Yes, she must do it. But it was so hard to do. Philosophy did not help in the least. She had tried to convince herself when she gave up her school work that it meant the end of her romance also. She had tried to tell Crawford so. But she had been weak, she had permitted herself to hope. She had realized that for the present, perhaps for years, she must work for and with the old men who had been father and mother both to her, but—he had said so—Crawford would wait for her, and some day—perhaps—

But now there was no perhaps—now she knew. She must receive no more letters from him. She must never see him again. The break must be absolute and final. And there was but one way to bring that about. He had said repeatedly that only her declaration that she did not love him would ever prevent his marrying her. Very well, then for his sake she must lie to him; she must tell him that very thing. She must write him that she had been considering the matter and had decided she could never love him enough to become his wife.

It was almost two o'clock when she reached this decision but she sat down at her desk to write then and there the letter containing it, the last letter she would ever write him. And when the morning light came streaming in at the windows she still sat there, the letter unwritten. She had made many beginnings, but not an end. She must try again; she was too tired, too nervous, too hopeless and heartbroken to make another attempt that morning, but before the day was over it should be done. She threw herself down upon the bed but she could not sleep. Why had she been selected to bear this burden? What had she done that God should delight to torture her in this way?



CHAPTER XXV

That difficult letter was never written. In the afternoon, business at the store being rather quiet and Mrs. Atkins, the nurse, desiring an hour's leave to do an errand in the village, Mary had taken her place in the sickroom. Zoeth was improving slowly, so the doctor said, but he took very little interest in what went on, speaking but seldom, asking few questions, and seeming to be but partially sensible of his surroundings. Best not to try to rouse him, the physician said. Little by little he would gain mentally as well as physically and, by and by, there was reason to hope, would be up and about again. Probably, however, he would never be so strong as he had been before his sudden seizure, the cause of which—if there had been a definite cause—was still unknown.

Just then he was asleep and Mary, sitting in the rocking-chair by the bed, was thinking, thinking, thinking. If she could only stop thinking for a little while! Uncle Zoeth, there on the bed, looked so calm and peaceful. If only she might have rest and peace again! If she might be allowed to forget!

The door opened gently and Mr. Chase appeared. He beckoned to her to come out. With a glance at the patient, she tiptoed from the room into the hall.

"What is it, Isaiah?" she asked.

Isaiah seemed to be excited about something.

"I've got a surprise for you, Mary-'Gusta," he whispered. "There's somebody downstairs to see you."

His manner was so important and mysterious that Mary was puzzled.

"Someone to see me?" she repeated. "Who is it?"

Mr. Chase winked.

"It's somebody you wan't expectin' to see, I bet you!" he declared. "I know I wan't. When I opened the door and see him standin' there I—"

"Saw him? Who? Who is it, Isaiah? Stop that ridiculous winking this instant. Who is it?"

"It's that young Crawford Smith feller from way out West, that's who 'tis. Ah, ha! I told you you'd be surprised."

She was surprised, there could be no doubt of that. For a moment she stood perfectly still. Had it not been that the hall was almost dark in the shadows of the late afternoon Isaiah would have noticed how pale she had become. But it was evident that he did not notice it, for he chuckled.

"I told you you'd be some surprised," he crowed. "Well, ain't you comin' on down to see him? Seems to me if I had a beau—excuse me, a gentleman friend—who come a-cruisin' all the way from t'other side of creation to see me I wouldn't keep him waitin' very long. Ho! ho!"

Mary did not answer at once. When she did she was surprised to find that she was able to speak so calmly.

"I shall be down in a moment," she said. "Isaiah, will you please go in and stay with Uncle Zoeth until I come?"

Isaiah looked chagrined and disappointed. Visitors from the far West were rare and especially rare was a young gentleman who Mr. Chase, with what Captain Shadrach termed his "lovesick imagination," surmised was Mary-'Gusta's beau. He wished to see more of him.

"Aw, say, Mary-'Gusta," he pleaded, "I'm awful busy. I don't see how I can set along of Zoeth—Say, Mary'Gusta!"

But Mary had gone. She was hurrying along the hall toward her own room. So Isaiah, remembering that the doctor had said Mr. Hamilton must not be left alone, grumblingly obeyed orders and went in to sit beside him.

In her own room Mary stood, white and shaken, striving to regain her composure. She must regain it, she must be cool and calm in order to go through the ordeal she knew was before her. His coming could mean but one thing: his father had still refused consent and he had come to tell her so and to beg her to wait for him in spite of it. If only he had written saying he was coming, if she had been forewarned, then she might have been more ready, more prepared. Now she must summon all her resolution and be firm and unwavering. Her purpose was as set and strong as ever, but ah, it would be so hard to tell him! To write the letter she had meant to write would have been easy compared to this. However, it must be done—and done now. She went down the stairs and entered the sitting-room.

He was sitting in the rocker by the window and when she came into the room he sprang to his feet and came toward her. His face, or so it seemed to her, showed some traces of the trouble and anxiety through which he had passed so recently. He was a little thinner and he looked less boyish. He held out his hands.

"Well, Mary," he cried, eagerly, "here I am. Aren't you glad to see me?"

He seized both her hands in his. She disengaged them gently. Her manner seemed odd to him and he regarded her in a puzzled way.

"AREN'T you glad?" he repeated. "Why, Mary, what is the matter?"

She smiled sadly and shook her head. "Oh, Crawford," she said, "why did you come? Or, at least, why didn't you write me you were coming?"

He laughed. "I didn't write," he answered, "because I was afraid if I did you would write me not to come."

"I certainly should."

"Of course you would. So I took no chances but just came instead."

"But why did you come?"

"Why? To see you, of course."

"Oh, Crawford, please don't joke. You know I asked you not to come here. When we last spoke together, over the telephone, I told you that if you came here I should not see you. And yet you came."

His manner changed. He was serious enough now.

"I came," he said, "because—well, because I felt that I must. I had many things to tell you, Mary, and something to ask. And I could neither tell nor ask in a letter. Dad and I have quarreled—we've parted company."

She had expected to hear it, but it shocked and grieved her, nevertheless. She knew how he had loved his father.

"Sit down, Crawford," she said gently. "Sit down and tell me all about it."

He told her. There was little more to tell than he had written. His father had not become more reconciled to the idea of his marrying Mary. Instead his opposition was just as violent and, to his son's mind, as unreasonably absurd. Day after day Crawford waited, hoping that time would bring a change or that his own arguments might have an effect, but neither time nor argument softened Edwin Smith's obstinacy.

"He behaved like a madman at times," declared Crawford. "And at others he would almost beg me on his knees to give you up. I asked him why. I told him over and over again that he should be proud to have such a girl for his daughter-in-law. I said everything I could. I told him I would do anything for him—anything he asked—except give you up. That I would not do. And it was the only thing he seemed to wish me to do. Talked about bringing shame and disgrace on his head and mine—and all sorts of wild nonsense. When I asked what he meant by disgrace he could not tell me. Of course he couldn't."

That was true, of course he could not tell. Mary knew, and she realized once more the tortures which the man must have suffered, must be suffering at that moment.

"So at last we parted," said Crawford. "I left word—left a letter saying that, so far as I could see, it was best that I went away. We could not agree apparently, he and I, upon the one point which, as I saw it, was the most important decision of my life. And I had made that decision. I told him how much I hated to leave him; that I loved him as much as I ever did. 'But,' I said, 'I shall not give up my happiness and my future merely to gratify your unreasonable whim.' Then I came away and started East to you."

He paused, evidently expecting Mary to make some comment or ask a question, but she was silent. After a moment he went on.

"I haven't made any definite plans as yet," he said. "I have another year at the Medical School—or should have it. I am hoping that I may be able to go back to the Harvard Med. here in Boston and work my way through. Other chaps have done it and I'm sure I can. And after that—well, after that I must take my chance at finding a location and a practice, like any other young M.D. But first of all, Mary, I want you to tell me that you will wait for me. It's a lot to ask; I know how much. But will you, Mary dear? That's what I've come here for—to get you to say that you will. After that I can face anything—yes, and win out, too."

Mary looked at him. His face was aglow with earnestness and his voice shook as he finished speaking. He rose and held out his hands.

"Will you, Mary?" he begged.

She looked at him no longer. She was afraid to do so—afraid of her own weakness. But no sign of that weakness showed itself in her tone as she answered.

"I'm sorry, Crawford," she said, gently. "I wish I could, but I can't."

"Can't! Can't wait for me?"

"I could wait for you, it isn't that. If it were merely a question of waiting—if that were all—how easy it would be! But it isn't. Crawford, you must go back to your father. You must go back to him and forget all about me. You must."

He stared at her for a moment. Then he laughed.

"Forget you!" he repeated. "Mary, are you—"

"Oh, please, Crawford! Don't make this any harder for both of us than it has to be. You must go back to your father and you must forget me. I can not marry you, I can't."

He came toward her.

"But, Mary," he cried, "I—I—Of course I know you can't—now. I know how you feel about your duty to your uncles. I know they need you. I am not asking that you leave them. I ask only that you say you will wait until—until by and by, when—"

"Please, Crawford! No, I can't."

"Mary! You—Oh, but you must say it! Don't tell me you don't love me!"

She was silent. He put his hands upon her shoulders. She could feel them tremble.

"Don't you love me, Mary?" he repeated. "Look up! Look at me! DON'T you love me?"

She did not look up, but she shook her head.

