The conviction of the Misses Cabot that youthful manhood was dangerous and to be shunned like the plague Mary soon discovered was not shared by the majority of the young ladies. If Miss Priscilla and Miss Hortense had had their way Harvard University and the Institute of Technology would have been moved forthwith to some remote spot like the North Pole or San Francisco. There were altogether too many "cousins" or "sons of old family friends" calling at the school to deliver messages from parents or guardians or the said friends. These messengers, young gentlemen with budding mustaches and full-blown raiment, were rigidly inspected and their visits carefully chaperoned: but letters came and were treasured and the cheerful inanity of their contents imparted, in strict secrecy, to bosom friends of the recipients.

Mary received no such letters. No cousins or family friends called to deliver messages to her. No photographs of young fellows in lettered sweaters were hidden among her belongings. Her friends in the school thought this state of affairs very odd and they sometimes asked pointed questions.

Miss Barbara Howe, whose home was in Brookline and whose father was the senior partner of an old and well-known firm of downtown merchants, was the leading questioner. She liked Mary and the latter liked her. Barbara was pretty and full of spirits and, although she was the only child, and a rather spoiled one, in a wealthy family, there was no snobbishness in her make-up.

"But I can't see," she declared, "what you have been doing all the time. Where have you been keeping yourself? Don't you know ANYBODY?"

Mary smiled. "Oh, yes," she replied, "I know a good many people."

"You know what I mean. Don't you know any of the fellows at Harvard, or Tech, or Yale, or anywhere? I know dozens. And you must know some. You know Sam Keith; you said you did."

Mary admitted that she knew Sam slightly.

"Isn't he fun! Sam and I are great chums. Doesn't he dance divinely!"

"I don't know. I never saw him dance."

"Then you've missed something. Do you know his friend, the one on the football team—Crawford Smith, his name is—do you know him?"

Mary nodded. "I—I've met him," she said.

"You HAVE? Don't you think he is perfectly splendid?"

"I don't know. Is he?"

"Of course he is. Haven't you read about him in the papers? He made that long run for a touchdown in the Yale game. Oh, you should have seen it! I couldn't speak for two days after that game. He was just as cool and calm. All the Yale men were trying to get him and he dodged—I never saw anyone so cool and who kept his head so well."

"I thought the papers spoke most of the way he kept his feet."

"Then you did read about it! Of course you did! I'm just dying to know him. All the girls are crazy about him. Where did you meet him? Tell me!"

Mary smiled. On the occasion of her only meeting with Crawford Smith that young fellow had been anything but cool.

"I met him in my uncle's store at South Harniss," she said. "It was three years ago."

"And you haven't seen him since? He is a great friend of Sam's. And Sam's people have a summer home at the Cape. Perhaps you'll meet him there again."

"Perhaps."

"Goodness! One would think you didn't want to."

"Why, I don't know that I do, particularly. Why should I?"

"Why should you! Mary Lathrop, I do think you are the queerest girl. You don't talk like a girl at all. Sometimes I think you are as old as—as Prissy." "Prissy" was the disrespectful nickname by which the young ladies referred, behind her back, to Miss Priscilla Cabot.

Mary laughed. "Not quite, I hope," she said. "But I don't see why I should be so very anxious to meet Crawford Smith. And I'm sure he isn't anxious to meet me. If all the other girls are crazy about him, that ought to be enough, I should think."

This astonishing profession of indifference to the fascination of the football hero, indifference which Miss Barbara declared to be only make-believe, was made on a Saturday. The next day, as Mrs. Wyeth and Mary were on their way home from church, the former made an announcement.

"We are to have a guest, perhaps guests, at dinner this noon," she said. Sunday dinner at Mrs. Wyeth's was served, according to New England custom, at one o'clock.

"Samuel, Mr. John Keith's son, is to dine with us," continued Mrs. Wyeth. "He may bring a college friend with him. You have met Samuel, haven't you, Mary?"

Mary said that she had. She was a trifle embarrassed at the prospect of meeting Sam Keith in her new surroundings. At home, in South Harniss, they had met many times, but always at the store. He was pleasant and jolly and she liked him well enough, although she had refused his invitations to go on sailing parties and the like. She knew perfectly well that his mother and sister would not have approved of these invitations, for in the feminine Keith mind there was a great gulf fixed between the summer resident and the native. The latter was to be helped and improved but not encouraged socially beyond a certain point. Mary sought neither help nor improvement of that kind. Sam, it is true, had never condescended or patronized, but he had never called at her home nor had she been asked to visit his.

And now she was to meet him in a house where she was considered one of the family. His father had been influential in bringing her there. Did Sam know this and, if he did, what influence would the knowledge have upon his manner toward her? Would he be lofty and condescending or, on the other hand, would he pretend a familiar acquaintanceship which did not exist? Alone in her room she considered these questions and then put them from her mind. Whatever his manner might be, hers, she determined, should be what it had always been. And if any embarrassment was evident to others at this meeting it should not be on her part.

When she came downstairs, Mrs. Wyeth called to her to come into the parlor. As she entered the room two young men rose from the chairs beside the mahogany center table. One of these young men was Sam Keith; she had expected to see Sam, of course. But the other—the other was the very individual in whose daring deeds and glorified personality she had expressed a complete lack of interest only the day before, the young fellow whom she had last seen racing madly across the fields in the rear of Hamilton and Company's store with the larger portion of a sheet of sticky fly paper attached to his white flannels. Mr. Crawford Smith was taller and broader than on that memorable occasion but she recognized him instantly.

It was evident that he did not recognize her. Mrs. Wyeth came to meet her.

"Mary," she said, "you know Samuel, I think. You and he have met before. Samuel, will you introduce your friend?"

Sam was staring at Mary with eyes which expressed a variety of emotions, intense surprise the most prominent. He was in a state which Barbara Howe would have described as "fussed," one most unusual for him. He had known of Mary's presence in the house; after the affair was settled John Keith told his family what he had done, facing with serene philosophy his wife's displeasure and prophecies of certain regrets. Sam had vivid and pleasing recollections of the pretty country girl in the South Harniss store. He had not told his college friend that they were to meet her that day, one reason being that he was not certain they would meet, and the other a secret misgiving that it might be well to wait and inspect and listen before boasting of previous acquaintanceship. Sam's mother had lectured him on the subject before he left home. "Don't be too familiar, Sam," was her warning. "You may be sorry if you do. The girl is well enough here in South Harniss, where she is accustomed to her surroundings, but in Boston she may be quite out of place and impossible. I have told your father so, but he won't listen, of course. Don't YOU be foolish, for my sake."

But here was no green country girl. The self-possessed young woman who stood before him looked no more out of place and impossible in Mrs. Wyeth's dignified and aristocratic parlor than she had in the store where he had last seen her. Her gown was simple and inexpensive but it was stylish and becoming. And her manner—well, her manner was distinctly more at ease than his at that moment. Mary had been but eight weeks among the Misses Cabot's young ladies, but she had used her eyes and her brain during that time; she was adaptable and had learned other things than those in the curriculum. Also, she was prepared for this meeting and had made up her mind to show no embarrassment.

So the usually blase Samuel was the embarrassed party. He looked and stammered. Mrs. Wyeth was surprised and shocked.

"Samuel," she said sharply, "what is the matter with you? Why don't you speak and not stand there staring?"

Sam, with an effort, recovered some of his self-possession.

"Was I staring?" he said. "I beg your pardon, Cousin Emily. Er—How do you do, Miss Lathrop?"

Mrs. Wyeth sniffed.

"Mercy!" she exclaimed. "Is your acquaintance as formal as that? I thought you knew each other. The boys and girls of this generation are beyond me. 'Miss Lathrop,' indeed!"

Mary smiled. "Perhaps he didn't expect to see me here, Mrs. Wyeth," she said. "How do you do, Sam?"

She and Sam shook hands. Mrs. Wyeth asked another question.

"Didn't you know Mary was with me, Samuel?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, Cousin Emily, I knew. I knew she was here, of course. But—but I didn't—by George!" with a sudden outburst of his real feelings, "I hardly knew her, though. Really, I didn't."

Mary laughed. "Have I grown so much older in two months?" she asked.

"Oh, you haven't changed that way. I—I—" The young man, realizing that he was getting into deep water, seized an opportunity to scramble out. "Oh, I forgot!" he exclaimed. "Sorry, Crawford. Mary—Miss Lathrop, I want to present my friend, Crawford Smith. He's my roommate at college."

Mary and Crawford shook hands.

"I have met Mr. Smith, too, before," she said.

The young gentlemen, both of them, looked astonished.

"Have you?" cried Sam. "Oh, I say! I didn't know that. When was it?"

His friend, too, was plainly puzzled. "I hardly think so," he said. "I don't believe I should have forgotten it. I don't remember—"

"Don't you remember coming into my uncles' store at South Harniss with Miss Keith, Sam's sister? You bought some"—with a mischievous twinkle—"some marshmallows, among other things. I sold them to you."

