Overhead, Patience was having a "clarin' up scrape" in her particular
corner of the big garret, to the tune of "There's a Good Time Coming."
Pauline drew a quick breath; probably, there was a good time
coming--any number of them--only they were not coming her way; they
would go right by on the main road, they always did.
"'There's a good time coming,'" Patience insisted shrilly, "'Help it
on! Help it on!'"
Pauline drew another quick breath. She would help them on! If they
would none of them stop on their own account, they must be flagged.
And--yes, she would do it--right now.
Getting up, she brought her writing-portfolio from the closet, clearing
a place for it on the little table before the window. Then her eyes
went back to the dreary, rain-soaked garden. How did one begin a
letter to an uncle one had never seen; and of whom one meant to ask a
great favor?
But at last, after more than one false start, the letter got itself
written, after a fashion.
Pauline read it over to herself, a little dissatisfied pucker between
her brows:--
_Mr. Paul Almy Shaw,
New York City, New York_.
MY DEAR UNCLE PAUL: First, I should like you to understand that
neither father nor mother know that I am writing this letter to you;
and that if they did, I think they would forbid it; and I should like
you to believe, too, that if it were not for Hilary I should not dream
of writing it.
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