“Mrs. Wyeth was down at the dock, I presume likely, to meet you when your ship made port?” queried Zoeth.

“Yes, she was there,” replied Mary.

“Anybody else?  How about that young Smith feller?  Wa’n’t he there, too?” asked Captain Shadrach with elaborate innocence.

Mary colored just a little.  She knew it was foolish; there was no reason in the world why she should be embarrassed, but she could not help it.

“No, Uncle Shad,” she answered.  “He wasn’t there.  He has not returned from the West yet, but he will be in Boston next week when the Medical College opens.”

“Been havin’ a good time out West there, has he?” inquired the Captain, still with studied unconcern.

“Yes.  At least he writes me that he has.”  She looked from one to the other of her trio of listeners and then added:  “I have some of his letters here with me.  If you’d like to hear them I’ll read them aloud.”

“No, no, you needn’t do that,” protested Shadrach hastily.  But after another look at him Mary said, “I think I will,” and departed in search of the letters.

Captain Shad, looking a trifle guilty, glanced at his partner.

“She needn’t read ’em unless she wants to, need she, Zoeth?” he said.  “I—­I didn’t mean for her to do that.”

Mr. Hamilton’s face expressed doubt and disapproval.

“Humph!” he said and that was all.

Mary returned bearing the packet of letters, some of which she proceeded to read.  Crawford had spent the summer either at his home in Carson City or in camping with his father in the Sierras, where he had shot and fished and apparently enjoyed himself hugely.  The letters were frank and straightforward, full of fun and exuberance, the sort of letters a robust, clean-minded young fellow ought to write and sometimes does.  They were not sentimental; even Isaiah, with what Captain Shadrach termed his “lovesick imagination,” would not have called them so.

The partners and Mr. Chase listened with interest to the reading of the letters and expressed their approval.  Shadrach’s applause was loudest of all, but he seemed to find difficulty in meeting his niece’s eye.  Just before bedtime, after Zoeth and Isaiah had gone upstairs and he was locking up for the night, Mary, whom he supposed had gone also, reentered the dining-room and stood before him.

“Uncle Shad,” she said severely, “come here a minute and sit down.  I want to talk with you.”

She led him to the big rocker.  Then she took the little one beside it.

“Now, look me in the face,” she commanded.  “No,” not out of the window—­here.  Um . . . yes.  I don’t wonder you turn red.  I should think you might be ashamed.”

“I—­I—­what’s that?” stammered Shadrach, turning redder than ever.  “What do you mean?  Turnin’ red!  Who’s turnin’ red?”

“You are,” said the young lady, firmly, “and you know it.  Now, look me straight in the eye.  Uncle Shad Gould, don’t you think it would have been more honorable, if you wished to know whether Crawford Smith and I corresponded, to have asked me instead of hinting?  Don’t you think it would?”