But the shadowy corner only gave back the renewed efforts of the sharp little teeth; so at last, Phronsie, plucking up courage, stepped in.  The door swung to after her, giving out a little click, unnoticed in her trepidation as she picked her way carefully along, holding her red gown away from any chance nibbles.  It was a low narrow closet, unlighted save by a narrow latticed window, in the ceiling, for the most part filled with two lines of shelves running along the side and one end.  Phronsie caught her breath as she went in, the air was so confined; and stumbling over in the dim light, put her hand on the box desired, a small black affair, easily found, as it was the only one there.

“I will take it out into the lumber-room; then I can get the velvet roll,” and gathering it up within her arms, she speedily made her way back to the door.

“Why”—­another pull at the knob; but with the same result, and Phronsie, setting the box on the floor, still with thoughts only of the mouse, put both hands to the task of opening the door.

“It sticks, I suppose, because no one comes up here only once in a great while,” she said in a puzzled way.  “I ought to be able to pull it open, I’m sure, for I am so big and strong.”  She exerted all her strength till her face was like a rose.  The door was fast.  Phronsie turned a despairing look upon the shadowy corner.

“Please don’t bite me,” she said, the large tears gathering in her brown eyes.  “I am locked in here in your house; but I didn’t want to come, and I won’t do anything to hurt you if you’ll let me sit down and wait till somebody comes to let me out.”

Meanwhile Mrs. Chatterton shook out her black satin gown complacently, and with a satisfied backward glance at the mirror, sailed off to her own apartments.

“Madame,” exclaimed Hortense breathlessly, meeting her within the door, “de modiste will not send de gown; you must”—­

“Will not send it?” repeated her mistress in a passion.  “A pretty message to deliver.  Go back and get it at once.”

“She say de drapery—­de tournure all wrong, and she must try it on again,” said the maid, glad to be defiant, since the dressmaker supported her.

“What utter nonsense!  Yet I suppose I must go, or the silly creature will have it ruined.  Take off this gown, Hortense, and bring my walking suit, then ring and say I’d like to have Thomas take me down there at once,” and throwing off her bracelets, and the various buckles and pins that confined her laces, she rapidly disrobed and was expeditiously inducted by Hortense into her walking apparel, and, a parlor maid announcing that Thomas with the coupe was at the door, she hurried downstairs, with no thought for anything beyond a hasty last charge to her maid.

“Where’s Phronsie?” cried Polly, rushing into Mother Fisher’s room; “O dear me, my hair won’t stay straight,” pushing the rebellious waves out of her eyes.