"You? Great Scott! Are you—why that girl's name was—what was it?"

"It was the same as mine, Mary Augusta Lathrop. But in South Harniss they call me Mary-'Gusta."

"That was it! And you are Mary-'Gusta? Yes, of course you are! Well, I ought to be ashamed, I suppose, but I didn't recognize you. I AM ashamed. I was awfully obliged to you that day. You helped me out of a scrape."

Sam, who had been listening with increasing curiosity, broke in.

"Say, what's all this?" he demanded. "When was this, Crawford? What scrape? You never told me."

"And you didn't tell me that Miss Lathrop was here. You didn't say a word about her."

"Eh? Didn't I? I must have forgotten to mention it. She—she IS here, you know." Mrs. Wyeth shook her head.

"Samuel, you're perfectly idiotic today," she declared. "Of course she is here; anyone with eyes can see she is. She is—ahem—visiting me and she is attending the Misses Cabot's school. There! Now, Mr. Smith understands, I hope. And dinner is ready. Don't any of you say another word until we are at the table. My father used to say that lukewarm soup was the worst sort of cold reception and I agree with him."

During dinner Sam was tremendously curious to discover how and where his friend and Mary had met and what the scrape might be to which Crawford had referred. But his curiosity was unsatisfied. Mr. Smith refused to tell and Mary only smiled and shook her head when questioned.

The young people furnished most of the conversation during the meal. The recent football season and its triumphant ending were discussed, of course, and the prospects of the hockey team came in for its share. Sam, it appeared, was out for a place on the hockey squad.

"You must see some of the games, Mary," he said. "I'll get tickets for you and Cousin Emily. You're crazy about sports, aren't you, Cousin Emily."

Mrs. Wyeth regarded him through her eyeglasses.

"I imagine," she observed, "that that remark is intended as a joke. I saw one football game and the spectacle of those boys trampling each other to death before my eyes, and of you, Samuel Keith, hopping up and down shrieking, 'Tear 'em up' and 'Smash 'em' was the nearest approach to insanity I ever experienced. Since that time I have regarded Doctor Eliot as President Emeritus of an asylum and NOT a university."

Sam was hugely delighted. "That's football," he declared. "I will admit that no one but lunatics like Crawford here play football. Hockey, now, is different. I play hockey."

Crawford seemed surprised.

"Do you?" he asked, with eager interest. "No one has ever guessed it, not even the coach. You shouldn't keep it a secret from HIM, Sam."

Miss Pease, having been invited out that day, was not present at dinner. After the coffee was served the irrepressible Sam proposed a walk.

"You won't care to go, Cousin Emily," he said, "but I'm sure Mary will. It is a fine afternoon and she needs the air. Crawford isn't much of a walker; he can stay and keep Cousin Emily company. We won't be long."

Before Mary could decline this disinterested invitation Mrs. Wyeth saved her the trouble.

"Thank you, Samuel," she said, crisply. "Your kindness is appreciated, particularly by Mr. Smith and myself. I can see that he is delighted with the idea. But Mary and I are going to the afternoon service at the Arlington Street church. So you will have to excuse us."

This should have been a squelcher, but it was not. Sam announced that he and Crawford would go with them. "We were thinking of going to church, weren't we, Crawford? It is just what I suggested, you remember."

Mrs. Wyeth said "Humph," and that was all. She and Mary went to their rooms to get ready. Sam, surprised at the unexpected success of his sudden inspiration and immensely tickled, chuckled in triumph. But his joy was materially lessened when the quartette left the house.

"These sidewalks are too narrow for four," declared Mrs. Wyeth. "Samuel, you may walk with me. Mary, you and Mr. Smith must keep close at our heels and walk fast. I never permit myself or my guests to be late at church."

During the walk Crawford asked a number of questions. How long had his companion been in the city? How long did she intend staying? Did she plan returning to the school for another year? Where would she spend the Christmas vacation? Mary said she was going home, to South Harniss, for the holidays.

"It's a bully old place, Cape Cod," declared Crawford. "I never had a better time than I did on that visit at Sam's. Wish I were going there again some day."

"Why don't you?" asked Mary.

The young man shook his head. "Orders from home," he said. "Father insists on my coming home to him the moment the term closes. I made that visit to Sam's on my own responsibility and I got fits for doing it. Dad seems to have a prejudice against the East. He won't come here himself and he doesn't like to have me stay any longer than is absolutely necessary. When I wrote him I was at South Harniss he telegraphed me to come home in a hurry. He is Eastern born himself, lived somewhere this way when he was young, but he doesn't talk about it and has more prejudices against Eastern ways and Eastern people than if he'd lived all his life in Carson City. Won't even come on to see me play football. I doubt if he comes to Commencement next spring; and I graduate, too."

"I wonder he permitted you to go to Harvard," said Mary.

"He had to permit it. I've always been for Harvard ever since I thought about college. Dad was all for a Western university, but I sat back in the stirrups and pulled for Harvard and finally he gave in. He generally gives in if I buck hard enough. He's a bully old Dad and we're great pals, more like brothers than father and son. The only point where we disagree is his confounded sectional prejudice. He thinks the sun not only sets in the West but rises there."

The girl learned that he intended entering the Harvard Medical School in the fall.

"I had to fight for that, too," he said, with a laugh. "I've always wanted to be a doctor but Dad wouldn't give in for ever so long. He is interested in mining properties there at home and it was his idea that I should come in with him when I finished school. But I couldn't see it. I wanted to study medicine. Dad says there are almost as many starving doctors as there are down-at-the-heel lawyers; if I go in with him, he says, I shall have what is practically a sure thing and a soft snap for the rest of my days. That doesn't suit me. I want to work; I expect to. I want to paddle my own canoe. I may be the poorest M.D. that ever put up a sign, but I'm going to put that sign up just the same. And if I starve I shan't ask him or anyone else to feed me."

He laughed again as he said it, but there was a determined ring in his voice and a square set to his chin which Mary noticed and liked. He meant what he said, that was evident.

"I think a doctor's profession is one of the noblest and finest in the world," she said.

"Do you? Good for you! So do I. It doesn't bring in the dollars as fast as some others, but it does seem a man's job to me. The big specialists make a lot of money too, but that isn't exactly what I mean. Some of the best men I've met were just country doctors, working night and day in all sorts of weather and getting paid or not, just as it happened. That old Doctor Harley down in your town is one of that kind, I think. I saw something of his work while I was there."

"Did you? I shouldn't have thought you had time for that, with all the picnics and sailing parties."

"I did, though. I met him at Sam's. Mrs. Keith had a cold or a cough or something. He and I got to talking and he asked me to come and see him. I went, you bet! Went out with him on some of his drives while he made his calls, you know. He told me a lot of things. He's a brick."

"It's queer," he went on, after a moment, "but I felt really at home down there in that little place. Seemed as if I had been there before and—and—by George, almost as if I belonged there. It was my first experience on and around salt water, but that seemed natural, too. And the people—I mean the people that belong there, not the summer crowd—I liked them immensely. Those two fine old cards that kept the store—Eh, I beg pardon; they are relatives of yours, aren't they? I forgot."

"They are my uncles," said Mary, simply. "I have lived with them almost all my life. They are the best men in the world."

"They seemed like it. I'd like to know them better. Hello! here's that confounded church. I've enjoyed this walk ever so much. Guess I've done all the talking, though. Hope I haven't bored you to death gassing about my affairs."

"No, you haven't. I enjoyed it."

"Did you really? Yes, I guess you did or you wouldn't say so. You don't act like a girl that pretends. By George! It's a relief to have someone to talk to, someone that understands and appreciates what a fellow is thinking about. Most girls want to talk football and dancing and all that. I like football immensely and dancing too, but there is something else in life. Even Sam—he's as good as they make but he doesn't care to listen to anything serious—that is, not long."

Mary considered. "I enjoyed listening," she said, "and I was glad to hear you liked South Harniss and my uncles."

On the way home, after the service, it was Sam Keith who escorted Mary, while Mrs. Wyeth walked with Mr. Smith. Sam's conversation was not burdened with seriousness. Hockey, dances, and good times were the subjects he dealt with. Was his companion fond of dancing? Would she accompany him to one of the club dances some time? They were great fun. Mrs. Wyeth could chaperon them, of course.

Mary said she was afraid she would be too busy to accept. As a matter of fact, knowing what she did of his mother's feelings, she would have accepted no invitations from Sam Keith even if nothing else prevented her doing so.

"My studies take a good deal of my time," she said.

Sam laughed. "You'll get over that," he declared. "I studied like blue blazes my freshman year, but after that—I should worry. Say, I'm mighty glad I came over here today. I'm coming again. I'll be a regular boarder."

The young men said good-by at the Wyeth door. Mrs. Wyeth did not ask them in, although the persistent Samuel threw out some pointed hints.

Crawford Smith and Mary shook hands.

"I've had an awfully good time," declared the former. Then, turning to Mrs. Wyeth, he asked: "May I call occasionally?"

