“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.”