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. You know so little about us, that perhaps you do not
remember which of us Hilary is. She comes next to me, and is just
thirteen. She hasn't been well for a long time, not since she had to
leave school last winter, and the doctor says that what she needs is a
thorough change. Mother and I have talked it over and over, but we
simply can't manage it. I would try to earn some money, but I haven't
a single accomplishment; besides I don't see how I could leave home,
and anyway it would take so long, and Hilary needs a change now. And
so I am writing to ask you to please help us out a little. I do hope
you won't be angry at my asking; and I hope very, very much, that you