"No, Crawford," she said. "I'm afraid not. Not enough."

She heard him catch his breath, and she longed—Oh, how she longed!—to throw her arms about him, tell him that it was all a lie, that she did love him. But she forced herself not to think of her own love, only of those whom she loved and what disgrace and shame and misery would come upon them if she yielded.

"Not enough?" she heard him repeat slowly. "You—you don't love me? Oh, Mary!"

She shook her head.

"I am sorry, Crawford," she said. "I can't tell you how sorry. Please—please don't think hardly of me, not too hardly. I wish—I wish it were different."

Neither spoke for a moment. Then he said:

"I'm afraid I don't understand. Is there someone else?"

"Oh, no, no! There isn't anyone."

"Then—But you told me—You have let me think—"

"Please! I told you I was not sure of my own feelings. I—I am sure now. I am so sorry you came. I should have written you. I had begun the letter."

Again silence. Then he laughed, a short, bitter laugh with anything but mirth in it.

"I am a fool," he said. "WHAT a fool I have been!"

"Please, Crawford, don't speak so. . . . Oh, where are you going?"

"I? I don't know. What difference does it make where I go? Good-by."

"Stop, Crawford! Wait! It makes a difference to your father where you go. It makes a difference to me. I—I value your friendship very highly. I hoped I might keep that. I hoped you would let me be your friend, even though the other could not be. I hoped that."

The minute before she had asked him to forget her, but she did not remember that, nor did he. He was standing by the door, looking out. For a moment he stood there. Then he turned and held out his hand.

"Forgive me, Mary," he said. "I have behaved like a cad, I'm afraid. When a fellow has been building air castles and all at once they tumble down upon his head he—well, he is likely to forget other things. Forgive me."

She took his hand. She could keep back the tears no longer; her eyes filled.

"There is nothing for me to forgive," she said. "If you will forgive me, that is all I ask. And—and let me still be your friend."

"Of course. Bless you, Mary! I—I can't talk any more now. You'll—" with an attempt at a smile—"you'll have to give me a little time to get my bearings, as your Uncle Shad would say."

"And—and won't you go back to your father? I shall feel so much happier if you do."

He hesitated. Then he nodded.

"If you wish it—yes," he said. "I suppose it is the thing I ought to do. Dad will be happy, at any rate. Oh, Mary, CAN'T you?"

"No, Crawford, no. Yes, your father will be happy. And—and by and by you will be, too, I know. Are you going?"

"Yes, I think I had better. I don't feel like meeting anyone and your Uncle Shad will be here soon, I suppose. Your man here—Isaiah—told me of Mr. Hamilton's sickness. I'm sorry."

"Yes, poor Uncle Zoeth! He is gaining a little, however. Crawford, I won't ask you to stay. Perhaps it will be best for both of us if you do not. But won't you write me just once more? Just to tell me that you and your father are reconciled? I should like to know that. And do forgive me—Oh, do! I HAD to say it, Crawford!"

"I forgive you, Mary. Of course you had to say it. . . . But . . . Well, never mind. Yes, I'll write, of course. I hope . . . No, I can't say that, not now. I'd better go at once, I think, before I . . . Good-by."

He seized her hand, pressed it tightly, took his hat from the table and his bag from the floor and swung out of the door. In the doorway she stood looking after him. At the gate he turned, waved his hand, and hurried on. He did not look back again.

When at half-past six Captain Shadrach, having left Annabel and the boy in charge of the store, came home for supper, Isaiah had some news to tell him. It was surprising news.

"You don't say!" exclaimed the Captain. "Well, well, I want to know! All the way from out West, eh? Sho! Where is he now?"

Isaiah shook his head. "That's the funny part of it, he's gone," he said.

"Gone? Gone where?"

"I don't know. All I know is he come and said he wanted to see Mary-'Gusta—I went up and told her and she come down to see him. I stayed up along of Zoeth until Debby T. came back from her shoppin' cruise. Then I come downstairs again and his hat and bag was gone. There wan't nobody here."

"Where was Mary-'Gusta? Where is she now?"

"Up in her room, I cal'late. I heard her movin' round there a spell ago."

Shadrach went up the stairs, along the hall, and knocked at Mary's door.

"Who is it?" asked a faint voice within.

"It's your Uncle Shad, Mary-'Gusta. Can I come in?"

"Yes."

He entered. There was no lamp and the room was dark.

"Where are you?" he demanded.

"Here, by the window, Uncle Shad."

She was sitting in the rocker by the window. He could not see her face, but as he bent and kissed her cheek he found it wet.

"Mercy on us! You've been cryin'!" he declared.

"Oh—Oh, no, I haven't! I—"

"Rubbish! Yes, you have, too. Settin' alone up here in the dark and cryin'! Mary-'Gusta Lathrop, come here!"

She had risen from the rocking-chair, but he seized her in his arms, sat down in the chair himself, and lifted her to his knee just as he used to do when she was the little Mary-'Gusta.

"Now there, dearie," he said. "You'll tell your Uncle Shad. What is it?"

"Oh, nothing, Uncle Shad, dear. I was—I'm feeling just a little silly this afternoon, I guess. You mustn't ask me."

"All right, I won't ask—I'll tell. That young feller from out West, the feller with the uncommon name—Brown—Jones—Oh, no, Smith, that was it—he came cruisin' around here and—"

"Uncle Shad, how did you know?"

"A little bird told me. A long-legged bird without much hair on top—a bald-headed eagle, I cal'late he must be. Hops round our kitchen daytimes and roosts in the attic nights."

"Isaiah! Of course he would tell."

"Of course he would—BEIN' Isaiah. Well, this Smith critter, he came and—and—well, I guess you'll have to tell me the rest."

"There isn't much to tell. He came and—and then he went away again."

"Went away—where?"

"Out to Carson City, I suppose."

"Ain't he comin' back any more?"

"No."

"Why? Don't you want him to come, Mary-'Gusta?"

"Oh, Uncle Shad, please don't. I don't feel as if I could answer. Don't ask me."

"There, there, dearie; don't you answer nothin'. You set still here and be my baby. I ain't had a chance to baby you for a long spell and it seems good."

Silence. Suddenly the Captain felt the head which nestled against his shoulder stir.

"Uncle Shadrach," said Mary-'Gusta, "what do you do when you want to forget?"

"Eh? Want to forget? Oh, I don't know! Cal'late I turn to and sail in and work a little harder, maybe. Why?"

"Oh, nothing. . . But I am much obliged for the suggestion. Now I am going to work. I shall begin tomorrow morning. I wish it was tomorrow right now."

"Don't. Jumpin' fire! Don't wish time away; some of us ain't got too much to spare. But ain't you BEEN workin', for mercy sakes? I should say you had."

Another interval of silence. Then Mary said:

"Uncle Shad, a good while ago, when you asked me about—about him, I promised you I would tell when there was anything to tell. I am going to keep my promise. He came today and asked me—asked me to marry him—not now, of course, but by and by."

Shadrach was not greatly surprised. Nevertheless it was a moment before he spoke. Mary felt his arms tighten about her and she realized a little of the struggle he was making. Yet his tone was brave and cheerful.

"Yes," he said. "Well, I—I kind of cal'lated that would come some day or other. It's all right, Mary-'Gusta. Zoeth and me have talked it over and all we want is to see you happy. If you said yes to him, Zoeth and I'll say 'God bless you' to both of you."

She reached for his hand and lifted it to her lips. "I know you would," she said. "All your lives you have been thinking of others and not of yourselves. But I didn't say yes, Uncle Shad. I am not going to be married now or by and by. I don't want to be. I am the silent partner of Hamilton and Company. I am a business woman and I am going to work—REALLY work—from now on. No, you mustn't ask me any more questions. We'll try to forget it all. Kiss me, Uncle Shad, dear. That's it. Now you go down to supper. I shall stay here; I am not hungry tonight."



CHAPTER XXVI

Captain Shad did ask more questions, of course. He asked no more that evening—he judged it wisest not to do so; but the next day, seizing an opportunity when he and his niece were alone, he endeavored to learn a little more concerning her reasons for dismissing Crawford. The Captain liked young Smith, he had believed Mary liked him very much, and, although he could not help feeling a guilty sense of relief because the danger that he and Zoeth might have to share her affections with someone else was, for the time at least, out of the way, he was puzzled and troubled by the abruptness of the dismissal. There was something, he felt sure, which he did not understand.

"Of course, Mary-'Gusta," he said, "I ain't askin' anything—that is, I don't mean to put my oar in about what you told me last night, but—well, you see, Zoeth and me was beginnin' to feel that 'twas pretty nigh a settled thing between you and that young man."

Mary was sitting at the desk—she and her uncle were at the store together—and she looked up from the ledger over which she had been bending and shook her head reproachfully. She looked tired and worn, so it seemed to Captain Shadrach, as if she had not slept well the night before, or perhaps for several nights.

"Uncle Shad," she said, "what did I tell you?"

"Eh? Why, you told me—You know what you told me, Mary-'Gusta. What do you ask that for?"

"Because I think you have forgotten the most important part of it. I told you we were going to forget it all. And we are. We are not going to speak of it again."

"But, Mary-'Gusta, why—"

"No, Uncle Shad."

"But do just tell me this much; if you don't I shan't rest in peace: you didn't send him away on account of Zoeth and me? It wan't just because you thought we needed you?"

"No, Uncle Shad."

