“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.”