Upon the horns of that altar Aunt Adela intended that Laura, entirely for her own good, should be offered up; for Aunt Adela was indefatigably benevolent at second hand. She used to make opportunity for little chats with Laura, and paint flamboyant pictures of the delights that awaited her if she would only tell Gran’papa that she should like to go to school. (Already the household was finding Laura a convenient mediator.) Laura listened politely, with her head on one side, like a wary robin. But she, too, did not commit herself. One unlucky morning, however, fate overtook her. She was engaged at the time in the particularly fascinating occupation of tidying Mrs. Cloud’s wardrobe drawers. If I were Laura, I could write a poem on Mrs. Cloud’s wardrobe, big as a little house, brown and grained and polished like a horse-chestnut or a ha’penny bun, with its clinking handles and the long looking-glass door, which, as it swung open, reflected in the mantel-glass opposite your own side face, unfamiliar, gratifying. It had dark shelves that ran up like ladder-rungs to the ceiling—but they pulled out disconcertingly if you tried to climb—and great drawers in which you could easily have hidden Prince Charlie (lying flat with blouses over him) what time the Butcher and his Southrons clanked up the stairs. Oh, the long shelves and the deep draws it had, all vaguely sweet with orris-root and lemon-weed, and the piles of smooth linen (Laura’s night-dresses were flannel, a hygienic brown) and the tiny scented bags that dropped from them, tied up with rainbow ribbons! And there were boxes—Japanese boxes—each with its special smell of lace or leather, and its name upon its lid in golden handwriting; and a little wicker basket where the dead gloves went, that Laura might take for finger-stalls or gardening; and shawls for dressing-up, and a feather fan, and a scarf from India all sewn over with silver and as heavy as a tennis net, for playing mermaids. There was a piece-drawer like _Mrs. S. F. Robinson’s_ enchanted bag; and a carved comb six inches high and once, in a corner, candles and glass balls from last year’s Christmas tree; and little trinket cases that Laura was allowed to open, and the great jewel box with the baize petticoat that was always locked because it had diamonds inside it, and Justin’s watch, and more rings than would go on all Laura’s fingers, counting thumbs. The sea hath its pearls, and argosies unload in London Town; but have you ever tidied Mrs. Cloud’s wardrobe?