"Then—"

"That's all. It's over with; it's done with forever. If you really care about me, Uncle Shad—and sometimes, you know, I almost suspect that you really do—you will never, NEVER say another word about it. Now come here and tell me about this account of Heman Rodger's. Isn't it time we tried to get a payment from him?"

The Captain, although still uneasy and far from satisfied, asked no more questions of his niece. It was evident that nothing was to be gained in that way. He did, however, question Isaiah to learn if the latter had noticed anything unusual in Crawford's manner or if Crawford had said anything concerning his reason for coming on at that time, but Isaiah had noticed nothing.

"Umph!" grunted Shadrach, rather impatiently, for the mystery in the affair irritated him. "Of course, you didn't notice. YOU wouldn't notice if your head came off."

Mr. Chase drew himself up. "If I hove out such a statement as that," he observed, scornfully, "you'd call me a fool. 'If my head come off!' How could I notice anything if my head was off? You tell me that!"

His employer grinned. "I cal'late you could do it about as well as you can with it on, Isaiah," he said, and walked away, leaving the cook and steward incoherently anxious to retort but lacking ammunition.

So Shadrach was obliged to give up the riddle. Lovers' quarrels were by no means unusual, he knew that, and many young love affairs came to nothing. Mary had never told him that she cared for Crawford. But she had never said she did not care for him. And now she would say nothing except that it was "done with forever." The Captain shook his head and longed for Zoeth's counsel and advice. But Zoeth would not be able to counsel or advise for months.

And now Mary seemed bent upon proving the truth of her statement that she was henceforth to be solely a business woman. The summer being over—and it had been, everything considered, a successful one for Hamilton and Company—it became time to buy fall and winter goods, also goods for the holidays. Mary went to Boston on a buying expedition. When she returned and informed her uncle what and how much she had bought, he looked almost as if he had been listening to the reading of his death warrant.

"Jumpin' Judas!" he exclaimed. "You don't mean to tell me you bought all them things and—and got TRUSTED for 'em?"

"Of course I did, Uncle Shad. It is the only way I could buy them; and, so far as that goes, everyone was glad to sell me. You see, our paying our bills up there in a shorter time than I asked for has made a very good impression. I could have bought ever and ever so much more if I had thought it best."

"Jumpin' fire! Well, I'm glad you didn't think it best. What in the nation we're goin' to do with all we have got I don't see."

"Do with it? Why, sell it, of course."

"Urn—yes, I cal'lated that was the idea, probably; but who's goin' to buy it?"

"Oh, lots of people. You'll see. I am going to advertise this fall, advertise in the papers. Oh, we'll make Baker's Bazaar and the rest worry a little before we're through."

The Captain was inclined to fear that the most of the worrying would be done by Hamilton and Company, but he expressed no more misgivings. Besides, if anyone could sell all those goods, that one was his Mary-'Gusta, he was perfectly sure of that. He believed her quite capable of performing almost any miracle. Had she not pulled the firm off the rocks where he and his partner had almost wrecked it? Wasn't she the most wonderful young woman on earth? Old as he was, Captain Shad would probably have attempted to thrash any person who expressed a doubt of that.

And the goods were sold, all of them and more. The advertisements, temptingly worded, appeared in the county weeklies, and circulars were sent through the mails. Partly by enterprise and partly through influence—Mr. Keith helped here—Mary attained for Hamilton and Company the contract for supplying the furniture and draperies for the new hotel which a New York syndicate was building at Orham Neck. It was purely a commission deal, of course—everything was purchased in Boston—and Hamilton and Company's profit was a percentage, but even a small percentage on so large a sale made a respectable figure on a check and helped to pay more of the firm's debts. And those debts, the old ones, were now reduced to an almost negligible quantity.

The secondhand horse and wagon still continued to go upon their rounds, but the boy had been replaced by an active young fellow whose name was Crocker and who was capable of taking orders as well as delivering them. When Captain Shadrach was told—not consulted concerning but told—the wages this young man was to receive, he was, as he confided to Isaiah afterward, "dismasted, stove in, down by the head and sinkin' fast."

"Mary-'Gusta Lathrop!" he cried, in amazement. "Are you goin' stark loony? Payin' that Simmie Crocker fourteen dollars a WEEK for drivin' team and swappin' our good sugar and flour for sewin'-circle lies over folks' back fences! I never heard such a thing in my life. Why, Baker's Bazaar don't pay the man on their team but ten a week. I know that 'cause he told me so himself. And Baker's Bazaar's got more trade than we have."

"Yes. And that is exactly why we need a better man than they have, so that WE can get more trade. Simeon Crocker is an ambitious young chap. He isn't going to be contented with fourteen long."

"Oh, he ain't, eh? Well, I ain't contented with it now, I tell you that. Fourteen dollars a week for drivin' cart! Jumpin' fire! Why, the cart itself ain't worth more'n fifteen and for twenty-five I'd heave in the horse for good measure. But I'd never get the chance," he added, "unless I could make the trade in the dark."

Mary laughed and patted his shoulder.

"Never mind, Uncle Shad," she said, confidently, "Sim Crocker at fourteen a week is a good investment. He will get us a lot of new business now, and next summer—well, I have some plans of my own for next summer."

The Christmas business was very good indeed. Shadrach, Mary, Annabel, and Simeon were kept busy. Customers came, not only from South Harniss, but from West and East Harniss and even from Orham and Bayport. The newspaper advertisements were responsible for this in the beginning, but those who first came told others that the best stock of Christmas goods in Ostable County was to be found at the store of Hamilton and Company, in South Harniss, and so the indirect, word-of-mouth advertising, which is the best and most convincing kind, spread and brought results.

Christmas itself was a rather dreary day. Zoeth, although improving, was not yet strong enough to leave his room, and so the Christmas dinner lacked his presence at the table. Mary and Shadrach sat with him for an hour or so, but the doctor and nurse had cautioned them against exciting him, so, although the Captain joked continually, his jokes were rather fickle and in his mind was his partner's prophecy of two years before—that the tide which had, up to that time, been coming in for them, would soon begin to go out. Shadrach could not help feeling that it had been going out, for poor Zoeth at any rate. The doctor declared it was coming in again, but how slowly it came! And how far would it come? This was the first Christmas dinner he had eaten in years without seeing Mr. Hamilton's kindly, patient face at the other side of the table.

And Mary, although she tried to appear gay and lighthearted, laughing at her uncle's jokes and attempting a few of her own, was far from happy. Work, Captain Shad's recipe for producing forgetfulness, had helped, but it had not cured. And when, as on a holiday like this, or at night after she had gone to bed, there was no work to occupy her mind, she remembered only too well. Crawford had written her, as he promised, after his return home. He wrote that he and his father were reconciled and that he had resumed his studies. The letter was brave and cheerful, there was not a hint of whining or complaint in it. Mary was proud of him, proud of his courage and self-restraint. She could read between the lines and the loneliness and hopelessness were there but he had done his best to conceal them for her sake. If he felt resentment toward her, he did not show it. Lonely and hopeless as she herself was, her heart went out to him, but she did not repent her decision. It was better, ever and ever so much better, as it was. He would forget and be happy by and by, and would never know his father's shameful story. And poor Uncle Zoeth would never know, either. As for her—well, she must work, work harder than ever. Thank God there were six working days in the week!

She did not answer that letter. After much deliberation she fought down the temptation and decided not to do so. What was the use? If one wished to forget, or wished someone else to forget, if it was a real wish and not merely pretending, the way to bring about that result was to do nothing to cause remembrance. Letters, even the letters of friends, the most platonic letters, were reminders. She had begged for Crawford's friendship—she could not bring herself to let him go without hearing that he forgave her and would think of her as a friend—but now she vowed she would not be so silly and childish as to torture him or herself unnecessarily. She would not do it. And so she did not write.

After Christmas came the long, dull winter. It was the most discouraging season the silent partner of Hamilton and Company had yet put in in her capacity as manager. There were no cottagers to help out with their custom, very few new customers, no fresh faces in the store, the same dreary, deadly round from morning till night. She tried her hardest and, with the able assistance of Sim Crocker who was proving himself a treasure, did succeed in making February's sales larger than January's and those of March larger than either. But she looked forward to April and the real spring with impatience. She had a plan for the spring.

It was in March that she experienced a great satisfaction and gave Shadrach the surprise and delight of his life by collecting the firm's bill against Mr. Jeremiah Clifford. Mr. Clifford, it will be remembered, had owed Hamilton and Company one hundred and ten dollars for a long time. There was every indication that he was perfectly satisfied with the arrangement and intended to owe it forever. Mary had written, had called upon him repeatedly, had even journeyed to Ostable and consulted her friend Judge Baxter. The Judge had promised to look into the matter and he did so, but his letter to her contained little that was hopeful.

There is money there [wrote the Judge]. The man Clifford appears to be in very comfortable circumstances, but he is a shrewd [there were indications here that the word "rascal" had been written and then erased] person and, so far as I can learn, there is not a single item of property, real or otherwise, that is in his own name. If there were, we might attach that property for your debt, but we cannot attach Mrs. Clifford's holdings. All I can advise is to discontinue selling him more goods and to worry him all you can about the old bill. He may grow tired of being dunned and pay, if not all, at least something on account.

When Mary read this portion of the letter to her Uncle Shadrach his scorn was outspoken.

