“I haven’t said that—­”

“See here, Paul, I’ll play fair, if you do; but if you go trying to act any ‘grown-up sister’ business I’ll—­”

And Pauline capitulated.  “I can’t tell you about it yet, Patty; father said not to.  I want you to promise not to ask questions, or say anything about it, before Hilary.  We don’t want her to get all worked up, thinking something nice is going to happen, and then maybe have her disappointed.”

“Will it be nice—­very nice?”

“I hope so.”

“And will I be in it?”

“I don’t know.  I don’t know what it’ll be, or when it’ll be.”

“Oh, dear!  I wish you did.  I can’t think who it is you wrote to,
Paul.  And why didn’t father like your doing it?”

“I haven’t said that he—­”

“Paul, you’re very tiresome.  Didn’t he know you were going to do it?”

Pauline gathered up her cups and saucers without answering.

“Then he didn’t,” Patience observed.  “Does mother know about it?”

“I mean to tell her as soon as I get a good chance,” Pauline said impatiently, going back to the dining-room.

When she returned a few moments later, she found Patience still in the pantry, sitting thoughtfully on the old, blue sugar bucket.  “I know,” Patience announced triumphantly.  “You’ve been writing to Uncle Paul!”

Pauline gasped and fled to the kitchen; there were times when flight was the better part of discretion, in dealing with the youngest member of the Shaw family.

On the whole, Patience behaved very well that evening, only, on going to bid her father good-night, did she ask anxiously, how long it took to send a letter to New York and get an answer.

“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?”

“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.