Then suddenly, much to her small sister's disgust, she went in, closing
the door behind her.
Mr. Shaw was leaning back in his big chair at one corner of the
fireplace. "Well," he asked, looking up, "did you get your letter in
in time, my dear?"
"Oh, it wasn't the time." Pauline sat down on a low bench at the other
end of the fireplace. "It was that I wanted to feel that it was really
mailed. Did you ever feel that way about a letter, father? And as if,
if you didn't hurry and get it in--you wouldn't--mail it?"
Something in her tone made her father glance at her more closely; it
was very like the tone in which Patience was apt to make her rather
numerous confessions. Then it occurred to him, that, whether by
accident or design, she was sitting on the very stool on which Patience
usually placed herself at such times, and which had gained thereby the
name of "the stool of penitence."
"Yes," he answered, "I have written such letters once or twice in my
life."
Pauline stooped to straighten out the hearth rug. "Father," she said
abruptly; "I have been writing to Uncle Paul." She drew a sharp breath
of relief.
"You have been writing to your Uncle Paul! About what, Pauline?"
And Pauline told him.
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