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 toward her. Her mother was indeed staring at her!

“Hello,” said Laurel, smiling tenderly.

“Hello,” said her mother, still staring.

“What’s the matter? What are you thinking of?” Laurel softly inquired.

“I was thinking what a burning shame you haven’t naturally curly hair!” her mother exclaimed. “It makes me about sick to think of you down there for a whole month, with your hair hanging down as straight as a stick.”

“Oh, it looks all right.”