Mrs. Wyeth's answer was, as usual, frank and unmistakable.

"Yes," she said. "I shall be very glad to see you—occasionally."

Crawford turned to Mary.

"May I?" he asked.

Mary scarcely knew how to reply. There was no real reason why he should not call; she liked him so far. His frankness and earnestness of purpose appealed to her. And yet she was not at all sure that it was wise to continue the acquaintance. In her mind this coming to Boston to school was a very serious matter. Her uncles had sent her there to study; they needed her at home, but that need they had sacrificed in order that she might study and improve. Nothing else, friendships or good times or anything, must interfere with the purpose with which she had accepted the sacrifice.

So she hesitated.

"May I?" repeated Crawford.

"Why, I don't know. I imagine I shall be very busy most of the time."

"That's all right. If you're busy you can send word for me to vamoose. That will be part of the bargain. Good-by."

Mrs. Wyeth's first remark, after entering, was concerning Sam's friend.

"I rather like that young person," she said. "Samuel idolizes him, of course, but Samuel would worship a hyena if it played football. But this Smith boy"—in Mrs. Wyeth's mind any male under thirty was a boy—"seems to have some common sense and a mind of his own. I don't approve of his name nor the howling wilderness he comes from, but he can't help those drawbacks, I suppose. However, if he is to call here we must know something about him. I shall make inquiries."



CHAPTER XII

The school term ended on a Saturday morning in mid-December. Mary's trunk was packed and ready, and she and it reached the South Station long before train time. She was going home, home for the holidays, and if she had been going on a trip around the world she could not have been more delighted at the prospect. And her delight and anticipations were shared in South Harniss. Her uncles' letters for the past fortnight had contained little except joyful announcements of preparations for her coming.

We are counting the minutes [wrote Zoeth]. The first thing Shadrach does every morning is to scratch another day off the calendar. I never saw him so worked up and excited and I calculate I ain't much different myself. I try not to set my heart on things of this world more than I ought to, but it does seem as if I couldn't think of much else but our girl's coming back to us. I am not going to worry the way Shadrach does about your getting here safe and sound. The Lord's been mighty good to us and I am sure He will fetch you to our door all right. I am contented to trust you in His hands.

P.S. One or both of us will meet you at the depot.

Captain Shad's epistle was more worldly but not more coherent.

Be sure and take the train that comes right on through [he wrote]. Don't take the one that goes to Woods Hole. Zoeth is so fidgety and nervous for fear you will make a mistake that he keeps me on pins and needles. Isaiah ain't much better. He swept out the setting-room twice last week and if he don't roast the cat instead of the chicken he is calculating to kill, it will be a mercy. I am the only one aboard the ship that keeps his head and I tell them not to worry. Be sure you take that through train. And look out for them electric cars, if you come to the depot in one. Better settle on the one you are going to take and then take the one ahead of it so as to be sure and not be late. Your train leaves the dock at quarter-past four. The Woods Hole one is two minutes earlier. Look out and not take that. Zoeth is afraid you will make a mistake, but I laugh at him. Don't take the wrong train.

Mary laughed when she read these letters, but there was a choke in the laugh. In spite of the perils of travel by the electrics and the New Haven railroad, she reached South Harniss safe, sound, and reasonably on time. The first person she saw on the platform of the station was Captain Shadrach. He had been pacing that platform for at least forty minutes.

He spied her at the same time and came rushing to greet her, both hands outstretched.

"And here you be!" he exclaimed with enthusiasm.

Mary laughed happily.

"Yes, Uncle Shad, here I am," she said. "Are you glad to see me?"

Shadrach looked at her.

"JUMPIN'!" was the only answer he made, but it was fervent and sufficient.

They rode home together in the old buggy. As they reached the corner by the store Mary expected the vehicle to be brought to a halt at the curb, but it was not. The Captain chirruped to the horse and drove straight on.

"Why, Uncle Shad!" exclaimed the girl. "Aren't you going to stop?"

"Eh? Stop? What for?"

"Why, to see Uncle Zoeth, of course. He's at the store, isn't he?"

Shadrach shook his head.

"No, he ain't," he said. "He's to home."

Mary was amazed and a trifle alarmed. One partner of Hamilton and Company was there in the buggy with her. By all the rules of precedent and South Harniss business the other should have been at the store. She knew that her uncles had employed no clerk or assistant since she left.

"But—but is Uncle Zoeth sick?" she asked.

"Sick? No, no, course he ain't sick. If he didn't have no better sense than to get sick the day you come home I'd—I'd—I don't know's I wouldn't drown him. HE ain't sick—unless," he added, as an afterthought, "he's got Saint Vitus dance from hoppin' up and down to look out of the window, watchin' for us."

"But if he isn't sick, why isn't he at the store? Who is there?"

The Captain chuckled.

"Not a solitary soul," he declared. "That store's shut up tight and it's goin' to stay that way this whole blessed evenin'. Zoeth and me we talked it over. I didn't know but we'd better get Abel Snow's boy or that pesky Annabel or somebody to stay while we was havin' supper. You see, we was both sot on eatin' supper with you tonight, no matter store or not, and Isaiah, he was just as sot as we was. But all to once Zoeth had an idea. 'Shadrach,' he says, 'in Scriptur' times when people was real happy, same as we are now, they used to make a sacrifice to the Almighty to show how glad and grateful they was. Let's you and me make a sacrifice; let's sacrifice this evenin's trade—let's shut up the store on account of our girl's comin' home.' 'Good idea!' says I, so we did it."

Mary looked at him reproachfully.

"Oh, Uncle Shad," she said, "you shouldn't have done that. It was dear and sweet of you to think of it, but you shouldn't have done it. It didn't need any sacrifice to prove that you were glad to see me."

Shadrach winked over his shoulder.

"Don't let that sacrifice worry you any," he observed. "The sacrifice is mainly in Zoeth's eye. Fur's I'm concerned—well, Jabez Hedges told me yesterday that Rastus Young told him he cal'lated he'd have to be droppin' in at the store some of these nights to buy some rubber boots and new ileskins. We sold him the ones he's got four years ago and he ain't paid for 'em yet. No, no, Mary-'Gusta, don't you worry about that sacrifice. I can sacrifice Rastus Young's trade eight days in the week and make money by it. Course I didn't tell Zoeth that; have to humor these pious folks much as we can, you know."

Mary smiled, but she shook her head. "It's no use your talking to me in that way, Uncle Shad," she said. "I know you too well. And right in the Christmas season, too!"

Zoeth's welcome was as hearty, if not as exuberant, as Captain Shad's. He met her at the door and after the first hug and kiss held her off at arm's length and looked her over.

"My! my! my!" he exclaimed. "And this is our little Mary-'Gusta come back again! It don't seem as if it could be, somehow."

"But it is, Uncle Zoeth," declared Mary, laughing. "And ISN'T it good to be here! Well, Isaiah," turning to Mr. Chase, who, aproned and shirtsleeved as usual, had been standing grinning in the background, "haven't you anything to say to me?"

Isaiah had something to say and he said it.

"Glad to see you," he announced. "Feelin' pretty smart? Got a new hat, ain't you? Supper's ready."

During the meal Mary was kept busy answering questions concerning school and her life at Mrs. Wyeth's. In her letters she had endeavored to tell every possible item of news which might be interesting to her uncles, but now these items were one by one recalled, reviewed, and discussed.

"'Twas kind of funny, that young Smith feller's turnin' up for dinner that time," observed Mr. Hamilton. "Cal'late you was some surprised to see him, wan't you?"

Mary smiled. "Why, yes," she said, "but I think he was more surprised to see me, Uncle Zoeth."

Captain Shad laughed heartily. "Shouldn't wonder," he admitted. "Didn't bring any fly paper along with him, did he? No? Well, that was an oversight. Maybe he thought fly time was past and gone. He seemed to be a real nice kind of young feller when he was down here that summer. He's older now; does he seem that way yet?"

"Why, yes, I think so. I only saw him for a little while."

Isaiah seemed to think it time for him to put in a question.

"Good lookin' as ever, I cal'late, ain't he?" he observed.

Mary was much amused. "Why, I suppose he is," she answered. "But why in the world are you interested in his good looks, Isaiah?"

Mr. Chase did his best to assume an expression of deep cunning. He winked at his employers.

"Oh, I ain't interested—not 'special," he declared, "but I didn't know but SOME folks might be. Ho, ho!"

He roared at his own pleasantry. Captain Shadrach, however, did not laugh.

"Some folks?" he repeated, tartly. "What are you talkin' about? What folks?"

"Oh, I ain't sayin' what folks. I'm just sayin' SOME folks. Ho, ho! You know what I mean, don't you, Mary-'Gusta?"

Before Mary could reply the Captain cut in again.

"No, she don't know what you mean, neither," he declared, with emphasis. "That's enough of that now, Isaiah. Don't be any bigger fool than you can help."

The self-satisfied grin faded from Isaiah's face and was succeeded by a look of surprised and righteous indignation.