"Get tired!" he scoffed. "Jerry Clifford get tired of bein' dunned! DON'T talk so foolish! Why, he gets fat on that kind of thing; it's the main excitement he has, that and spendin' a cent twice a day for newspapers. Did you ever watch Jerry buy a paper? No? Well, you go up to Ellis's some day when the mornin' papers are put out for sale and watch him. He'll drive up to the door with that old hoopskirt of a horse of his—that's what the critter looks like, one of them old-fashioned hoop-skirts; there was nothin' to them but framework and a hollow inside, and that's all there is to that horse.—Well, Jerry he'll drive up and come in to the paper counter, his eyes shinin' and his nerves all keyed up and one hand shoved down into his britches pocket. He'll stand and look over the papers on the counter, readin' as much of every one as he can for nothin', and then by and by that hand'll come out of his pocket with a cent in it. Then the other hand'll reach over and get hold of the paper he's cal'latin' to buy, get a good clove hitch onto it, and then for a minute he'll stand there lookin' first at the cent and then at the paper and rubbin' the money between his finger and thumb—he's figgerin' to have a little of the copper smell left on his hand even if he has to let go of the coin, you see—and—"

Mary laughed.

"Uncle Shad," she exclaimed, "what ridiculous nonsense you do talk!"

"No nonsense about it. It's dead serious. It ain't any joke to Jerry, you can bet on that. Well, after a spell, he kind of gets his spunk up to make the plunge, as you might say, lays down the penny—Oh, he never throws it down; he wouldn't treat real money as disrespectful as that—grabs up the paper and makes a break for outdoors, never once lookin' back for fear he might change his mind. When he drives off in his buggy you can see that he's all het up and trembly, like one of them reckless Wall Street speculators you read about. He's spent a cent, but he's had a lovely nerve-wrackin' time doin' it. Oh, a feller has to satisfy his cravin' for excitement somehow, and Jerry satisfies his buyin' one-cent newspapers and seein' his creditors get mad. Do you suppose you can worry such a critter as that by talkin' to him about what he owes? Might as well try to worry a codfish by leanin' over the rail of the boat and hollerin' to it that it's drownin'."

Mary laughed again. "I'm afraid you may be right, Uncle Shad," she said, "but I shan't give up hope. My chance may come some day, if I wait and watch for it."

It came unexpectedly and in a rather odd manner. One raw, windy March afternoon she was very much surprised to see Sam Keith walk into the store. Sam, since his graduation from college, was, as he expressed it, "moaning on the bar" in Boston—that is to say, he was attending the Harvard Law School with the hope, on his parents' part, that he might ultimately become a lawyer.

"Why, Sam!" exclaimed Mary. "Is this you?"

Sam grinned cheerfully. "'Tis I," he declared. "I am here. That is to say, the handsome youth whose footfalls you hear approaching upon horseback is none other than our hero. Mary, you are, as usual, a sight to be thankful for. How do you do?"

Mary admitted that she was in good health and then demanded to know what he was doing down on the Cape at that time of the year. He sat down in a chair by the stove and propped his feet against the hearth before replying.

"Why! Haven't you guessed?" he asked, in mock amazement. "Dear me! I'm surprised. I should have thought the weather would have suggested my errand. Hear that zephyr; doesn't it suggest bathing suits and outing flannels and mosquitoes and hammock flirtations? Eh?"

The zephyr was a sixty-mile-an-hour March gale. Sam replied to his own question.

"Answer," he said, "it does not. Right, my child; go up head. But, honest Injun, I am down here on summer business. That Mr. Raymond, Dad's friend, who was visiting us this summer is crazy about the Cape. He has decided to build a summer home here at South Harniss, and the first requisite being land to build it on he has asked Dad to buy the strip between our own property and the North Inlet, always provided it can be bought. Dad asked me to come down here and see about it, so here I am."

Mary considered. "Oh, yes," she said, after a moment, "I know the land you mean. Who owns it?"

"That's what I didn't know," said Sam. "But I do know now. I asked the first person I met after I got off the train and oddly enough he turned out to be the owner himself. It was old Clifford—Isaiah, Elisha, Hosea—Jeremiah, that's it. I knew it was one of the prophets."

"So Mr. Clifford owns that land. I didn't know that."

"Neither did I. He didn't tell me at first that he did own it. Asked me what I wanted to know for."

"Did you tell him?" asked Mary.

For the first time since Mr. Keith's arrival that young gentleman's easy assurance seemed a little shaken. He appeared to feel rather foolish.

"Why, yes, to be honest, I did," he admitted. "I was an idiot, I suppose, but everyone asks about everyone's else business down here and I didn't think. He kept talking and pumping and before I realized it I told him about Raymond's being so anxious to get that property, being dead set on it and all that, and about my being commissioned to buy at any reasonable figure. And then, after a while, he astonished me by saying he owned the land himself. Confound it! I suppose he'll jam the price away up after what I told him."

"Oh, then you haven't bought?"

"Not yet. I was willing, but for some reason he wouldn't sell at once—wouldn't even talk price. Wanted to think it over, he said. I can't wait now, but I am coming down again on Monday and we shall close the deal then."

That evening Mary told Shadrach what Sam had said. The Captain looked puzzled.

"I didn't know Jerry Clifford owned that land," he said. "I don't believe he does."

"Of course he does, Uncle Shad. He wouldn't have told Sam he did own it if he didn't. What in the world would he gain by that?"

"Why, nothin', I presume likely. But he must have bought it mighty recent. Last I heard Jimmie G. owned that piece. 'Twas part of the property his father left him. Next time I see Jimmie I'll ask him."

So, three days later, when Jimmie G.—his last name was Peters—passed the store the Captain hailed him and, inviting him in, went straight to the point.

"When did you sell Jerry Clifford that North Inlet land of yours, Jim?" he asked.

Jimmie G. looked surprised. "How in time did you know I had sold it?" he demanded. "It beats all how things get around in this town. I never sold that land until day afore yesterday evenin' and the deed didn't pass till yesterday, and yet you know the whole business. Not that I care; 'twas Jerry wanted it kept still. Who told you?"

Captain Shad whistled. "I see," he said slowly. "I see. Yes, yes. When Jerry told Sam he owned that land he . . . Humph! It's just another case of the boy lied, that's all. Tut, tut, tut! When you get ahead of Jerry Clifford you've got to turn out early, ain't you? I hope you got a good price for the land, Jim."

"Well, I didn't; that is, not very big. What's up, anyway? What are you hintin' at, Cap'n Shad?"

Before the Captain could answer, Mary, who had been listening to the conversation, broke in to ask a question.

"Mr. Peters," she cried eagerly, "would you mind telling me this: Whose name is the new deed in, Mr. Clifford's or his wife's?"

Jimmie G. laughed. "Why, that was kind of funny, too," he said. "You know Jerry, Cap'n Shad; he never has nothin' in his own name—it's all in his wife's. That's a principle of his."

"I'd call it a lack of principle," grunted Shadrach. "Never mind, Jim; go on."

"But he was in a terrible rush to close the sale, for some reason or other," went on Peters, "and I forgot, myself, and had the deed made in the name of Jeremiah Clifford. He made a big row at first, but it seemed as if he couldn't wait for me to have it changed, so he handed over his check and—"

"Wait! Wait, please, Mr. Peters!" broke in Mary, her eyes flashing with excitement. "Just tell me if I understand you correctly. You sold that land to Mr. Clifford and he owns it now IN HIS OWN NAME?"

"Why, yes—sartin."

Mary waited to hear no more. She ran out of the store and to the post-office. A few minutes later she was talking with Judge Baxter over the telephone. When she returned the Captain was curious to know where she had been, but she would not tell him.

"Wait," she said. "Wait, Uncle Shad; I think something is going to happen."

It happened on Monday morning. Mary was at the desk; Simeon was in the back room getting ready his early morning orders, and Captain Shad was standing by the window looking out. Suddenly Mary heard him utter an exclamation.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"Oh, nothin'."

"You spoke as if you were in pain."

"No wonder. I'm lookin' at somethin' that gives me a pain. That wizened-up landshark of a Jerry Clifford is in sight, bound to the post-office, I cal'late. Goin' to put a one-cent stamp on a letter and let the feller that gets it pay the other cent, I suppose. He always asks the postmaster to lick the stamp, so's to save the wear and tear on his own tongue. That's a fact. . . . No," he added, a moment later, "he ain't goin' to the office; he's turnin' down the lane here. . . . Eh! Jumpin' fire of brimstone, I do believe—WHAT in the world?"

For Mr. Clifford's step was upon the platform of the store and in another moment the door opened and the tight-fisted one himself appeared. Shadrach said nothing; he could only stare in amazement. It had been more than two years since Jeremiah had crossed that threshold.

But he crossed it now. And, after a look about the place, ignoring the Captain completely, he walked over to the desk. He did not look happy. Mary, on the contrary, looked very much pleased.

"Good morning, Mr. Clifford," she said.

Jeremiah, who was a little thin man, looked up at her from under his heavy gray eyebrows and above his spectacles. He did not acknowledge the salutation.

"Umph!" he grunted savagely. "You think you're smart, don't ye?"

Shadrach started forward.

"Why, you—" he began. Mary held up her hand.

"Don't interfere, Uncle Shad," she ordered. "This is Mr. Clifford's affair and mine. We understand each other perfectly." Then, turning to the frowning Jeremiah, she said: "Why, yes, thank you, Mr. Clifford, I do think I am rather clever—just now. Don't you think I am, yourself?"

