Brentwood

© 2014 by Grace Livingston Hill

eBook Editions:

Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-63058-198-5

Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-63058-197-8

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

About the Author

Chapter 1

Chicago, 1930s

Marjorie Wetherill had always known she was an adopted child. She had been told when she was so young that it meant nothing at all to her. And as the years went by and she was surrounded by love and luxury, she thought little of it. Once when she was in high school she had asked about her birth family casually, more out of curiosity than because of any felt need for them, and she had been told that they were respectable people who had been unfortunate and couldn’t afford to bring her up as they would like to have her brought up. It had all been very vague. But Marjorie was happy, and her adoptive mother greatly stressed the fact that while Marjorie had not been born her own, she had been chosen because they loved her at first sight, and that meant more even than if she had been born theirs.

As Marjorie grew older, however, she wondered now and then how a mother, if she had a true mother heart, could bear to give up her child. It seemed an unnatural thing, to surrender her permanently that way and promise never to see her again. But there was even uncertainty as to whether her mother was still living. And so the thought passed by and the happy days of her girlhood went on.

Mrs. Wetherill was a devoted parent, and she and Marjorie were dear companions. It scarcely seemed real to Marjorie that there had ever been any other mother, and as for another father, he wasn’t even sketchily in the background.

When Mr. Wetherill died, Marjorie was still in her school life, and she and her mother were brought even closer together, so that when Mrs. Wetherill was suddenly stricken with an illness that they both knew would be swift and fatal, the girl spent the last months of her adoptive mother’s life in utmost devotion to her. When it was over and she was alone, Marjorie felt utterly desolate, and life seemed barren indeed.

There were many friends, of course, for the Wetherills had a large, pleasant social circle, and there were instant invitations for prolonged visits here and there, but Marjorie had no heart to go. She longed for someone of her own. The world seemed empty and uninteresting.

People told her that feeling would pass, and she tried to believe them, but she fell to wondering more and more about her birth family and wished she knew whether any of them were living, and where. She wished she had asked more about them.

Then one morning, about ten days before Christmas, because she could not settle to anything else, and because she had been almost dreading to go over her beloved mother’s intimate papers, she went bravely to Mrs. Wetherill’s desk in the living room, unlocked it, and began to look over the papers in the pigeon-holes.

The old lawyer had gone over all the papers of the estate with her, those that were kept at the bank, and there was nothing to worry about as far as money was concerned. The entire Wetherill estate was left to her without a question, and it was a comfortable fortune. The income was ample for any possible needs.

But this desk was where Mrs. Wetherill used to write her social and friendly letters, and seemed a very intimate part of her. Marjorie had known that sooner or later she must go over everything and put away or destroy the things their owner would have wished disposed of. In fact, Mrs. Wetherill had given her careful instructions about it.

But as she went from drawer to drawer, emptying every pigeonhole and burning in the fireplace such things as had to be destroyed, she came finally to the little secret drawer, and there she found among several other important papers, a thick letter for herself.

In great surprise, for she had not known of any such letter, she began to read it, the quick tears springing to her eyes as the precious handwriting seemed to bring back the dear one who had left her.

Dearest Marjorie:

There is something that perhaps I should have spoken of long ago, but did not, and I feel as if I must leave some word about it behind for you when I go. I cannot bring myself to talk about it to you and spoil our last brief days together, but I feel that it is something you should know.

I have never told you much about your birth family. I did not really know much myself to tell, until about two years ago.