Chance of a Lifetime by Grace Livingston Hill Page B

trust you that way, Alan, from now on. I’m sure He had some beautiful, wonderful reason for keeping you home from the desert.”

Chapter 6
    S herrill Washburn turned from the door with her hands full of letters that the postman had just brought, and shuffled them deftly over.
    One for Grandma Sherrill with the address of her weekly religious paper in the upper left-hand corner. That would be the yearly reminder that the subscription was due.
    Two for Mother, the square one from Cousin Euphrasia, who was a shut-in and depended on Mother for her personal touch with the outside world. The long one would be an acknowledgment of the yearly report Mother, as secretary of the Church Missionary Society, had recently sent in.
    A sheaf of receipted bills, a letter from a far western investment that had practically become valueless, yet from time to time gave out hope that it might revive and still be worth paying its taxes. How well each of the often-recurring letters was known in the family’s life! How Sherrill longed for something new and exciting, just as she had longed for the last five years, ever since she had begun to grow up and be impatient for real living to begin.
    This time, however, there were two other letters at the bottom of the heap, both with a New York postmark. Sherrill hastened her step out of the darkness of the hall, back into the living room where her mother and grandmother sat sewing.
    “Two real letters at last,” she announced cheerfully to her mother, “one for you and one for me, and I believe mine is from Uncle West. What in the world do you suppose he is writing to me for? It isn’t my birthday or Christmas and he writes to send me a check to buy my present.”
    “Read it and see,” said Grandmother Sherrill hungrily. She had already opened her meager communication and laid it in her work basket disappointedly. There was another grandchild living out in the world who might have written to her. She was always hoping, although she had long ago begun to realize that modern youth has little time for grandmothers.
    The room was very still for a minute or two, while mother and daughter read their letters. There was no sound but the snip of Grandmother’s scissors as she clipped off the thread from the napkins she was making out of a much-worn tablecloth.
    Sherrill finished first and looked up, watching her mother’s face as she carefully turned her own letter back to the beginning and read it over.
    “Well?” she asked at last, as her mother completed the last page for the second time and folded the letter in her lap, looking up. “Did you get one, too? Of course I can’t go, but what on earth do you suppose made him think of it? Who wrote yours? Not Uncle Weston, for I know his writing. You don’t mean to tell me that Aunt Eloise has broken the silence of years at last?”
    The mother came back as from some sudden perplexity and turned her eyes on Sherrill.
    “Really, dear, you ought not to speak that way of your aunt,” she reproved. “This letter is quite—well—kind, I think, and after all, we may have misjudged her. You know we don’t really know her at all.”
    “Well, what is it all about, anyway?” asked Grandmother Sherrill impatiently. “Read out your letter, Sherrill. There is little enough to break the monotony.”
    “Yes, read your letter,” said the mother with a smile. “Is it from your uncle?”
    Sherrill read her letter.
    My dear niece:
    Your aunt and I want you to come and spend a few months in the city with us this winter. We think it is time that you and your cousin got acquainted and had some good times together.
    We expect to be back from the shore early in November and shall expect you as soon as you can make your arrangements to come on. Your aunt is writing your mother so I will not go into details, for she will tell you all you need to know. I am enclosing my check to cover railroad expenses and hope that we shall be able to give you a good