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.