"What do you think, grandmother?" cried Dorothy, "guess,—which way do you guess?"
"I guess, no," said Mrs. Dorrance, who was used to guessing games.
"I guess, yes!" shouted Lilian; "of course it's sold! and we'll have lots of money and we'll go to Europe, and Africa, and Chicago, and everywhere!"
"And over to Brooklyn," chimed in Fairy; "I do want to go to Brooklyn, 'cause I've never been there and Gladys Miller says it's awful funny, and besides——"
"A letter! here's a letter," cried Leicester, bouncing into the room; "open it, open it quick, granny dear!"
"I can't," said the old lady, helplessly; "you children make such a noise, I'm all bewildered. Open it, Dorothy, and read it aloud; and the rest of you, do try to keep still."
Eagerly, Dorothy tore open the letter, and began to read it:
Mrs. Elizabeth Dorrance:
Dear Madam:—I had a final interview to-day with Mr. Ware. As you know, he had about concluded to buy your hotel, but he has been making inquiries concerning it, and has learned that it has not been occupied for several years. He fears that he cannot make it pay as a business venture, and has therefore definitely decided not to buy it.
I do not wish to discourage you, my dear madam, but it looks to me as if it would not be possible to sell the hotel this season, and indeed, I doubt if you can ever dispose of it to your satisfaction. The next best course, in my opinion, would be for you to allow it to be sold at auction. This plan would enable you to pay the back taxes now due, and relieve you of further obligations of the same sort,—though I fear there would be little or no margin of profit for you in this arrangement.
However, should you think best to adopt this course, please advise me promptly, and I will take the necessary steps in the matter.
I am, my dear madam,
Respectfully yours,
"Lewis H. Lloyd."
At the conclusion of this letter the four Dorrance children groaned in concert. Their concerted groan was an old-established affair, and by reason of much practice they had brought it to a high state of perfection. It began with a low wail which deepened and strengthened through several bass notes, and then slid up to high C with a wild, final shriek. It was most effective as an expression of utter exasperation, but Mrs. Dorrance, though accustomed to it, lived in a state of fear lest it might cause the landlady to request them to give up their rooms.
"Oh, dear," said Lilian, after the groan had subsided, "I felt sure that Ware man was going to take the old place. I think he's mean!"