"Wha—what's that?" he stammered. "What's that you're callin' me?"

"I ain't callin' you nothin'. I'm givin' you some free advice, that's all. Well, Mary-'Gusta, I cal'late, if you've had supper enough, you and me and Zoeth will go into the settin'-room, where we can all talk and I can smoke. I can always talk better under a full head of steam. Come on, Zoeth, Isaiah wants to be clearin' the table."

But Mr. Chase's thoughts were not concerned with table clearing just then. He stepped between Captain Shadrach and the door leading to the sitting-room.

"Cap'n Shad Gould," he sputtered, "you—you said somethin' about a fool. Who's a fool? That's what I want to know—who's a fool?"

The Captain grunted.

"Give it up," he observed. "I never was any hand at riddles. Come, come, Isaiah! Get out of the channel and let us through."

"You hold on, Cap'n Shad! You answer me afore you leave this room. Who's a fool? I want to know who's a fool."

Captain Shad grinned.

"Well, go up to the post-office and ask some of the gang there," he suggested. "Tell 'em you'll give 'em three guesses. There, there!" he added, good-naturedly, pushing the irate Mr. Chase out of the "channel." "Don't block the fairway any longer. It's all right, Isaiah. You and me have been shipmates too long to fight now. You riled me up a little, that's all. Come on, folks."

Two hours later, after Mary had answered the last questions even Captain Shad could think of, had received answers to all her own, and had gone to her room for the night, Mr. Hamilton turned to his partner and observed mildly:

"Shadrach, what made you so dreadful peppery to Isaiah this evenin'? I declare, I thought you was goin' to take his head off."

The Captain grunted. "I will take it off some time," he declared, "if he don't keep the lower end of it shut when he'd ought to. You heard what he said, didn't you?"

"Yes, I heard. That about the Smith boy's good looks, you mean?"

"Sartin. And about Mary-'Gusta's noticin' how good-lookin' he was. Rubbish!"

"Yes—yes, I know, but Isaiah was only jokin'."

"Jokin'! Well, he may LOOK like a comic almanac, but he needn't try to joke like one while that girl of ours is around. Puttin' notions about fellers and good looks and keepin' company into her head! You might expect such stuff from them fool drummers that come to the store, but an old leather-skinned image like Isaiah Chase ought to have more sense. We don't want such notions put in her head, do we?"

Zoeth rubbed his chin. He did not speak and his silence seemed to irritate his partner.

"Well, do we?" repeated the latter, sharply.

Zoeth sighed. "No, Shadrach," he admitted. "I guess likely we don't, but—"

"But what?"

"Well, we've got to realize that those kind of notions come—come sort of natural to young folks Mary-'Gusta's age."

"Rubbish! I don't believe that girl's got a single one of 'em in her mind."

"Maybe not, but they'll be there some day. Ah, well," he added, "we mustn't be selfish, you and me, Shadrach. It'll be dreadful hard to give her up to somebody else, but if that somebody is a good man, kind and straight and honest, why, I for one will try not to complain. But, Oh, Shadrach! Suppose he should turn out to be the other thing. Suppose SHE makes the mistake that I—"

His friend interrupted.

"Shh! shh!" he broke in, quickly. "Don't talk so, Zoeth. Come on to bed," he added, rising from his chair. "This very evenin' I was callin' Isaiah names for talkin' about 'fellers' and such, and here you and I have been sittin' talkin' nothin' else. If you hear me say 'fool' in my sleep tonight just understand I'm talkin' to myself, that's all. Come on aloft, Zoeth, and turn in."

The following morning Mary astonished her uncles by announcing that as soon as she had helped Isaiah with the breakfast dishes and the bed making she was going up to the store.

"What for?" demanded Captain Shad. "Course we'll be mighty glad to have your company, but Zoeth and me presumed likely you'd be for goin' round callin' on some of the other girls today."

"Well, I'm not. If they want to see me they can call on me here. I'm going up to the store with you and Uncle Zoeth. I want to help sell those Christmas goods of ours."

The partners looked at each other. Even Zoeth was moved to protest.

"Now, Mary-'Gusta," he said, "it ain't likely that your Uncle Shadrach and I are goin' to let you sell goods in that store. We won't hear of it, will we, Shadrach?"

"Not by a thunderin' sight!" declared Shadrach, vehemently. "The idea!"

"Why not? I've sold a good many there."

"I don't care if you have. You shan't sell any more. 'Twas all right when you was just a—a girl, a South Harnisser like the rest of us, but now that you're a Boston young lady, up to a fin—er—what-d'ye-call-it —er—endin' school—"

"Finishin' school, Shadrach," corrected Mr. Hamilton.

"Well, whatever 'tis; I know 'twould be the end of ME if I had to live up to the style of it. 'Anyhow, now that you're there, Mary-'Gusta, a young lady, same as I said, we ain't—"

But Mary interrupted. "Hush, Uncle Shad," she commanded. "Hush, this minute! You're talking nonsense, I AM a South Harniss girl and I'm NOT a Boston young lady. My chief reasons for being so very happy at the thought of coming home here for my Christmas vacation were, first, that I should see you and Uncle Zoeth and Isaiah and the house and the horse and the cat and the hens, and, next, that I could help you with the Christmas trade at the store. I know perfectly well you need me. I'm certain you have been absolutely lost without me. Now, really and truly, haven't you?"

"Not a mite," declared the Captain, stoutly, spoiling the effect of the denial, however, by adding, although his partner had not spoken: "Shut up, Zoeth! We ain't, neither."

Mary laughed. "Uncle Shad," she said, "I don't believe you. At any rate, I'm going up there this minute to see for myself. Come along!"

She made no comment on what she saw at the store, but for the remainder of the forenoon she was very busy. In spite of the partners' protests, in fact paying no more attention to those perturbed men of business than if they were flies to be brushed aside when bothersome, she went ahead, arranging, rearranging, dusting, writing price tickets, lettering placards, doing all sorts of things, and waiting on customers in the intervals. At noon, when she and her Uncle Zoeth left for home and dinner, she announced herself in a measure satisfied. "Of course there is a great deal to do yet," she said, "but the stock looks a little more as if it were meant to sell and less as if it were heaped up ready to be carted off and buried."

That afternoon the store of Hamilton and Company was visited by a goodly number of South Harniss residents. That evening there were more. The news that Mary-'Gusta Lathrop was at home and was "tendin' store" for her uncles spread and was much discussed. The majority of those who came did so not because they contemplated purchasing extensively, but because they wished to see what effect the fashionable finishing school had had upon the girl. The general opinion seemed to be that it "hadn't changed her a mite." This result, however, was considered a desirable one by the majority, but was by some criticized. Among the critics was Mrs. Rebecca Mullet, whose daughter Irene also was away at school undergoing the finishing process.

"Well!" declared Mrs. Mullet, with decision, as she and her husband emerged from the store together. "Well! If THAT'S a sample of what the school she goes to does for them that spend their money on it, I'm mighty glad we didn't send our Rena there, ain't you, Christopher?"

Mr. Chris Mullet, who had received that very week a bill for his daughter's "extras," uttered a fervent assent.

"You bet you!" he said. "It costs enough where Rena is, without sendin' her to no more expensive place."

This was not exactly the reply his wife had expected.

"Umph!" she grunted, impatiently. "I do wish you could get along for two minutes without puttin' on poor mouth. I suppose likely you tell everybody that you can't afford a new overcoat account of Rena's goin' away to school. You'd ought to be prouder of your daughter than you are of an overcoat, I should think."

Mr. Mullet muttered something to the effect that he was dum sure he was not proud of his present overcoat. His wife ignored the complaint.

"And you'll be proud of Irene when she comes home," she declared. "She won't be like that Mary-'Gusta, standin' up behind the counter and sellin' goods."

"Why, now, Becky, what's the matter with her doin' that? She always used to sell goods, and behind that very counter, too. And she certainly can SELL 'em!" with a reminiscent chuckle.

Mrs. Mullet glared at him. "Yes," she drawled, with sarcasm, "so she can—to some folks. Look at you, with all that Christmas junk under your arm! You didn't need to buy that stuff any more'n you needed to fly. What did you buy it for? Tell me that."

Chris shook his head. "Blessed if I know," he admitted. "I hadn't any idea of buyin' it, but she and me got to talkin', and she kept showin' the things to me, and I kept lookin' at 'em and—"

"Yes, and kept lookin' at her, too! Don't talk to ME! There's no fool like an old fool—and an old man fool is the worst of all."

Her husband, usually meek and long-suffering under wifely discipline, evinced unwonted spirit.

"Well, I tell you this, Becky," he said. "Fur's I can see, Mary-'Gusta's all right. She's as pretty as a picture, to begin with; she's got money of her own to spend; and she's been away among folks that have got a lot more. All them things together are enough to spoil 'most any girl, but they haven't spoiled her. She's come home here not a mite stuck-up, not flirty nor silly nor top-lofty, but just as sensible and capable and common-folksy as ever she was, and that's sayin' somethin'. If our Rena turns out to be the girl Mary-'Gusta Lathrop is I WILL be proud of her, and don't you forget it!"