Again the visitor ignored the question.

"What did you go and stick an attachment on that land of mine for?" he demanded.

"Surely you don't need to ask me that, Mr. Clifford. The amount is one hundred and ten dollars and sixty-three cents. I remember it and I should imagine you must; certainly it has been called to your attention often enough."

"Umph! Well, you can keep your darned old attachment."

"Very well; and you can keep your land—what is left, I mean. I think you will keep it for some time—after I tell Mr. Keith the facts. He will be here this afternoon, you know."

It was evident that Jeremiah was quite aware of the time of Sam Keith's arrival. His teeth—the few remaining—snapped together and, as Captain Shadrach said afterwards, he looked as if undecided whether to bite or put back his head and howl. Apparently he decided that howling was safer.

"I was cal'latin' to pay that bill of yours, anyhow," he said.

"Of course, and we were calculating that you would," said Mary sweetly. "Your calculations and ours are proving true, Mr. Clifford. That's nice, isn't it?"

From the direction of the back room, where Simeon was busy with his orders, came the sound of a smothered laugh. Shadrach, upon whom understanding of the situation was just beginning to dawn, slapped his knee. Mr. Clifford looked positively venomous.

"If I pay that bill—that—what was it?—that hundred and ten dollars you say I owe you—do I get that attachment off my land right away?" he demanded.

"If you pay the one hundred and ten dollars—and the sixty-three cents—I shall phone Judge Baxter the next minute," said Mary promptly.

Jeremiah hesitated no longer. He had considered the situation in all its phases before leaving home and the one hundred and ten dollars was but a small item compared to his expected profit on the sale of the North Inlet land. He reached into his pocket, produced a long, dingy leather pocketbook wound about with twine, unwound the twine, opened the pocketbook and produced a blank check.

"Give me a pen and ink," he snarled, "and I'll fill this in."

The Captain reached for the pen and ink bottle, but Mary interfered.

"Cash, if you please," she said sweetly.

Jeremiah looked at her steadily for what seemed a long time. Then she was surprised to see the corner of his lip twitch and notice a grim twinkle in his eye. Also there was a grudging note of admiration in his voice when he next spoke.

"Ain't takin' no chances, be you?" he said dryly.

"No. Don't you think we've taken enough already?"

Mr. Clifford did not answer. He replaced the blank check in his pocketbook and, from another compartment, extracted some bills rolled in a tight little cylinder and wound about with elastic.

"There you be," he said shortly. Then, turning to Shadrach, he added: "Don't I get nothin' off for payin' cash?"

From the back room came a vigorous "Haw, haw!" Even Mary laughed aloud. As for Captain Shad, he could only stare, struck speechless by his visitor's audacity. Mary, when she had finished laughing, answered for him.

"We shall deduct the interest we might have charged you, Mr. Clifford," she said. "Thank you. There is your change and there is the receipted bill. Now, I shall call up Judge Baxter."

When she returned from the post-office Jeremiah was still there. Shadrach, all smiles, was doing up parcels.

"What are those, Uncle Shad?" asked Mary. Mr. Clifford answered.

"Oh, I thought I might as well buy a little sugar and flour and such," he said. "Always come in handy, they do. Send 'em up when you get to it. Good-by."

His hand was on the door, but Mary called to him.

"Mr. Clifford," she called; "just a minute, please. Are you in any hurry for these things—the sugar and the rest of it?"

"No, don't know's I be, 'special'; why?"

"Oh, nothing, except that if you were in a hurry I should advise your paying for them. I told you, you remember, that we weren't taking chances."

For an instant Jeremiah stood there glowering. Then he did another astonishing thing. He took out the pocketbook once more and from it extracted a two-dollar bill.

"Take it out of that," he said, "and send me a receipted bill afterwards. I always cal'late to know what I've paid for. And say, you—what's your name—Mary-'Gusta, if you get tired of workin' for Shad Gould and Zoeth Hamilton, come round and see me. I've got—I mean my wife's got—two or three mortgages that's behind on the interest. I ain't been able to collect it for her yet, but—but, by time, I believe YOU could!"

He went out and the next moment Mary was almost smothered in her uncle's embrace.

"After this—after THIS," roared Shadrach, "I'll believe anything's possible if you've got a hand in it, Mary-'Gusta. If YOU'D been Jonah you'd have put the whale in your pocket and swum ashore."



CHAPTER XXVII

Early in April, when Mary announced that she was ready to put into operation her biggest and most ambitious plan, suggested the year before by Barbara Howe—the tea-room and gift-shop plan—the Captain did not offer strenuous opposition.

"I can't see much sense in it," he admitted. "I don't know's I know what it's all about. Nigh as I can make out you're figgerin' to open up some kind of a high-toned eatin' house. Is that it?"

"Why, no, Uncle Shad, not exactly," explained Mary.

"Then what is it—a drinkin' house? I presume likely that's it, bein' as you call it a 'tea-room.' Kind of a temperance saloon, eh? Can't a feller get coffee in it, if he wants to? I don't wake up nights much hankerin' for tea myself."

"Listen, Uncle Shad: A tea-room—at least a tearoom of the sort I intend to have—is a place where the summer people, the women and girls especially, will come and sit at little tables and drink tea and eat cakes and ice cream and look off at the ocean, if the weather is pleasant—"

"Yes, and at the fog, if 'tain't; and talk about their neighbor's clothes and run down the characters of their best friends. Yes, yes, I see; sort of a sewin' circle without the sewin'. All right, heave ahead and get your tea-room off the ways if you want to. If anybody can make the thing keep afloat you can, Mary-'Gusta."

So Mary, thus encouraged, went on to put her scheme into effect. She had been planning the details for some time. About halfway down the lane leading to the house from the store was another small story-and-a-half dwelling of the old-fashioned Cape Cod type. It stood upon a little hill and commanded a wide view of ocean and beach and village. There were some weather-beaten trees and a tangle of shrubs about it. It had been untenanted for a good while and was in rather bad repair.

Mary arranged with the owner, a Bayport man, to lease this house and land at a small rental for three years. In the lease was included consent to the making of necessary alterations and repairs and the privilege of purchasing, at a price therein named, at the end of the three years, should the tenant wish to do so.

Then with the aid of soap and water, white paint and whitewash, attractive but inexpensive wall papers, and odds and ends of quaint old furniture, of which the parlor and best bedroom of the Gould-Hamilton home supplied the larger quantity, she proceeded to make over the interior of the little building. To every bit of nautical bric-a-brac, pictures of old sailing ships and sea curios she gave especial prominence. Then the lawn was mowed, the tangled shrubbery untangled and clipped and pruned; cheap but pretty lattices made to look like the shrouds of a ship, over which climbing roses were supposed—some day—to twine, were placed against the walls, and rustic tables set about under the trees and the grape arbor with ship lanterns hung above them. The driveway down to the lane was rolled and hardened, and a sign, painted by Joshua Bemis, the local "House, Boat and Sign Painter, Tinsmith and Glazier"—see Mr. Bemis's advertisement in the Advocate—was hung on a frame by the gateway.

Captain Shad's remarks when he first saw that sign may be worth quoting. Mary had not consulted him concerning it; she deemed it best not to do so. When it was in place, however, she led him out to inspect. Shadrach adjusted his spectacles and read as follows:

THE FOR'ARD LOOKOUT TEA AND GIFTS DAINTY THINGS TO EAT PRETTY THINGS TO BUY ALL'S WELL!

There was the picture of a full-rigged ship, with every stitch set alow and aloft, sailing through a sea of thick green and white paint toward a kind of green wall with green feather dusters growing out of it.

Shadrach subjected this work of art to a long and searching stare. At last he spoke.

"Carryin' every rag she can h'ist," he observed; "nobody at the wheel, land dead ahead and breakers under the bows. Looks to me as if 'twas liable to be a short v'yage and a lively one. But the for'ard lookout says all's well and he ought to know; he's had more experience aboard gift-shop ships, I presume likely, than I have. What's those bristly things stickin' up along shore there—eel grass or tea grounds?"

For the first few weeks after the tea-room was really "off the ways" the optimistic declaration of the For'ard Lookout seemed scarcely warranted by the facts. Mary was inclined to think that all was by no means well. In fitting out the new venture she had been as economical as she dared, but she had been obliged to spend money and to take on a fresh assortment of debts. Then, too, she had engaged the services of a good cook and two waitresses, so there was a weekly expense bill to consider. And the number of motor cars which turned in at the new driveway was disappointingly small.

But the number grew larger. As people had talked about Hamilton and Company's assortment of Christmas goods, so now they began to talk about the "quaintness and delightful originality" of the For'ard Lookout. The tea was good; the cakes and ices were good; on pleasant days the view was remarkably fine, and the pretty things in the gift shop were temptingly displayed. So, as May passed and June came, and the cottages and hotels began to open, the business of the new tea-room and gift shop grew from fair to good and from that to very good indeed.

Mary divided her time between the store and the tearoom, doing her best to keep a supervising eye on each. She was in no mood to meet people and kept out of the way of strangers as much as possible; even of her former acquaintances who came to the For'ard Lookout she saw but few. If she had not been too busy she might have found it amusing, the contrasting studies in human nature afforded by these former acquaintances in their attitude toward her.

