“Hintin’?  Why—­why, Mary-’Gusta, what-what—?”

His face was a study in expression.  Mary bit her lip, but she managed to appear solemn.

“Yes, hinting,” she said.  “Instead of asking if Crawford and I had written each other you hinted.  Well, now you know that we did write, and have heard his letters to me, have you any objection?”

“Objection?  No, no, course not.  Why—­I—­I think ’twas a fine thing.  I—­I like to get letters; a heap better than I do to write ’em,” he added truthfully.

“Then why?”

“Well—­well—­I—­I—­”

“And aren’t you ashamed?” repeated Mary.

“Why—­why, yes, by the jumpin’ fire, I am!  There!  I was ashamed when I done it.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Well—­well, you see, Mary-’Gusta, I just wanted to know.  Your Uncle Zoeth and me have been actin’ as your pilots for a consider’ble spell.  Course you’re gettin’ big enough now to cruise on your own hook—­that is, in reason, you understand—­but—­but—­well, we’ve got so used to takin’ an observation every noontime, seein’ how you’re layin’ your course, you know, that it’s hard to lose the habit.  Not that Zoeth was in on this,” he added honestly.  “He didn’t do any of the hintin’, as you call it.  I imagine he’ll preach my head off for doin’ it, when he gets me alone.”

“You deserve to have it preached off—­or partly off, at any rate.  Do you beg my pardon?”

“Sartin sure.  I’d beg it on my bended knees if ’twa’n’t for the rheumatiz.”

“And you won’t hint any more?”

“Nary a hint.”

“That’s right.  If you want me to tell you anything, please ask.  You must trust me, Uncle Shad.  I shall always tell—­when there is anything to tell.”

“I know you will, Mary-’Gusta.  I’m ashamed of my hintin’.  God bless you, dearie.  Now kiss me good night.”

He kissed her and, holding her in his arms, looked fondly down into her eyes.  And, as she returned his look, suddenly she blushed crimson and hid her face in his jacket.  Then she broke away and with a good night ran from the room and up the stairs.

Shadrach looked after her, sighed, and, after finishing his locking up, went upstairs himself.  There was a light in his partner’s room and he entered to find Mr. Hamilton sitting at the little table with several sheets of paper covered with figures spread out before him.  The Captain was so busy with his own thoughts that, for the moment, he did not notice the papers.

“Zoeth,” he said, “our Mary-’Gusta’s changed into a grown-up woman.  Even this last summer has changed her.  She don’t look any older, and she’s prettier than ever, but she thinks different, and I have a notion that, no matter how much we may want to, you and me ain’t goin’ to be able to keep her to ourselves as we—­Eh?” suddenly becoming aware of his friend’s occupation.  “Are you still fussin’ over those things?  Didn’t I tell you not to worry any more, but to turn in and sleep?”