Which terminated conversation in the Mullet family for that evening.

But if the few, like Mrs. Mullet, were inclined to criticize, the many, like her husband, united in declaring Mary to be "all right." And her rearranging and displaying of the Christmas goods helped her and her uncles to dispose of them. In fact, for the three days before Christmas it became necessary to call in the services of Annabel as assistant saleslady. The store was crowded, particularly in the evenings, and Zoeth and Captain Shad experienced for the first time in months the sensation of being the heads of a prosperous business.

"Looks good to see so many young folks in here, don't it, Zoeth?" observed the Captain. "And not only girls, but fellers, too. Don't know when I've seen so many young fellers in here. Who's that young squirt Mary-'Gusta's waitin' on now? The one with the whittled-in back to his overcoat. Say, Solomon in all his glory wasn't arrayed like one of him! Must be some city feller, eh? Nobody I know."

Zoeth looked at his niece and her customer.

"Humph!" he said. "Guess you ain't rubbed your glasses lately, Shadrach. That's Dan Higgins."

Mr. Higgins it was, home for a few days' relaxation from the fatigues of coffin selling, and garbed as usual in city clothes the splendor of which, as Captain Shad said afterwards, "would have given a blind man eyestrain." Daniel's arms were filled with purchases and he and Mary were standing beside the table where the toys and games were displayed. Mary was gazing at the toys; Mr. Higgins was—not.

The partners regarded the pair for a moment. Shadrach frowned.

"Humph!" he grunted.

"Daniel's tryin' to find somethin' his little brother'll like," explained Zoeth.

"Yes," observed the Captain, dryly. "Well, he looks as if he'd found somethin' HE liked pretty well. Here, Mary-'Gusta, I'll finish waitin' on Dan. You just see what Mrs. Nickerson wants, will you, please?"

Christmas Eve ended the rush of business for Hamilton and Company. The following week, the last of Mary's vacation, was certain to be dull enough. "Nothin' to do but change presents for folks," prophesied Captain Shad. "Give them somethin' they want and take back somethin' we don't want. That kind of trade is like shovelin' fog up hill, more exercise than profit."

Christmas was a happy day at the white house by the shore, a day of surprises. To begin with, there were the presents which were beside the plates at breakfast. Mary had brought gifts for all, Captain Shadrach, Zoeth, and Isaiah. There was nothing expensive, of course, but each had been chosen to fit the taste and liking of the recipient and there was no doubt that each choice was a success. Isaiah proudly displayed a jacknife which was a small toolchest, having four blades, a corkscrew, a screwdriver, a chisel, a button-hook and goodness knows what else besides.

"Look at that!" crowed Isaiah, exhibiting the knife, bristling like a porcupine, on his open palm. "Look at it! By time, there ain't nothin' I can't do with that knife! Every time I look at it I find somethin' new. Now, I wonder what that is," pointing to a particularly large and ferocious-looking implement which projected from the steel tangle. "I cal'late I've sized up about everything else, but I can't seem to make out what that's for. What do you cal'late 'tis, Cap'n Shad?"

Shadrach looked.

"Why, that's simple," he said, gravely. "That's a crust crowbar."

"A what?"

"A crust crowbar. For openin' one of them cast-iron pies same as you made for us last week. You drill a hole in the crust nigh the edge of the plate and then put that thing in and pry the upper deck loose. Good idea, Isaiah! I—"

"Aw, go to grass!" interrupted the indignant Mr. Chase. "I notice you always eat enough of my pies, decks—yes, and hull and riggin', too."

Then there was THE great surprise, that which the partners had prepared for their idolized niece. Mary found beside her plate a small, oblong package, wrapped in tissue paper and labeled, "To Mary-'Gusta, from Uncle Shadrach and Uncle Zoeth, with a Merry Christmas." Inside the paper was a pasteboard box, inside that a leather case, and inside THAT a handsome gold watch and chain. Then there was much excited exclaiming and delighted thanks on Mary's part, and explanations and broad grins on that of the givers.

"But you shouldn't have done it! Of course you shouldn't!" protested Mary. "It's perfectly lovely and I wanted a watch more than anything; but I KNOW this must have cost a great deal."

"Never, neither," protested the Captain. "We got it wholesale. Edgar Emery's nephew is in the business up to Providence and he picked it out for us. Didn't begin to cost what we cal'lated 'twould, did it, Zoeth? When you buy things wholesale that way you can 'most always cal'late to get 'em lower than you cal'late to."

Mary smiled at this somewhat involved statement, but she shook her head.

"I'm sure it cost a great deal more than you should have spent," she said.

"But you like it, don't you?" queried Zoeth, hopefully.

"Like it! Oh, Uncle Zoeth, don't you KNOW I like it! Who could help liking such a beautiful thing?"

"How's it show up alongside the watches the other girls have up to that Boston school?" asked Shadrach, with ill-concealed anxiety. "We wouldn't want our girl's watch to be any cheaper'n theirs, you know."

The answer was enthusiastic enough to satisfy even the Captain and Mr. Hamilton.

"I'm sure there isn't another girl in the school whose watch means to her what this will mean to me," declared Mary. "I shall keep it and love it all my life."

The partners heaved a sigh of relief. Whether or not the watch was fine enough for their Mary-'Gusta had been a source of worriment and much discussion. And then Isaiah, with his customary knack of saying the wrong thing, tossed a brickbat into the puddle of general satisfaction.

"That's so," he said; "that's so, Mary-'Gusta. You can keep it all your life, and when you get to be an old woman and married and have grandchildren then you can give it to them."

Captain Shadrach, who had taken up his napkin preparatory to tucking it under his chin, turned in his chair and glared at the unconscious steward.

"Well, by the jumpin' fire!" he exclaimed, with conviction. "The feller is sartinly possessed. He's lovesick, that's what's the matter with him. All he can talk about is somebody's gettin' married. Are YOU cal'latin' to get married, Isaiah?"

"Me? What kind of fool talk is that?"

"Who's the lucky woman?"

"There ain't no lucky woman. Don't talk so ridic'lous! All I said was that when Mary-'Gusta was old and married and had—"

"There you go again! Married and children! Say, did it ever run acrost your mind that you was a little mite previous?"

"I never said children. What I said was when she was old and had grandchildren."

"Grandchildren! Well, that's a dum sight MORE previous. Let's have breakfast, all hands, for the land sakes! Isaiah'll have us cruisin' along with the third and fourth generation in a few minutes. I'M satisfied with this one!"

That evening, at bedtime, as the partners separated in the upper hall to go to their respective rooms, Zoeth said:

"Shadrach, this has been a mighty nice Christmas for us all, ain't it?"

Captain Shad nodded emphatically. "You bet!" he declared. "Don't seem to me I ever remember a nicer one."

"Nor I, neither. I—I wonder—"

"Well, heave ahead. What are you waitin' for? What do you wonder?"

"I was just wonderin' if 'twas right for us to be so happy."

"Right?"

"Yes. Have we been—well, good enough this past year to deserve happiness like this?"

Shadrach grinned.

"I ain't puttin' in any testimony on my own hook," he said, dryly, "but I don't seem to remember your bein' desperately wicked, Zoeth. Course you MAY have got drunk and disorderly that time when Mary-'Gusta and I left you and went to Boston, but I kind of doubt it."

"Hush, hush, Shadrach! Don't joke about serious things. What I mean is have you and I walked the Lord's way as straight as we'd ought to? We've tried—that is, seems 's if we had—but I don't know. Anyhow, all this afternoon I've had a funny feelin' that you and me and Mary-'Gusta was—well was as if the tide had been comin' in for us all these years since she's been livin' with us, and as if now 'twould begin to go out again."

The Captain laughed. "And that's what you call a FUNNY feelin'!" he exclaimed. "Zoeth, I've got a funny feelin', too, but I know what's the reason for it—the reason is turkey and plum puddin' and mince pie and the land knows what. When a couple of old hulks like you and me h'ist in a cargo of that kind it's no wonder we have feelin's. Good night, shipmate."



CHAPTER XIII

The day after New Year's Mary went back to Boston and to school. The long winter term—the term which Madeline Talbott, whose father was a judge, called "the extreme penalty"—began. Boston's famous east winds, so welcome in summer and so raw and penetrating in winter, brought their usual allowance of snow and sleet, and the walks from Pinckney Street to the school and back were not always pleasant. Mrs. Wyeth had a slight attack of tonsillitis and Miss Pease a bronchial cold, but they united in declaring these afflictions due entirely to their own imprudence and not in the least to the climate, which, being like themselves, thoroughly Bostonian, was expected to maintain a proper degree of chill.

