will that do?"

"That will do admirably," said Grandma, smiling as she kissed the little girl; "if you go through life on that principle and if you have judgment enough—and I think you have—to tell 'good jinks' from 'bad jinks,' you will probably have plenty of good times without any necessity for punishment."

"Then that's all right," said Marjorie, and feeling that her life problems were all settled, she dropped off to sleep.