For instance, Mr. and Mrs. Christopher Mullet and daughter, Irene, the latter now through school and "finished" until her veneering actually glittered, sat drinking tea at a table on the lawn. Said Mrs. Mullet:

"And THIS is what it's come to; after all the airs and frills and the goin' to Europe and I don't know what all. Here she is keepin' an eatin' house. An eatin' house—just THINK of it! If that ain't a comedown! Wouldn't you think she'd be ashamed, 'Rena?"

Miss Mullet drooped a weary eyelid and sighed a hopeless sigh.

"Oh, Mother," she drawled, in deep disgust, "CAN'T you stop calling me by that outlandish name? I was christened Irene, I believe. PLEASE remember it."

"All right, 'Re—all right, Irene; I won't forget again. Oh, there's Mary-'Gusta, now! Showin' herself out here with all these city folks, when she's nothin' but a hired help—a table girl, as you might say! I shan't notice her, anyway. I may buy her tea and stuff, but I—Who's that runnin' up to her and—and kissin' her—and—mercy on us! You'd think they was sisters, if you didn't know. Who is it? Looks kind of common, she does to me. Don't you think so, 'Rena—Irene, I mean?"

Irene sniffed.

"That," she said with cutting emphasis, "is Barbara Howe. Her people are building that big summer house at Osterville and her father is a millionaire, so they say. And her people wouldn't let her come to the school you sent me to because they thought it wasn't good enough for her. That's how common SHE is. I met her once, but she doesn't know me now, although she is perfectly crazy over that Mary Lathrop. I—Oh, there's Father drinking out of his saucer again! For heaven's sake, let's go home!"

And just then Barbara was enthusiastically hugging her former schoolmate and exclaiming:

"You did it! I knew you would if you would only try. I said it required a knack or a genius or something and that I was certain you had it. It's the dearest place of the kind I've ever seen, my dear, and if every single person I know who is in this vicinity doesn't come here at least once a week and spend lots and lots of money I'll never speak to them again. I'm going to turn myself into a walking phonograph, my dear, with just one record: 'If you love me visit the For'ard Lookout.' And of course everyone loves me—how can they help it? So—well, just wait and see what happens."

So far as spreading abroad the praises of the new tea-room was concerned, she was as good as her word. In August the patronage was so great and continuous that Mary found it necessary to hire three more waitresses and a salesgirl for the gift shop. She spent more of her own time there, leaving the care of the store to Shadrach, Simeon Crocker and a new clerk, who had been hired to help with the summer custom. When early September brought the beginning of the season's end the books of both the Lookout and of Hamilton and Company showed a substantial profit.

While all this was going on Zoeth was steadily gaining in health and strength. In July he was sitting in the sunshine upon the front porch. In August he was able to climb to the buggy seat and be driven up to the store, where day after day he sat in his armchair behind the counter, watching what was going on, listening to his partner's happy chatter—for Shadrach was in high spirits now—and occasionally saying a word or two himself. On pleasant Sundays he was driven to church and the Captain and Mary accompanied him. He was white and frail and thin, but the doctor assured them that, so far as he could see, there was no reason to expect anything but a complete recovery.

It did seem to Captain Shad, however, that his partner had something on his mind. He seemed often to be thinking deeply and at times to be troubled and disturbed. The Captain had never asked, never attempted by questioning to learn what the cause of the trouble—provided there was any—might be. He had been told often enough that the patient must not be excited, so he meant to take no risks, but Zoeth's long silences and the expression on his face as he sat there in the chair, evidently thinking deeply, puzzled and worried his friend and partner. He noticed the same expression at times when Mary was in the room. Zoeth's eyes would follow her as she moved about and in them was the look the Captain could not understand.

Shadrach had told his friend of Mary's sending young Smith away. Zoeth had asked concerning Crawford almost as soon as he was permitted to take part in a lengthy conversation. He appeared greatly interested, even eager.

"But, Shadrach," he said, "are you sure she sent him away because she didn't care for him? Are you sure that was the reason?"

"What other reason could there be?" demanded the Captain. "She as much as told me that was it, herself. I was some surprised, of course, for I'd rather cal'lated 'twas as good as settled between 'em, but it turned out that I didn't know what I was talkin' about. That HAS happened afore in my life, strange as it may seem," he added dryly.

Zoeth sighed. "I wish—" he said slowly, "I wish I knew—"

"What do you wish you knew?"

"Eh? Oh, nothin'. If—if I was only a little mite stronger I'd try to talk with Mary-'Gusta myself. I'd like—I'd like to have her tell me about it."

"Meanin' you don't believe me, eh? There, there, shipmate, it's all right. I was only jokin'. But I wouldn't ask Mary-'Gusta about that, if I was you. Course I know she cares as much or more for her Uncle Zoeth than for anybody on earth, and she'd tell him anything if he asked her; but I don't believe—Well, I wouldn't ask, if I was you. You understand?"

"Yes, yes, Shadrach, I think I understand. You mean she felt bad to have to say—what she did say—to that young man and she wouldn't want to be reminded of it?"

"That's about it, Zoeth."

Silence for some minutes. Both partners were occupied with their thoughts. Then Zoeth said:

"Shadrach, I—I—"

He did not finish the sentence. The Captain ventured to remind him.

"Yes, Zoeth, what is it?" he asked.

"Nothin'. I—I can't tell you now. By and by, if the good Lord gives me strength again, I'll—Never mind, now. Don't ask me, please."

So Shadrach did not ask, but he was puzzled and a little anxious. What was it his partner had to tell and found the telling so difficult?



CHAPTER XXVIII

It was not until a day in mid-September that Captain Shadrach learned his partner's secret. He and Zoeth and Mary were at the store together. Business was still good, but the rush was over. The summer cottages were closing and most of the Cape hotels had already closed. The For'ard Lookout had taken down its sign at the end of the previous week. Its voyage for that year was over. It had been a prosperous one.

Mary was sorry that the busy season was at an end. She was very, very tired; she had allowed herself no rest, had taken no holidays, had done her best to think of nothing except matters connected with Hamilton and Company or the tea-room. These, fortunately, had given her enough to think of; other thoughts she resolutely crowded from her mind. Now there would be no tea-room to plan for, and, thanks to Sim Crocker and the competent way in which he had assumed care of the store, she no longer felt the absolute necessity of remaining there from daylight until late in the evening. Her Uncle Zoeth was almost well, also; she would no longer have his health as an additional burden upon her mind. She was in danger of being forced to think of herself, and that she knew she must not do. Thinking of herself would surely mean thinking of someone else and of what might have been. And what useless, hopeless thinking that would be! No, no! She must find something else to keep her thoughts occupied.

So she was planning the making over and enlarging of the store front, putting in larger and better windows and strengthening the platform. She was discussing the plan with Shadrach and Zoeth when John Keith entered. The Keiths were leaving South Harniss rather early that year and the head of the family had dropped in to say good-by. Mr. Keith's liking for Mary was as strong as ever, and for her uncles he had, by this time, a very real regard, a feeling which was reciprocated by them.

Conversation began in the way the majority of conversations begin, with a discussion of the weather, its recent past, present, and probable future, shifted to the tea-room and its success and then to the visitor's recent trip to New York, from which city he had just returned. It was near the noon hour and there were few customers to interrupt. Those who did come were taken care of by Mr. Crocker.

"Anything new happenin' over there?" inquired Captain Shadrach, asking news of the metropolis exactly as he would have asked concerning the gossip of Harniss Center. "Meet anybody you knew, did you?"

Keith smiled. "Why, yes," he said. "I met the people I went to see. Mine was a business trip. I didn't meet anyone unexpectedly, if that's what you mean."

The Captain nodded. "Didn't get down on South Street, did you?" he asked. "No, I thought not. If you had you'd have met plenty. When I was goin' to sea I bet I never went cruisin' down South Street in my life that I didn't run afoul of somebody I wan't expectin' to. Greatest place for meetin' folks in the world, I cal'late South Street is. Lots of seafarin' men have told me so."

Keith's smile broadened as he was handed this nugget of wisdom. Then he said:

"You remind me, Captain, that I did meet someone, after all. In Boston, not in New York, and I met him only yesterday. It was someone you know, too, and Mary here used to know him quite well, I think—young Crawford Smith, Sam's Harvard friend. He visited us here in South Harniss one summer."

Shadrach was the only one of the trio of listeners who made any comment at all on this speech. Even he did not speak for a moment, glancing apprehensively at Mary before doing so. Mary said nothing, and Zoeth, leaning back in his chair, his face hidden from his partner's gaze by the end of the counter, did not speak.

"Sho!" exclaimed the Captain. "Sho! So you met him, did you! In Boston? That's funny. I had an idea he was out West somewheres."

"So did I. The last I heard concerning him he had given up his studies in the East here—he was studying medicine, as perhaps you know—and had gone back to his home in Nevada. His father, who was not at all well, asked him to do so. He had written Sam once or twice from out there. So I was surprised enough to see him in Boston. I met him in the South Station and we chatted for a few moments. He told me that his father was dead."

From behind the end of the counter where Zoeth sat came an odd sound, a sort of gasp. Shadrach leaned forward quickly.

"What's the matter, Zoeth?" he asked. Before Zoeth could answer Mary spoke:

"Dead!" she repeated. "Mr. Keith, I—did—did you say Crawford Smith's father was DEAD?"

Her tone was so strange that even Mr. Keith could not help noticing it. He looked at her, seemed about to ask a question, and then answered hers instead.

