She brushed her eyes with her handkerchief and read the letter again.  There were parts of it which she could not understand.  She was almost inclined to adopt Crawford’s suggestion that his father’s mind might have been affected by his illness.  Why had he received so passively the news that his son had fallen in love and yet become so violent when told the object of that love?  He did not know her, Mary Lathrop; there could be no personal quality in his objection.  And what could he have meant by asking if Zoeth Hamilton had sent Crawford to him?  That was absolutely absurd.  Zoeth, and Shadrach, too, had talked with Mary of Crawford’s people in the West, but merely casually, as of complete strangers, which, of course, they were.  It was all strange, but explainable if one considered that Mr. Smith was weak and ill and, perhaps, flighty.  She must not think any more about it now—­that is, she must try not to think.  She must not give way, and above all she must not permit her uncles to suspect that she was troubled.  She must try hard to put it from her mind until Crawford’s next letter came.

But that letter did not come.  The week passed, then another, but there was no word from Crawford.  Mary’s anxiety grew.  Each day as Isaiah brought the mail she expected him to give her an envelope addressed in the familiar handwriting, but he did not.  She was growing nervous—­almost fearful.  And then came a happening the shock of which drove everything else from her mind for the time and substituted for that fear another.

It was a Tuesday and one o’clock.  Mary and Captain Shadrach, having had an early dinner, had returned to the store.  Zoeth, upon their arrival, went down to the house for his own meal.  Business, which had been very good indeed, was rather slack just then and Shadrach and Mary were talking together.  Suddenly they heard the sound of rapid footsteps in the lane outside.

“Who’s hoofin’ it up to the main road at that rate?” demanded the Captain, lounging lazily toward the window.  “Has the town pump got on fire or is somebody goin’ for the doctor?”

He leaned forward to look.  His laziness vanished.

“Eh!  Jumpin’ Judas!” he cried, springing to the door.  “It’s Isaiah, and runnin’ as if the Old Boy was after him!  Here!  You!  Isaiah!  What’s the matter?”

Isaiah pounded up the platform steps and staggered against the doorpost.  His face flamed so red that, as Shadrach said afterward, it was “a wonder the perspiration didn’t bile.”

“I—­I—­I—­” he stammered.  “I—­Oh, dear me!  What shall I do?  He—­he—­he’s there on the floor and—­and—­Oh, my godfreys!  I’m all out of wind!  What shall I do?”

“Talk!” roared the Captain.  “Talk!  Use what wind you’ve got for that!  What’s happened?  Sing out!”

“He’s—­he’s all alone there!” panted Mr. Chase.  “He won’t speak, scurcely—­only moans.  I don’t know’s he ain’t dead!”

“Who’s dead?  Who?  Who?  Who?” The irate Shadrach seized his steward by the collar and shook him, not too gently.  “Who’s dead?” he bellowed.  “Somebody will be next door to dead right here in a minute if you don’t speak up instead of snortin’ like a puffin’ pig.  What’s happened?”