Pauline dropped the napkin she was hemming and, leaning back in her chair, stared soberly down into the rain-swept garden.
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?