Mary, fortunately, escaped colds and illness. The walks in all sorts of weather did her good and her rosy cheeks and clear eyes were competent witnesses to her state of health. She was getting on well with her studies, and the Misses Cabot, not too easy to please, were apparently pleased with her. At home—for she had come to consider Mrs. Wyeth's comfortable house a home, although not of course to be compared with the real home at South Harniss—at Mrs. Wyeth's she was more of a favorite than ever, not only with the mistress of the house, but with Miss Pease, who was considered eccentric and whose liking was reported hard to win. The two ladies had many talks concerning the girl.

"She is remarkable," declared Miss Pease on one occasion. "Considering her lack of early advantages, I consider her ease of manner and self-possession remarkable. She is a prodigy."

Mrs. Wyeth sniffed. She enjoyed hearing Mary praised, but she objected to her friend's choice of words.

"For mercy sake, Letitia," she said, "don't call her that. The word 'prodigy' always reminds me of the Crummles infant, the one with the green parasol and the white—er—lingerie, in 'Nicholas Nickleby.'"

Miss Pease smiled with the superiority of the corrected who is about to correct.

"I don't see why that should bring the individual you mention to mind," she said. "If I remember correctly—and I was brought up on Dickens—she was a 'phenomenon,' not a prodigy. However, it makes no material difference what you and I call Mary Lathrop, the fact remains that she is an exceptionally well-behaved, good-mannered, polite—"

"Sweet, healthy girl," interrupted Mrs. Wyeth, finishing the sentence. "I know that as well as you do, Letitia Pease. And you know I know it. Now, what have you in your mind concerning Mary? I know there is something, because you have been hinting at it for more than a week. What is it?"

Miss Pease looked wise.

"Oh, I have a plan," she said. "I can't tell even you, Emily, just what it is as yet. You see, it isn't really a plan, but only an idea so far. She doesn't know it herself, of course."

"Hum! Is it a pleasant plan—or idea, whichever you call it? That is, will she think it pleasant when she learns what it is?"

"I certainly hope so."

"Look here, Letitia," with sudden suspicion, "you aren't planning some ridiculous sentimental nonsense for that child, are you? You're not trying to make a match for her, I hope?"

"Match? What are you talking about? If you mean am I trying to get her married to some MAN," with a scornful emphasis on the word, "I most certainly am not.

"Humph! Well, if she ever is married, I presume it will be to a man, or an imitation of one. All right, Letitia. I am glad your great idea isn't that, whatever it is."

"It is not. You know my opinion of marriage, Emily Wyeth. And, so far as matchmaking is concerned, I should say you were a more likely subject for suspicion. That young relative of yours, Sam Keith, appears to be coming here a great deal of late. He MAY come solely to see you, but I doubt it."

Mrs. Wyeth smiled grimly.

"Samuel has been rather prevalent recently," she admitted, "but don't let that trouble you, Letitia. I have had my eye on the young man. Samuel is as susceptible to pretty girls as children are to the measles. And his attacks remind me of the measles as much as anything, sudden outbreak, high fever and delirium, then a general cooling off and a rapid recovery. This seizure isn't alarming and there is absolutely no danger of contagion. Mary doesn't take him seriously at all."

"And how about that other young man?—Smith, I think his name is. He has called here twice since Christmas."

Mrs. Wyeth seemed to be losing patience.

"Well, what of it?" she demanded.

"Why, nothing that I know of, except, perhaps—"

"There is no perhaps at all. The Smith boy appears to be a very nice young fellow, and remarkably sensible for a young person in this hoity-toity age. From what I can learn, his people, although they do live out West—down in a mine or up on a branch or a ranch or something—are respectable. Why shouldn't he call to see Mary occasionally, and why shouldn't she see him? Goodness gracious! What sort of a world would this be if young people didn't see each other? Don't tell me that you never had any young male acquaintances when you were a girl, Letitia, because I shan't believe you."

Miss Pease straightened in her chair.

"It is not likely that I shall make any such preposterous statement," she snapped.

So the "young male acquaintance" called occasionally—not too often—Mrs. Wyeth saw to that; probably not so often as he would have liked; but he did call and the acquaintanceship developed into friendship. That it might develop into something more than friendship no one, except possibly the sentimental Miss Pease, seemed to suspect. Certainly Mary did not, and at this time it is doubtful if Crawford did, either. He liked Mary Lathrop. She was a remarkably pretty girl but, unlike other pretty girls he had known—and as good-looking college football stars are privileged beyond the common herd, he had known at least several—she did not flirt with him, nor look admiringly up into his eyes, nor pronounce his jokes "killingly funny," nor flatter him in any way. If the jokes WERE funny she laughed a healthy, genuine laugh, but if, as sometimes happened, they were rather feeble, she was quite likely to tell him so. She did not always agree with his views, having views of her own on most subjects, and if he asked her opinion the answer he received was always honest, if not precisely what he expected or hoped.

"By George! You're frank, at any rate," he observed, rather ruefully, after asking her opinion as to a point of conduct and receiving it forthwith.

"Didn't you want me to be?" asked Mary. "You asked me what I thought you should have done and I told you."

"Yes, you did. You certainly told me."

"Well, didn't you want me to tell you?"

"I don't know that I wanted you to tell me just that."

"But you asked me what I thought, and that is exactly what I think. Don't YOU think it is what you should have done?"

Crawford hesitated; then he laughed. "Why yes, confound it, I do," he admitted. "But I hoped you would tell me that what I did do was right."

"Whether I thought so or not?"

"Why—well—er—yes. Honestly now, didn't you know I wanted you to say the other thing?"

It was Mary's turn to hesitate; then she, too, laughed.

"Why, yes, I suppose—" she began; and finished with, "Yes, I did."

"Then why didn't you say it? Most girls would."

"Perhaps that is why. I judge that most girls of your acquaintance say just about what you want them to. Don't you think it is good for you to be told the truth occasionally?"

It was good for him, of course, and, incidentally, it had the fascination of novelty. Here was a girl full of fun, ready to take a joke as well as give one, neither flattering nor expecting flattery, a country girl who had kept store, yet speaking of that phase of her life quite as freely as she did of the fashionable Misses Cabot's school, not at all ashamed to say she could not afford this or that, simple and unaffected but self-respecting and proud; a girl who was at all times herself and retained her poise and common sense even in the presence of handsome young demigod who had made two touchdowns against Yale.

It was extremely good for Crawford Smith to know such a girl. She helped him to keep his feet on the ground and his head from swelling. Not that there was much danger of the latter happening, for the head was a pretty good one, but Mary Lathrop's common sense was a stimulating—and fascinating—reenforcement to his own. As he had said on the Sunday afternoon of their first meeting in Boston, it was a relief to have someone to talk to who understood and appreciated a fellow's serious thoughts as well as the frivolous ones. His approaching graduation from Harvard and the work which he would begin at the Medical School in the fall were very much in his mind just now. He told Mary his plans and she and he discussed them. She had plans of her own, principally concerning what she meant to do to make life easier for her uncles when her school days were over, and these also were discussed.

"But," he said, "that's really nonsense, after all, isn't it?"

"What?"

"Why, the idea of your keeping store again. You'll never do that."

"Indeed I shall! Why not?"

"Why, because—"

"Because what?"

"Because—well, because I don't think you will, that's all. Girls like you don't have to keep a country store, you know—at least, not for long."

The remark was intended to please; it might have pleased some girls, but it did not please this one. Mary's dignity was offended. Anything approaching a slur upon her beloved uncles, or their place of business, or South Harniss, or the Cape Cod people, she resented with all her might. Her eyes snapped.

"I do not HAVE to keep store at any time," she said crisply, "in the country or elsewhere. I do it because I wish to and I shall continue to do it as long as I choose. If my friends do not understand that fact and appreciate my reasons, they are not my friends, that is all."

Crawford threw up both hands. "Whew!" he exclaimed. "Don't shoot; I'll come down! Great Scott! If you take a fellow's head off like that when he pays you a compliment what would you do if he dared to criticize?"

"Was that remark of yours intended as a compliment?"

"Not exactly; more as a statement of fact. I meant—I meant—Oh, come now, Mary! You know perfectly well what I meant. Own up."

Mary tried hard to be solemn and severe, but the twinkle in his eye was infectious and in spite of her effort her lips twitched.

"Own up, now," persisted Crawford. "You know what I meant. Now, don't you?"

"Well—well, I suppose I do. But I think the remark was a very silly one. That is the way Sam Keith talks."

"Eh? Oh, does he!"

"Yes. Or he would if I would let him. And he does it much better than you do."

"Well, I like that!"

"I don't. That is why I don't want you to do it. I expect you to be more sensible. And, besides, I won't have you or anyone making fun of my uncles' store."

"Making fun of it! I should say not! I have a vivid and most respectful memory of it, as you ought to know. By the way, you told me your uncles had sent you their photographs. May I see them?"

Mary brought the photographs from her room. They had been taken by the photographer at Ostable in compliance with what amounted to an order on her part, and the results showed two elderly martyrs dressed in respectable but uncomfortable Sunday clothes and apparently awaiting execution. On the back of one mournful exhibit was written, "Mary Augusta from Uncle Shadrach," and on the other, "Uncle Zoeth to Mary Augusta, with much love."

