gowns possessed by her young hostess and her own limited wardrobe seemed doubly limited and plain by comparison.  But she summoned her unfailing common sense to her rescue and found consolation in the fact that Barbara and her people knew she was, comparatively speaking, a poor girl, and therefore could hardly have invited her with the expectation of seeing her arrayed in fine clothes.  And if they had done so—­here was a bit of the old Mary-’Gusta philosophy—­their opinion was not worth consideration anyhow, and the sooner they and she reached mutual disgust and parting the better.

But although her best gown was not new nor expensive, and her jewels were conspicuous by their absence, the picture she made as she stood before the mirror giving the last touches to her hair was distinctly not an unpleasing one.  Maggie, the maid, who entered the room to announce a caller, was extravagant in her praises.

“Ah, sure, Miss, you look fine,” she declared.  “You’re that sweet one look at you would sugar a cup of tea.  Ah, he’ll be that proud of you and he ought to be, too.  But he’s a fine young man, and—­”

“Who?  What are you talking about, Maggie?” interrupted Mary.  “Who will be proud of me and who is a fine young fellow?”

“Who?  Why, Mr. Smith, of course; who else?  He’s down in the parlor waitin’ for you now.  I’ll tell him you’ll be down.”

Before Mary could stop her she had left the room and was on her way downstairs.  Mary followed a moment later.  She had not expected a visit from Crawford, who had called already that week.  She wondered why he had come.

She found him in the parlor.  Mrs. Wyeth was out shopping with Miss Pease, and he and she were alone.  He rose to meet her as she entered.

“Why, Crawford,” she said, “what is the matter?  Has anything happened?  Why do you look so serious?”

He smiled ruefully.  “I guess because I am rather serious,” he answered.  “I’ve had some news and I came to tell you about it.”  Then, noticing her gown, he added:  “But you’re going out, aren’t you?”

“I am going out by and by.  I am going to dine and spend the evening with Barbara Howe.  But I am not going yet.  Won’t you sit down?”

“I will if you’re sure you can spare the time.  I hope you can, because—­well, because I do want to talk to you.  I’ve had bad news from home.  My father is ill—­and in the doctor’s care.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.  I hope it isn’t serious.”

“I don’t know whether it is or not.  It can’t be desperately serious, because he wrote the letter himself.  But at any rate it’s serious enough for me.  He wants me to give up my work here at the Harvard Medical and come West.”

Mary gasped.  “Give it up!” she repeated.  “Give up your studies?  Give up medicine?  Surely he doesn’t want you to do that!”