at the trunk. Her mother did love grand rooms so! Her mother did love New York so! To-morrow when Laurel woke up there would be the rumble of New York outside her window hundreds of feet below.
Very carefully Laurel turned her head upon her folded hands and looked at her mother. She wasn't pretty in the early morning in a battered old iron bed, of course. No lady can be pretty with her mouth hanging open, and her hair all mussy and tousled. Laurel's mother's hair looked like straw, now—dry and dead. But when she did it up and put the magic net on it, it seemed to come alive. It was the same with the early-morning ashen look of her skin. It disappeared completely, along with the shadows, and queer greenish hollow places, and tiny wrinkles, when she was ready to step out of the mean little room. It was wonderful what Laurel's mother could do with a little powder and a little rouge, and a bit of chamois skin. It seemed to Laurel there was real magic there—no pretence, as in her Cinderella game.
She turned away from her mother. It wasn't fair to look at a picture till it was finished.
5
It was fully half an hour later when Laurel gazing at the ceiling became aware that her mother was no longer breathing out loud. She knew even without looking that her mother's blue eyes were wide open. She could feel them staring at her!
She turned her head towards her. Her mother was indeed staring at her!
