Polly had reached the door, when a little cry arrested her. She turned to see Miss Lily half kneeling on the stairs, clutching the rail.
"Oh! are you hurt?" Polly ran up to her.
"Not much, I guess," was the tremulous answer. "I can't see, and the stairs are so wide! I fall every day or so!"
Polly helped her up. "I'd go close to the balustrade, if I were you."
"Oh, no! I mustn't!" Miss Lily whispered, glancing down into the hall.
"She's gone," said Polly softly. "Come right up here! Afraid of scratching? 'T won't do any harm—with your soft slippers."
"She won't let me!" breathed the frightened woman.
"Oh, I guess she won't mind!" returned Polly easily. "That's what rails are made for—to cling to."
"What's the matter now!" broke in a cutting voice.
"Why, Miss Lily fell, and I'm trying to make her come up close to the rail, so she can get a good, firm hold; but she's afraid of scratching the stairs."