Sheila watched her mother reading, and saw that great emotion possessed her, though the girl could not know the cause. Presently, however, Mrs. Llyn, who had read the letter from her brother, made a joyful exclamation.
"What is it, mother dear?" Sheila asked eagerly. "Tell me!"
The mother made a passionate gesture of astonishment and joy; then she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, with the letter—which was closely written, in old-fashioned punctiliousness—in her hands.
"Oh, my dear, my dear!" she said. "How strange it all is! Your Uncle Bryan is immensely rich. He has no children and no family; his health is failing."
She seemed able to get no further.
"Well, what is it, mother?" asked Sheila again.
For an instant Mrs. Llyn hesitated; then she put the letter into Sheila's hands.
"Read it, my child," she said. "It's for you as much as for me—indeed, more for you than for me." Sheila took the letter. It ran as follows:
DEAREST SISTER:
It is eleven years since I wrote to you, and yet, though it may seem strange, there have not been eleven days in all that time in which I have not wished you and Sheila were here. Sheila—why, she is a young woman! She's about the age you were when I left Ireland, and you were one of the most beautiful and charming creatures God ever gave life to. The last picture I have of you was a drawing made soon after your marriage—sad, bad, unhappy incident. I have kept it by me always. It warms my heart in winter; it cools my eyes in summer.