I recall a Christmas long ago when I was just beginning to write scraps of stories myself, with no thought of ever amounting to anything as a writer. Her gift to me that year was a thousand sheets of typewriter paper; and in a sweet little note that accompanied it she wished me success and bade me turn those thousand sheets of paper into as many dollars. It was my first real encouragement. The first hint that anybody thought I ever could write, and I laughed aloud at the utter impossibility of its ever coming true. But I feel that my first inspiration for story-telling came from her, and from reading her books in which as a child I fairly steeped myself. So I beg the leniency of her readers of to-day as I approach the task that is set before me. I know I shall have hers. My one hope is that I shall not in any way mar the message of this true and thrilling tale, that certainly is needed in this day and generation. I trust that she may soon be well enough to write once more, herself, another tale as good if not better. Let me tell you a secret. I happen to know that this wonderful little brave aunt of mine is at work on the story of her younger years. She calls it "Yesterdays." I have had the pleasure of reading a few of the earlier chapters where she tells of her childhood and her young womanhood; the quaint things that happened to her; the dear home in which she lived; the great people of other days whom she knew intimately and with whom she grew up. I pray she may be spared with strength to finish her story of her "Yesterdays," and many more beside. GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL CONTENTS CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI CHAPTER VII CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER IX CHAPTER X CHAPTER XI CHAPTER XII CHAPTER XIII CHAPTER XIV AN INTERRUPTED NIGHT CHAPTER I THE train had limped along all the afternoon with engine trouble, and now at evening the passengers learned that they were two hours behind schedule and still losing time. Mrs. Dunlap put away her writing materials and sat up with a sigh to look about her. It began to look as if she might be going to miss her connections unless relief from this state of things came soon. She had just finished correcting the last galley of her new book which was to come out that fall; she had gone over the notes for her new addresses she was on her way to make at several appointed places; she had finished reading her magazine from cover to cover; she had even written a couple of letters to friends; and here she was with time on her hands! An almost unheard of thing for this busy woman. Not many hours of leisure came her way, and when one did, it filled her almost with dismay at the enforced waste of time.