"That depends considerably upon the promptness with which the party written to answers the letter," Mr. Shaw told her.
"A week?" Patience questioned.
"Probably—if not longer."
Patience sighed.
"Have you been writing a letter to someone in New York?" her father asked.
"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?"