letters. He had never married, and somewhere down at the bottom of his
apparently crusty, old heart he must have kept a soft spot for the
children of his only brother.

Thus Pauline's imagination ran on, until near the post-office she met
her father. The whole family had just finished a tour of the West in
Mr. Paul Shaw's private car--of course, he must have a private car,
wasn't he a big railroad man?--and Pauline had come back to Winton long
enough to gather up her skirts a little more firmly when she saw Mr.
Shaw struggling up the hill against the wind.

"Pauline!" he stopped, straightening his tall, scholarly figure. "What
brought you out in such a storm?"

With a sudden feeling of uneasiness, Pauline wondered what he would say
if she were to explain exactly what it was that had brought her out.
With an impulse towards at least a half-confession, she said hurriedly,
"I wanted to post a letter I'd just written; I'll be home almost as
soon as you are, father."

Then she ran on down the street. All at once she felt her courage
weakening; unless she got her letter posted immediately she felt she
should end by tearing it up.

When it had slipped from her sight through the narrow slit labeled
"LETTERS," she stood a moment, almost wishing it were possible to get
it back again.

She went home rather slowly. Should she confess at once, or wait until
Uncle Paul's answer came? It should be here inside of a week, surely;