"Why, yes," he said; "he is dead. He had been in poor health for some time, so his son told me, and about two weeks ago he died. Crawford did not tell me any particulars, nor did he say what had brought him East. In fact, he didn't seem anxious to talk; acted as if he had something on his mind. Of course I said I was sorry and he thanked me and inquired regarding Mrs. Keith and Edna and Sam. Then I had to hurry for my train. . . . Oh, are you going, Mary? Well, then, I must say good-by until next summer; we leave tomorrow morning."

Mary explained, rather hurriedly, that she must speak with Simeon for a few minutes, said good-by, shook hands and hastened out. Keith looked after her.

"I hope I haven't made a blunder," he said, "in speaking of young Smith. She and he were quite—er—friendly at one time, weren't they. I understood so from some remarks of Sam's. Didn't put my foot in it by mentioning the boy's name, did I? I certainly hope not."

Zoeth did not speak. Shadrach hastened to reassure him.

"No, no!" he said. "There was one time when even me and Zoeth figgered there might be—er—well, we didn't know but what he and she was liable to be more'n just friends. But it's all off now, seems so. They don't even write each other, I guess. I cal'late maybe Mary-'Gusta got tired of him," he explained. "He was a real nice young feller, but he probably wan't quite good enough for her. Fur's that goes," he added, with the emphasis of absolute conviction, "I never laid eyes on one that was."

Keith looked relieved. "Well, I'm glad if I didn't make a mistake," he said. "She seemed so startled when I said that the man was dead and her manner was so odd. Didn't you notice it yourself, Captain?"

Shadrach nodded.

"I noticed she seemed sort of sot all aback," he said, "but I don't know's that's so strange when you consider that she and Crawford used to be such friends. More'n probable she's heard him talk a good deal about his father."

"Well, perhaps so. No doubt that is it. I'm afraid she is working too hard and worrying too much over her various enterprises here. She is succeeding wonderfully, of course, but I don't like to see her losing those roses in her cheeks. They're much too precious to lose. Keep your eye on her, Captain, and don't let her wear herself out."

He soon said good-by. Captain Shadrach accompanied him to the door. Zoeth remained where he was, not rising even when he shook hands with his departing friend. But when the Captain turned back he saw his partner standing by the end of the counter and clutching it with one hand while he beckoned with the other. Shadrach gave him one look and then crossed the space between them in two strides.

"For the land sakes, Zoeth," he begged, "what's the matter?"

Zoeth waved him to silence. "Sshh! sshh!" he pleaded in a whisper. "Don't holler so; she'll hear you. Shadrach, I—I—"

"What IS it?" broke in his friend. "What's the matter, Zoeth? Shall I fetch the doctor?"

"No, no. I'm—I'm all right, Shadrach. I've just had—had a kind of shock—a surprise, that's all. I ain't very strong yet and it—it kind of upset me. But, Shadrach, I want to talk to you. I want to tell you somethin' right away. I can't keep it to myself any longer. Can't we go home—to my room or somewheres—where we can talk? Please, Shadrach!"

"There, there, shipmate; take it easy. Go home? Course we can! Hey, Sim!" shouting to Mr. Crocker, who was in the back room. "You and Mary can take care of the store, can't you? Zoeth and me are goin' home for dinner."

Simeon replied that Mary was not there; she had gone out the back way, down to the house, he thought. "But you go ahead, Cap'n Shad," he added. "I can take care of the store all right."

At home, and in Mr. Hamilton's room, the Captain pulled forward the most comfortable chair, forced his partner to sit in it, closed and locked the door, sat down on the edge of the bed, and said:

"There! Now we're all taut and shipshape and nobody can get aboard to interrupt. Fire away, Zoeth. What is it you've got to tell?"

Zoeth, his hand trembling, reached into the inside pocket of his coat, took out an old-fashioned wallet and from it produced a much-crumpled envelope.

"Shadrach," he said, "I don't hardly know how to begin. It seems so strange to think that you and me, who've been so close to each other all these years, should have a secret between us, if only for a little while. It seems wicked. I guess 'tis wicked, and I'm the wicked one for keepin' it from you."

The Captain laughed.

"You couldn't be wicked if you was apprenticed to the Old Harry for ten years, Zoeth," he said. "You don't know how to be and the devil himself couldn't teach you. Now, don't waste time tellin' me I'm speaking lightly of sacred things," he added. "For one thing, the Old Scratch ain't sacred, as I know of, and for another I want to hear that secret. What is it?"

Zoeth shook his head. "I am wicked, all the same," he said, "but I guess I've been punished. There wan't any real reason why I shouldn't have told you afore, but somehow I couldn't make up my mind to speak of it. I just couldn't. But I'm goin' to tell you now, Shadrach."

He held up the crumpled envelope.

"You remember when I was took sick?" he said. "You remember I was struck down all of a heap in the kitchen? Yes; well, did you ever wonder what it was struck me down? I'll tell you. 'Twas a letter that came to me in the mail that morning. This was the letter. I managed to put it in my inside vest pocket that time when Isaiah run off after you and left me lyin' there. I didn't want him to see it. I didn't want anybody to—not then. Now I want you to read it, Shadrach. But before you do, let me warn you. You should ask the Almighty to give you strength. You're goin' to be surprised, Shadrach, surprised and shocked. Here it is; read it."

He handed the envelope to his partner. The latter took it, wonderingly, and looked at the inscription.

"Nobody's handwritin' that I know," he said.

"You knew it once well enough."

"I did? And it was mailed out in Carson City, Nevada. Why, that's where the Crawford Smith boy lives, ain't it? What on earth?"

He opened the envelope and from it took several sheets closely covered with finely written lines. He began to read and, as he read, his expression changed from curiosity to wonder, to amazement, to anger, to a mixture of the last three. The final sheet fell from his fingers to the floor. He looked up with a very white face.

"My God!" he said solemnly.

A half-hour later they were still talking. Shadrach had not entirely recovered from the surprise, but now he could think and speak more coherently, although the wonder of it all was overpowering.

"It seems as if the hand of the Lord was in it," he declared.

"It is," agreed Zoeth, with absolute conviction. "See how it worked out accordin' to His promise. The wicked flourished for a time, but God sent the punishment in due season, didn't He? Can't you see the poor feller's agonizin' in every line of that letter?"

"POOR feller! Good Lord above, Zoeth Hamilton, you ain't pityin' HIM, are you? You ain't sorry for him—YOU?"

Zoeth nodded. "I wan't at first," he said. "At first the whole thing, comin' on me out of a clear sky as you might say, knocked me flat. The doctor, when he came, said he thought I must have had a sudden shock. I did; that was it, that letter. But later on, when I was gettin' better and could think again, and when I was alone and had the chance and could read the letter again, I began to—to—well, not forgive him for what he done—I don't suppose I can ever do that"

"I should say not! Damn him!"

"Hush, Shadrach; he's dead."

"So he is. I forgot. Then he's damned, I guess, without any orders from me."

"He was damned here on earth, Shadrach. All his life—the last part of it, anyhow—must have been a torment. He must have idolized that boy of his. He says so in the letter, but it's plain on every line of the writin' without his sayin' it. And can't you just imagine him as the boy grew up and they loved each other more and more, tremblin' and scared every minute for fear that somehow or other his son'll learn that the father he loves and respects is a—a thief—and—and worse? Seems to me I can imagine it. And then all at once the boy comes to him and says he wants to marry—Oh, my soul! Shadrach, think of it!—he wants to marry your girl and mine—Marcellus's stepdaughter. Why, it must have driven him nigh crazy. And then they quarrel, and the boy, the only bein' on earth he's livin' for, goes off and leaves him. And he knows he's comin' here—to us—and that some time or other he's sartin to learn everything. No wonder he wrote that letter. No wonder—"

The Captain interrupted.

"Writin' you, of all people!" he said. "Writin' you and beggin' you not to let Mary-'Gusta marry his son: and for what? To save the boy from somethin' bad? No! For all he knew, Mary-'Gusta might be what she is, the best and finest girl on earth. What he was beggin' for was himself—that his son shouldn't know what HE was, that's all. No, Zoeth, I can't pity him much. He's dead, and that's a good thing, too. The wonder of it is that he's been alive all this time and we didn't know. And to think—but there; it's all wonderful."

Both were silent for a moment. Then Zoeth said:

"The one thing that's troubled me most in all this, Shadrach, is about Mary-'Gusta herself. How does she really feel towards Crawford? She sent him away, you told me that, but are you sure she did it because she didn't care enough for him to marry him? Are you sure there wan't any other reason?"

"She gave me to understand there wan't. What other reason could there be?"

"Well—well, Shadrach, it all depends, seems to me. You know Mary-'Gusta; the last person she thinks about on earth is herself. If she did think a sight of Crawford, if she thought ENOUGH of him, she wouldn't let him suffer on account of her, would she? She knew, probably, that he loved and respected his father and a father's good name must mean a lot to a son. Then, there is us—you and me, Shadrach. She wouldn't let us suffer, if she could help it. Do you see what I mean?"

"Humph!" mused the Captain, thinking aloud, "I cal'late I do, Zoeth. You mean if Mary-'Gusta had found out the facts about Ed Farmer, who he was and what he done, and if she knew Crawford Smith's dad WAS Ed Farmer and that Crawford didn't know it and we didn't know it—you mean that, BEIN' Mary-'Gusta, rather than bring sorrow and trouble on Crawford and on us, she'd sacrifice her own feelin's and—and would pretend she didn't care for him so as to get him to go away and save him and us. That's what you mean, I presume likely."

