The girls romped upstairs to the great unused upper story, where heaps of household rubbish obscured the dusty half-windows. In a corner, behind Louise's baby chair and an unfashionable hat-rack of the old steering-wheel pattern, they found the little brown-painted tin trunk, corded up with clothesline. "Louise!" said Esther, hastily, "what did you tell her your name was?" "I just said 'Louise'." Esther pointed to the name painted on the trunk, LOUISE LEVY "It is the hand of Providence," she said. "Somehow, now, I'm _sure_ you're quite right to go." And neither of these conscientious young ladies reflected for one minute on the discomfort which might be occasioned to Madame Remy by the defection of her new servant a half-hour before dinner-time on Saturday night. * * * * * "Oh, child, it's you, is it?" was Mme. Remy's greeting at twelve o'clock on Saturday. "Well, you're punctual--and you look clean. Now, are you going to break my dishes or are you going to steal my rings? Well, we'll find out soon enough. Your trunk's up in your room. Go up to the servant's quarters--right at the top of those stairs there. Ask for the room that belongs to apartment 11. You are to room with their girl." Louise was glad of a moment's respite. She had taken the plunge; she was determined to go through to the end. But her heart _would_ beat and her hands _would_ tremble. She climbed up six flights of winding stairs, and found herself weak and dizzy when she reached the top and gazed around her. She was in a great half-story room, eighty feet square. The most of it was filled with heaps of old furniture and bedding, rolls of carpet, of canvas, of oilcloth, and odds and ends of discard of unused household gear--the dust thick over all. A little space had been left around three sides, to give access to three rows of cell-like rooms, in each of which the ceiling sloped from the very door to a tiny window at the level of the floor. In each room was a bed, a bureau that served for wash-stand, a small looking-glass, and one or two trunks. Women's dresses hung on the whitewashed walls. She found No. 11, threw off, desperately, her hat and jacket, and sunk down on the little brown tin trunk, all trembling from head to foot. "Hello," called a cheery voice. She looked up and saw a girl in a dirty calico dress. "Just come?" inquired this person, with agreeable informality. She was a good-looking large girl, with red hair and bright cheeks. She leaned against the door-post and polished her finger-nails with a little brush. Her hands were shapely.