"No, indeed," the child said gravely, "but," she looked up, answering
his glance. "Paul didn't tell me, father; I--guessed. Uncle Paul does
live in New York, doesn't he?"

"Yes," Mr. Shaw answered, almost sharply. "Now run to bed, my dear."

But when the stairs were reached. Patience most certainly did not run.
"I think people are very queer," she said to herself, "they seem to
think _ten_ years isn't a bit more grown-up than six or seven."

"Mummy," she asked, when later her mother came to take away her light,
"father and Uncle Paul are brethren, aren't they?"

"My dear! What put that into your head?"

"Aren't they?"

"Certainly, dear."

"Then why don't they 'dwell together in unity'?"

"Patience!" Mrs. Shaw stared down at the sharp inquisitive little face.

"Why don't they?" Patience persisted. If persistency be a virtue,
Patience was to be highly commended.

"My dear, who has said that they do not?"

Patience shrugged; as if things had always to be said. "But, mummy--"