"Now, don't laugh," commanded Mary, as she handed the photographs to Crawford. "I know they are funny, but if you laugh I'll never forgive you. The poor dears had them taken expressly to please me, and I am perfectly sure either would have preferred having a tooth out. They ARE the best men in the world and I am more certain of it every day."

Crawford did not laugh at the photographs. He was a young gentleman of considerable discretion and he did not smile, not even at Captain Shad's hands, the left with fingers separated and clutching a knee as if to keep it from shaking, the right laid woodenly upon a gorgeously bound parlor-table copy of "Lucille." Instead of laughing he praised the originals of the pictures, talked reminiscently of his own visit in South Harniss, and finally produced from his pocketbook a small photographic print, which he laid upon the table beside the others.

"I brought that to show you," he said. "You were asking about my father, you know, and I told you I hadn't a respectable photograph of him. That was true; I haven't. Dad has another eccentricity besides his dislike of the East and Eastern ways of living; he has a perfect horror of having his photograph taken. Don't ask me why, because I can't tell you. It isn't because he is ugly; he's a mighty good-looking man for his age, if I do say it. But he has a prejudice against photographs of himself and won't even permit me to take a snapshot if he can prevent it. Says people who are always having their pictures taken are vain, conceited idiots, and so on. However, I catch him unawares occasionally, and this is a snap I took last summer. He and I were on a fishing trip up in the mountains. We're great pals, Dad and I—more than most fathers and sons, I imagine."

Mary took the photograph and studied it with interest. Mr. Smith, senior, was a big man, broad-shouldered and heavy, with a full gray beard and mustache. He wore a broad-brimmed hat, which shaded his forehead somewhat, but his eyes and the shape of his nose were like his son's.

Mary looked at the photograph and Crawford looked at her.

"Well, what do you think of him?" asked the young man after an interval.

"Think?" repeated Mary absently, still staring at the photograph. "Why, I—I don't know what you mean."

"I mean what is your opinion of my respected dad? You must have one by this time. You generally have one on most subjects and you've been looking at that picture for at least five minutes."

"Have I? I beg your pardon; I didn't realize. The picture interested me. I have never seen your father, have I? No, of course I haven't. But it almost seems as if I had. Perhaps I have seen someone who looks like him."

"Shouldn't wonder. Myself, for instance."

"Of course. That was stupid of me, wasn't it? He looks like an interesting man, one who has had experiences."

"He has. Dad doesn't talk about himself much, even to me, but he had some hard rubs before he reached the smooth places. Had to fight his way, I guess."

"He looks as if he had. But he got his way in the end, I should imagine. He doesn't look like one who gives up easily."

"He isn't. Pretty stubborn sometimes, Dad is, but a brick to me, just the same."

"Was your mother an Eastern woman?"

"No. She was a Westerner, from California. Dad was married twice. His first wife came from New England somewhere, I believe. I didn't know there had been another wife until I was nearly fifteen years old, and then I found it out entirely by accident. She was buried in another town, you see. I saw her name first on the gravestone and it made an impression on me because it was so odd and old-fashioned—'Patience, wife of Edwin Smith.' I only mention this to show you how little Dad talks about himself, but it was odd I should find it out that way, wasn't it? But there! I don't suppose you're interested in the Smith genealogy. I apologize. I never think of discussing my family affairs with anyone but you, not even Sam. But you—well, somehow I seem to tell you everything. I wonder why?"

"Perhaps because I ask too many questions."

"No, it isn't that. It is because you act as if you really cared to have me talk about my own affairs. I never met a girl before that did. Now, I want to ask you about that club business. There's going to be the deuce and all to pay in that if I'm not careful. Have you thought it over? What would you do if you were I?"

The matter in question was a somewhat delicate and complicated one, dealing with the admission or rejection of a certain fellow to one of the Harvard societies. There was a strong influence working to get him in and, on the other hand, there were some very good objections to his admission. Crawford, president of the club and one of its most influential members, was undecided what to do. He had explained the case to Mary upon the occasion of his most recent visit to the Pinckney Street house, and had asked her advice. She had taken time for consideration, of course—she was the old Mary-'Gusta still in that—and now the advice was ready.

"It seems to me," she said, "that I should try to settle it like this."

She explained her plan. Crawford listened, at first dubiously and then with steadily growing enthusiasm.

"By George!" he exclaimed, when she had finished. "That would do it, I honestly believe. How in the world did you ever think of that scheme? Say, you really are a wonder at managing. You could manage a big business and make it go, I'm sure. How do you do it? Where do you get your ideas?"

Mary laughed. His praise pleased her.

"I don't know," she answered. "I just think them out, I guess. I do like to manage things for people. Sometimes I do it more than I should, perhaps. Poor Isaiah Chase, at home in South Harniss, says I boss him to death. And my uncles say I manage them, too—but they seem to like it," she added.

"I don't wonder they do. I like it, myself. Will you help manage my affairs between now and Commencement? There'll be a whole lot to manage, between the club and the dance and all the rest of it. And then when you go to Commencement you can see for yourself how they work out."

"Go to Commencement? Am I going to Commencement?"

"Of course you are! You're going with me, I hope. I thought that was understood. It's a long way off yet, but for goodness' sake don't say you won't come. I've been counting on it."

Mary's pleasure showed in her face. All she said, however, was:

"Thank you very much. I shall be very glad to come."

But Commencement was, as Crawford said, still a good way off and in the meantime there were weeks of study. The weeks passed, some of them, and then came the Easter vacation. Mary spent the vacation in South Harniss, of course, and as there was no Christmas rush to make her feel that she was needed at the store, she rested and drove and visited and had a thoroughly happy and profitable holiday. The happiness and profit were shared by her uncles, it is unnecessary to state. When she questioned them concerning business and the outlook for the coming summer, they seemed optimistic and cheerful.

"But Isaiah says there are two new stores to be opened in the village this spring," said Mary. "Don't you think they may hurt your trade a little?"

Captain Shadrach dismissed the idea and his prospective competitors with a condescending wave of the hand. "Not a mite," he declared scornfully. "Not a mite, Mary-'Gusta. Hamilton and Company's a pretty able old craft. She may not show so much gilt paint and brass work as some of the new ones just off the ways, but her passengers know she's staunch and they'll stick by her. Why, Isaiah was sayin' that a feller was tellin' him only yesterday that it didn't make any difference how many new stores was started in this town, he'd never trade anywheres but with Hamilton and Company. That shows you, don't it?"

"Who was it said that, Uncle Shad?" asked Mary.

"Eh? Why, I don't know. Isaiah was tellin' me about it and we was interrupted. Who was it, Isaiah?"

"'Twas Rastus Young," replied Mr. Chase promptly.

Even the Captain was obliged to laugh, although he declared that Mr. Young's constancy was a proof that the firm's prospects were good.

"Rats'll always leave a sinkin' ship," he said, "and if Zoeth and me was goin' under Rat Young would be the first to quit."

Zoeth, when his niece questioned him, expressed confidence that the new competitors would not prove dangerous. "The Almighty has looked after us so far," he added, "unworthy as we be, and I guess he'll carry us the rest of the way. Put your trust in Him, Mary-'Gusta; I hope they teach you that up to school."

So Mary, who had been rather troubled at the news of Hamilton and Company's rivals in the field, dismissed her fears as groundless. Her uncles were old-fashioned and a little behind the times in business methods, but no doubt those methods were suited to South Harniss and there was no cause for worry concerning the firm's future. She made Isaiah promise to keep her posted as to developments and went back to Boston and her schoolwork.



CHAPTER XIV

The spring term was an interesting one and there were other interests as well. Crawford called more frequently, the plans for Commencement requiring a great deal of discussion. Mary's fondness for managing was, or should have been, gratified, for the talent was in constant demand. Sam Keith, who, after meeting Mary at his cousin's house, had at first developed an amazing fondness for that relative's society, now came less often. He was in the second stage of the pretty-girl disease mentioned by his aunt; the fever and delirium had passed, and he was now cooling off. It cannot be said that the fever had been in the least encouraged. Mary was pleasant and agreeable when he called, but she would not treat him as a confidant or an intimate; she did not accept any of his invitations to dances or the theater, and she would not flirt even the least little bit. The last was the most unsatisfactory drawback, because the susceptible Samuel was fond of flirtations and usually managed to keep at least three going at the same time. Therefore, the cooling-off process was, in this case, a bit more rapid than usual. Sam's calls and dinners at his cousin Emily's residence had decreased from two or three times a week to an uncertain once a fortnight. Mary, of course, noticed this, but she felt no regret. Crawford, Sam's roommate, must have noticed it also, but if he felt regret he managed to conceal the feeling remarkably well.

Early in May Captain Shadrach came up to the city to buy summer goods for the store. He positively refused to make his headquarters at Mrs. Wyeth's, although that lady sent an urgent invitation to him to do so. And, even when Mary added her own plea to that of her landlady, the Captain still refused.

