The next day she spent, for the most part, at the store.  She wrote several letters and, in spite of her uncles’ protests, waited upon several customers.  That evening, as she sat behind the counter thinking, a boy whom Captain Shadrach identified as Zenas Atkins’ young-one rushed breathlessly into the store to announce between gasps that “Mary-’Gusta Lathrop’s wanted on the phone.  It’s long distance, too, and—­and—­you’ve got to scrabble ‘cause they’re holdin’ the wire.”  Mary hurried out and to the telephone office.  She had not answered Shadrach’s question as to who she thought was calling.  She did not know, of course, but she suspected, and for a cool-headed young business woman, a girl who had ruthlessly driven all thoughts except those of business from her mind, her heart beat surprisingly fast as she entered the closet which acted as a substitute for a telephone booth, and took down the receiver.  Yet her tone was calm enough as she uttered the stereotyped “Hello.”

The wire hummed and sang, fragments of distant conversation became audible and were lost, and then a voice, the voice which she was expecting but, in a way, dreading to hear, asked:  “Hello!  Is this Miss Lathrop?”

“Yes, Crawford.”

“Mary, is that you?”

“Yes.”

“I have just called at Mrs. Wyeth’s and learned that you had gone.  I am awfully disappointed.  I leave for home tomorrow and I had counted on seeing you before I went.  Why did you go without a word to me?”

“Didn’t Mrs. Wyeth tell you?”

“She told me a good deal, but I want to know more.  Is it true—­that about your uncles?”

“I am afraid it is.”

“Great Scott, that’s too bad!  I am mighty sorry to hear it.  Look here, isn’t there something I can do?  Do they need—­”

“Sshh! we mustn’t talk about it over the phone.  No, there is nothing you can do.  I have some plans partially worked out; something may come of them.  Please don’t ask more particulars now.”

“All right, I understand; I won’t.  But mayn’t I come down and see you?  I can start West the day after tomorrow just as well and that would give me time—­”

“No, Crawford, no.  You mustn’t come.”

“I’ve a good mind to, whether or no.”

“If you do I shall not see you—­then or at any other time.  But you won’t, will you?”

“No, Mary, I won’t.  It’s mighty hard, though.”

Perhaps it was quite as hard for her, but she did not reply.

“Will you write me—­every day?” he went on. . . .  “Why don’t you answer?”

“I was thinking what would be best for me to do,” she said; “best for us both, I mean.  I shall write you one letter surely.”

“One!”

“One surely.  I want you to understand just what my coming here means and what effect it may have upon my future.  You should know that.  Afterward, whether I write you or not will depend.”

“Depend!  Of course you’ll write me!  Depend on what?”