CHAPTER XIII
1
"I shouldn't think that Simpson woman earned her salt. She's let your nails get into a terrible condition!" scolded Stella.
"Oh, but Miss Simpson never does my nails, mother," laughed Laurel.
She and Stella were seated opposite each other at a card-table in their bedroom at the King Arthur. There was a bath-towel spread over the table. Laurel held the finger-tips of one hand in a bowl filled with warm water, while her mother worked over the other. It was early afternoon of the first day of Laurel's arrival.
"Gracious, Laurel, this cuticle hasn't been pushed back once since you've been gone, I'll bet. I don't know what will become of you if you don't take more pains with yourself. These nails of yours are all split and broken to pieces."
"But I've been camping, mother."
"I should think you'd been mining, and using your fingers for pick-axes!"
A cat no more vigorously sets herself to work over the deplorable condition of her kitten after a visit to the coal-bin than did Stella over Laurel after her visit to New York and the Maine woods, "where they lived like animals," according to her way of thinking.
Stella was thankful this time, with all her heart,