"That's it, Shadrach."

"Um—yes. Well, there's just one thing that makes that notion seem consider'ble more than unlikely. How in the world could she have found out that there ever was an Edgar Farmer—"

"Good many folks in South Harniss could have told her that if they'd had a mind to."

"Maybe so; but they couldn't have told her that Edwin Smith, of Carson City, Nevada, was ever Edgar Farmer. No, sir, they couldn't! Nobody knew it—but Ed Farmer himself. How could our Mary-'Gusta know it?"

"I don't know, Shadrach, unless—she's awful smart, you know—somethin' might have put her on the track and she puzzled it out. I know that ain't likely; but, Shadrach, if she does care for Crawford and he cares for her, I—I want 'em to have each other. I do. They must."

Shadrach stared at him.

"Zoeth Hamilton," he exclaimed, "do you know what you're sayin'? You want our girl to marry the son of the man that—that—"

"I know what he did, Shadrach; you don't need to tell me. But he's dead, and his boy is a good boy—you liked him and so did I. And Shadrach, I've been thinkin' an awful lot about this since I got the letter and have been well enough to think. And I've made up my mind to just this: There has been sorrow and trouble enough brought on already by that wickedness. There shan't be any more. What wrecked all our lives thirty-five years ago shan't wreck these two, if I can help it. If Mary-'Gusta cares for him and he for her they must have each other and be happy. And you and I will be happy watchin' their happiness."

He paused and then added:

"So I wish, Shadrach, there was some way of findin' out for sure that she sent him away because she didn't care for him and not for any other reason."

Shadrach rose from his chair and laid his hand on his friend's shoulder. He cleared his throat once or twice before speaking and there was still a shake in his voice as he said:

"Zoeth, you're a better man than I ever hope to be. I declare you make me ashamed of myself."

Neither of them ate much dinner, although Isaiah had prepared a cranberry pie, made from the first fruit of the fall season, and was correspondingly disappointed when both of his employers left it untouched.

"Ain't a mite of use my slavin' myself to death cookin' fancy vittles for this crew," he grumbled. "I stood over that cookstove this mornin' until I got so everlastin' hot that every time the cold air blowed onto me I steamed. And yet I can't satisfy."

"Oh, yes, you can," observed Captain Shad, rising from the table. "You satisfied us too quick, that was the trouble. We was satisfied afore we got to the pie."

"Umph! I want to know! Well, Mary-'Gusta was satisfied afore that. She didn't eat hardly anything. Said she wan't hungry. I swan if it ain't discouragin'! What's the use of you folks havin' a cook? If you're goin' to have canary-bird appetites, why don't you feed on bird seed and be done with it? And I do believe I never made a better pie than that!"

"Where's Mary-'Gusta?" asked Zoeth.

"I don't know. She went up to her room. She may be there yet, or she may have come down and gone out again—I don't know. If she did come down I didn't see her."

Shadrach looked out of the window. It had been a dark, gloomy morning and now it was beginning to rain. The wind was whining through the tops of the silver-leafs and the moan of the breakers on the bar sounded with a clearness which denoted the approach of a northeaster.

"Dirty weather," observed the Captain. "And it'll be dirtier yet before night. You better stay here in snug harbor this afternoon, Zoeth. Simmie and the boy and Mary-'Gusta and I can tend store all right. Yes, yes, you stay right here and keep dry. Hope Mary-'Gusta took an umbrella when she went."

"I don't know as she has gone," said Isaiah. "She may be upstairs in her room yet. That's where she was."

Shadrach, after calling "Mary-'Gusta" several times at the foot of the stairs, went up to make sure. The door of Mary's room was closed but, as he received no answer to his knock, he opened it and entered. Mary was not there, although it was evident that she had been there very recently.

Apparently she had been writing a letter, for her writing case was spread out upon the table. Also the drawer in which she kept it had been left open, an unusual act of carelessness on her part, for, generally speaking, as her Uncle Shad said, "Nothin's ever out of place in Mary-'Gusta's room except some of the places, and that's the carpenter's fault, not hers."

The Captain stepped over to close the drawer. As he did so his attention was attracted by a photograph lying upon a pile of photographs in a box inside the drawer. He picked up the photograph and looked at it. It was that of Edwin Smith, taken when he seemed to be recovering from his illness, the one which showed him without a beard.

Shadrach's eyes opened wide as he looked at the photograph. He uttered an exclamation, stepped to the door of the upper hall and called, "Zoeth!" Then he returned to the table and took from the drawer the next photograph upon the pile in the box. It was the old, faded picture of the partners of Hall and Company.

Isaiah came stumbling up the stairs.

"Anythin' I can do for you, Cap'n Shad?" he asked. "Zoeth, he's gone out to shut up the barn door. Rain was liable to beat in, he said. I told him I'd do it, but—Godfreys mighty!"

The Captain had paid no attention to him and he had entered the room and approached his employer from behind. Now over the latter's shoulder he saw the two photographs.

"Godfreys mighty!" cried the startled Isaiah.

Shadrach turned and looked at him.

"Well," he demanded, "what's the matter? What are you starin' like that for?"

"Them—them pictures," gasped Mr. Chase.

"Well, what about 'em? Where did Mary-'Gusta get 'em, do you know? Did—Here! Where are you goin'?"

"I—I ain't goin' anywheres. I'm a-goin' downstairs. I got my dishwashin' to do. I—let go of me, Cap'n Shad! I got to go this minute, I tell you."

But the Captain did not let go of him. Instead, keeping a firm hold upon the collar of the frightened cook and steward, he twisted him around until he could look him straight in the eye. This was difficult, for Isaiah plainly did not wish to be looked at in that manner.

"Humph!" grunted Captain Shad, after a moment's inspection. "Humph! I cal'late I've got the right pig by the ear this time. Set down in that chair, Isaiah Chase; I want to talk to you."



CHAPTER XXIX

The northeaster was developing. It was now raining hard and the wind was rising. The gusts swept across the top of the little hill and the window sashes of the For'ard Lookout rattled and the hinges of the ancient blinds squeaked. The yard, which had been so attractive, was shorn of its decorations. The tables had been carried inside; the lanterns taken down; the wonderful sign, pride of the talented Mr. Bemis, had been tenderly conveyed to the attic. Cook, waitresses and salesgirl had departed. The tea-room and gift shop had gone into winter quarters to hibernate until the following spring.

The rooms inside had been thoroughly swept and cleaned and most of the furniture and the best of the old prints covered with dust cloths. Some of the smaller articles, however, were still upon the shelves of the gift shop, Mary having ordered her assistants to leave them there, as she wished to look them over herself before putting them away. Some of her selections for stock had sold remarkably well and she had been obliged to reorder many times; others of which she had been quite confident when purchasing had not sold at all. Both good sellers and bad she meant to list as a guide to future choosing.

She was listing them now. Alone in the room which had once been the sacred best parlor of the little house, she was seated at the table, pencil in hand and memorandum books and paper before her. There was no particular reason why the listing should have been done that day; it might have been done any day until the weather became too cold to work in an unheated house. That morning she had had no idea of doing it that afternoon. She was doing it now because she felt that she must do something to occupy her mind, and because she wished to be alone. Up there at the For'ard Lookout she could combine the two—work and seclusion.

When Mr. Keith told, at the store that morning, the news of Edwin Smith's—or Edgar Farmer's—death she had been dreadfully shaken by it. It was so sudden, so unexpected—when she last heard the man was, so the doctors said, almost well. She had thought of him often enough during the past year; or, rather, she had thought of Crawford as being with him and of the father's joy in his son's return to him and the knowledge that his own disgraceful secret would not be revealed. And she had pictured Crawford as finding solace for his disappointed love in his father's society. That Edgar Farmer had been what Isaiah called him—a blackguard—she realized perfectly, but she was equally sure that, as Edwin Smith, he had been the kindest and most loving of fathers. And Crawford, although he had been willing to leave him because of her, loved him dearly.

And now he was dead, and Crawford was left alone. Somehow she felt responsible for the death. That it had been hastened by the terrible alarm and stress of the previous year was, of course, certain. She thought of Crawford alone and with this new sorrow, and this thought, and that of her responsibility, was almost more than she could bear.

She felt that she must write him, that he must know she had heard and was thinking of him. So, after leaving the store, she had hastened down to the house and up the back stairs to her room. There she had written a few lines, not more than a note, but the composing of that note had been a difficult task. There was so much she longed to say and so little she could say. When it was written she remembered that Crawford was in Boston and she did not know his address. She determined to send the letter to the Nevada home and trust to its being forwarded.

She took from the back of the drawer the box of photographs and looked them over. As she was doing so Isaiah called her to dinner. Then she heard her uncles come in and, because she felt that she could talk with no one just then, she avoided them by hastily going down the front stairs. She made a pretense of eating and left the house. Isaiah did not see her go. After stopping at the store long enough to tell Mr. Crocker she would be at the tea-room that afternoon, she climbed the hill, unlocked the door of the For'ard Lookout, entered and began her work.

The wind howled and whined and the rain beat against the windows. The blinds creaked, the sashes rattled, the gusts moaned in the chimney above the fireplace, and all the hundred and one groanings and wailings, the complaints of an old house in a storm, developed. All these sounds Mary heard absently, her mind upon her work. Then, little by little as they drew nearer, she became conscious of other sounds, footfalls; someone was coming up the walk.