“Sure ’twan’t last Thanksgivin’?” he demanded.  “Are you sure about anything?  Are you sure how old you are?”

“No, by godfreys, I ain’t!” roared Isaiah in desperation.  “I’m so upsot ever since I looked into that kitchen and see the poor soul down on the floor there that—­that all I’m sure of is that I ain’t sure of nothin.’”

“Well, I don’t know’s I blame you much, Isaiah,” grunted the Captain.  “Anyway, it doesn’t make much difference about that letter, so fur as I see, whether there was one or not.  What did you want to know for, Mary?”

Mary hesitated.  “Why,” she answered, “I—­perhaps it is foolish, but the doctor said something about a shock being responsible for this dreadful thing and I didn’t know—­I thought perhaps there might have been something in that letter which shocked or alarmed Uncle Zoeth.  Of course it isn’t probable that there was.”

Shadrach shook his head.

“I guess not,” he said.  “I can’t think of any letter he’d get of that kind.  There’s nobody to write it.  He ain’t got any relations nigher than third cousin, Zoeth ain’t.  Anyhow, we mustn’t stop to guess riddles now.  I’ll hunt up the letter by and by, if there was one and I happen to think of it.  Now I’ve got to hunt up a nurse.”

The nurse was found, a Mrs. Deborah Atkins, of Ostable, and she arrived that night, bag and baggage, and took charge of the patient.  Deborah was not ornamental, being elderly and, as Captain Shadrach said, built for tonnage more than speed; but she was sensible and capable.  Also, her fee was not excessive, although that was by no means the principal reason for her selection.

“Never mind what it costs,” said Mary.  “Get the best you can.  It’s for Uncle Zoeth, remember.”

Shadrach’s voice shook a little as he answered.

“I ain’t likely to forget,” he said.  “Zoeth and I’ve cruised together for a good many years and if one of us has to go under I’d rather ’twas me.  I haven’t got much money but what I’ve got is his, and after that so long as I can get trusted.  But there,” with an attempt at optimism, “don’t you fret, Mary-’Gusta.  Nobody’s goin’ under yet.  We’ll have Zoeth up on deck doin’ the fishers’ hornpipe in a couple of weeks.”

But it was soon plain to everyone, the Captain included, that many times two weeks must elapse before Mr. Hamilton would be able to appear on deck again, to say nothing of dancing hornpipes.  For days he lay in partial coma, rallying occasionally and speaking at rare intervals but evidently never fully aware of where he was and what had happened.

“He will recover, I think,” said the doctor, “but it will be a slow job.”

Mary did not again refer to the letter regarding which Isaiah’s memory was so befogged.  In fact, she forgot it entirely.  So also did Captain Shad.  For both the worry of Zoeth’s illness and the care of the store were sufficient to drive trifles from their minds.