"I did not say that," interposed Faith. "Not just that. It was about vain and frivolous world's people, and Chloe said she was not a Quaker any more, and I—how canst thou like her, Cousin Andrew?"
"Children, there must be no quarreling. There are many families where there are friends and members of various beliefs. And if we cannot love one another, how shall we love God?"
Faith made a sudden dart to Andrew and caught his hand.
"Thou art not her cousin, truly," she exclaimed with triumph.
"As much as I am thine. Our mothers were sisters. Primrose's father and mine were brothers. That is why our names are alike. And if you are good I shall like you both, but I cannot like naughty children."
"You see!" Primrose said in high disdain to her crestfallen compeer. "I was right. If Uncle James had not been my uncle I should not have had to come here. And I should not care for Andrew."
There was something superb in the defiance visible in every feature and the proud poise of the shoulders. A woman grown could hardly have done better. Andrew Henry was curiously amused, and not a little puzzled as to how he should restore peace between them. Faith's face had settled into sullen lines.
"I shall love best whichever one is best and readiest in obedience and kindliness," he said slowly.
"I do not care." Primrose turned away with the air of a small queen. "I shall go back to town and you may have Faith and—and everybody." But the voice which began so resolutely in her renunciation broke and ended with a sob.
"Oh, my dear child!" Andrew's arm was about her and his lips pressed tenderly to her forehead, and the relenting lines gave him an exquisite thrill of pleasure he did not understand.