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.”