Don't ask me, Mary-'Gusta [he wrote]. For the dear land sakes don't ask me to come to that place and stay. I'd do 'most anything for you, and I will do that if you are dead sot on it, but I do hope you ain't. I will come up there and see you of course and I'll even stay to supper if I get asked, but DON'T ask me to drop anchor and stay there night and day. I couldn't stand it. My backbone's sprung backwards now from settin' up so straight last time I was there.

So Mary had pity upon him and he took a room at the Quincy House where, as he said, he didn't have to keep his nose dead on the course every minute, but could "lay to and be comf'table" if he wanted to. He was invited to supper at the Wyeth house, however, and while there Mrs. Wyeth found an opportunity to take him aside and talk with him on a subject which he found interesting and a trifle disquieting.

"Now mind," said the lady, "I am by no means convinced that the affair is anything but a mere boy and girl friendship, or that it is ever likely to be more than that. But I did think I ought to tell you about it and that you should meet the young man. You have met him, you say?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Shadrach, "I've met him. 'Twan't much more'n that—he just came into our store down home, that's all. But I did meet him and I must say I thought he was a real likely young feller."

"I am glad you thought so. So do I. Has Mary written you of his calls here?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am, she's written. She ain't the kind of girl to keep anything back from us; at least, if she is, she's changed a heap since she came away to school. She's told us about his comin' here and about you and him and her goin' to that—what-d'ye-call-it—hookey game. She wrote all about that 'way last February."

"Yes, we did go to the hockey game. Samuel, my cousin John Keith's boy, played in it. Now, Captain Gould, I have a suggestion to make. It has been some years since you met Crawford Smith and I think, everything considered, you should meet him again and decide for yourself whether or not you still consider him a proper young person to call upon your niece. Suppose you dine with us again tomorrow evening and I invite young Smith also. Then—"

But the Captain interrupted. He had a plan of his own for the following evening and another meal at Mrs. Wyeth's was not a part of it.

"Er—er—excuse me, ma'am," he cut in hastily, "but I had a—a kind of notion that Mary-'Gusta and me might get our supper at a—a eatin'-house or somewhere tomorrow night and then maybe we'd take in—I mean go to a show—a theater, I should say. I didn't know but I'd ask this young Smith feller to go along. And—and—" remembering his politeness, "of course we'd be real glad if you'd come, too," he added.

But Mrs. Wyeth, although she thanked him and expressed herself as heartily in favor of the supper and theater party, refused to become a member of it. The Captain bore the shock of the refusal with, to say the least, manful resignation. He had a huge respect for Mrs. Wyeth, and he liked her because his beloved Mary-'Gusta liked her so well, but his liking was seasoned with awe and her no in this case was a great relief.

So the following evening at six Mary and her uncle met Crawford at the Quincy House and the three dined together, after which they saw the performance of "The Music Master" at the Tremont Theater. Crawford found the dinner quite as entertaining as the play. Captain Shadrach was in high good humor and his remarks during the meal were characteristic. He persisted in addressing the dignified waiter as "Steward" and in referring to the hotel kitchen as the "galley." He consulted his young guests before ordering and accepted their selections gracefully if not always silently.

"All right, Mary-'Gusta," he observed. "All right, just as you say. You're the skipper of this craft tonight, and me and Crawford here are just passengers. If you say we've got to eat—what is it?—consummer soup—why, I suppose likely we have. I'll take my chances if Crawford will. Course, if I was alone here, I'd probably stick to oyster stew and roast beef. I know what they are. And it's some comfort to be sure of what you're gettin', as the sick feller said when the doctor told him he had the smallpox instead of the measles. You don't mind my callin' you 'Crawford,' do you?" he added, turning to that young gentleman. "I'm old enough to be your father, for one thing, and for another a handle's all right on a jug or a sasspan, but don't seem as if 'twas necessary to take hold of a friend's name by. And I hope we're goin' to be friends, we three."

Crawford said he hoped so, too, and he said it with emphasis.

"Good!" exclaimed the Captain with enthusiasm. "And we'll cement the friendship—the book fellers are always tellin' about cementin' friendships—with this supper of ours, eh? If we only had some of Isaiah's last batch of mincemeat we could sartinly do it with that; it was the nighest thing to cement ever I saw put on a table. I asked him if he filled his pies with a trowel and you ought to have heard him sputter. You remember Isaiah, don't you, Crawford? Tall, spindlin' critter, sails cook for Zoeth and me at the house down home. He ain't pretty, but his heart's in the right place. That's kind of strange, too," he added with a chuckle, "when you consider how nigh his shoulder-blades are to the top of his legs."

Between his stories and jokes he found time to ask his male guest a few questions and these questions, although by no means offensively personal, were to the point. He inquired concerning the young man's home life, about his ambitions and plans for the future, about his friends and intimates at college. Crawford, without being in the least aware that he was being catechized, told a good deal, and Captain Shadrach's appraising regard, which had learned to judge men afloat and ashore, read more than was told. The appraisal was apparently satisfactory for, after the young man had gone and the Captain and Mary were saying good night in the Wyeth parlor, Shadrach said:

"A nice boy, I should say. Yes, sir, a real nice young feller, as young fellers go. I like him fust-rate."

"I'm glad, Uncle Shad," said Mary. "I like him, too."

Shadrach regarded her with a little of the questioning scrutiny he had devoted to Crawford during dinner.

"You do, eh?" he mused. "How much?"

"How much?" repeated Mary, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"I mean how much do you like him? More'n you do your Uncle Zoeth and me, for instance?"

She looked up into his face. What she saw there brought the color to her own. He might have said more, but she put her finger-tips upon his lips.

"Nonsense!" she said hotly. "What wicked, silly nonsense, Uncle Shad! Don't you ever, ever say such a thing to me again. You KNOW better."

Shadrach smiled and shook his head.

"All right, Mary-'Gusta," he said; "I won't say it again—not till you say it to me fust, at any rate. There, there, dearie! Don't blow me clean out of the water. I was only jokin', the same as Isaiah was tryin' to that night when you came home for your Christmas vacation."

"I don't like that kind of joking. I think it's silly."

"I guess maybe 'tis—for a spell, anyhow. We'll heave the jokes overboard. Yes, I like that Crawford Smith fust-rate. But the funniest thing about him is the way he reminds me of somebody else. Who that somebody is I can't make out nor remember. Maybe I'll think sometime or other, but anyhow I like him now for his own sake. I asked him to come down and see us sometime this summer. Wonder if he will."

Mary-'Gusta wondered, too, but she would have wondered more had she known what that coming summer was to mean to her. The morning after the theater party Captain Shadrach called to say good-by to Mrs. Wyeth. That lady asked some questions and listened with interest and approval to his report concerning Crawford Smith.

"I'm glad you were so favorably impressed with the boy," she said. "As I told you, I like him myself. And you approve of his friendship with your niece?"

The Captain rubbed his chin. "Why, yes, ma'am," he said. "I approve of that, all right, and I cal'late Zoeth would, too. Fact is, where Mary-'Gusta's concerned 'tain't nothin' BUT friendship, so fur, and I guess likely 'tain't on his part, either. If it ever should be more, then—well, then, if he turned out to be all that he'd ought to be I can't see where we old folks have much right to put our oar in, do you, ma'am?"

Perhaps Mrs. Wyeth was tired of the subject; perhaps she objected to being addressed as one of the old folks; at any rate, she made no answer, but asked a question instead.

"Captain Gould," she said, "what plans have you and Mr. Hamilton made for Mary this summer?"

"Plans, ma'am? Why, I don't know's we've made any. Of course, we're countin' on her comin' down to South Harniss when she gets through her school, and—"

"Just a moment, Captain. I have a friend who is very anxious to have you change that plan for one of hers. Come in, Letitia. Captain Gould, this is my friend, Miss Pease. Now, Letitia, tell the Captain your plan—the one you told me last night."

Miss Pease told of her plan and Captain Shad listened, at first with astonishment, then with a troubled expression and at last with a combination of both.

"There," said Miss Pease, in conclusion, "that is my plan. It means a great deal to me and I hope it may mean something to Mary."

"It will be a wonderful opportunity for her," declared Mrs. Wyeth emphatically.

"What do you think of it, Captain Gould?" asked Miss Pease.

Shadrach drew a long breath. "I—I don't know hardly what to say, ma'am," he answered. "I can't hardly realize it yet, seems so. It sartinly would be a wonderful chance for her and it's somethin' me and Zoeth could never give her or think of givin'. But—but—"

"Of course," said Miss Pease, as he hesitated, "if she is needed very much at home—if you feel you cannot spare her—"

"'Tain't that, ma'am," interrupted the Captain quickly. "Land knows Zoeth and me would miss her awful, but we wouldn't let that stand in the way—not of anything like this. But—but—well, to be right down honest, ma'am, I don't know's we'd feel like havin' somebody else do so much for her. Course we ain't well off, Zoeth and I ain't, but we ain't right down poor, either. We've been used to doin' for ourselves and—"