She heard very little of Isaiah’s story thereafter.  Scattered sentences reached her ears.  Isaiah was telling how, because of Zoeth’s pleading and the latter’s desire to avoid all the public scandal possible, no attempt was made to trace the fugitives.

“They went West somewheres,” said Isaiah.  “Anyhow ’twas supposed they did ’cause they was seen together on the Chicago train by an Orham man that knew Farmer.  Anybody but Marcellus and your uncles, Mary-’Gusta, would have sot the sheriff on their track and hauled ’em back here and made that Farmer swab give up what he stole.  I don’t imagine he had such a terrible lot with him, I cal’late the heft of it had gone in stock speculatin’, but he must have had somethin’ and they could have got a-holt of that.  But no, Zoeth he says, ’Don’t follow ’em!  For her sake and mine—­don’t make the shame more public than ‘tis.’  You see, Zoeth was the same then as he is now; you’d have thought he was to blame to hear him talk.  He never said a word against her then nor since.  A mighty good man, your Uncle Zoeth Hamilton is, Mary-’Gusta.  Saint on earth, I call him.”

He went on to tell how Marcellus and Shadrach had fought to keep the firm on its feet, how for a time it struggled on against the load of debt left it by their former partner, only to go down at last.

“Marcellus went down with it, as you might say,” continued Isaiah.  “Between losin’ his sister and losin’ his business he never was the same man afterwards, though he did make consider’ble money in other ways.  Him and Cap’n Shadrach both went back to seafarin’ again and after a spell I went with ’em.  Poor Zoeth, when he got on his feet, which took a long spell, he started a little store that by and by, when Cap’n Shad joined in with him, was Hamilton and Company, same as now.  And when Shadrach come I come too, as cook and steward, you understand.  But from that day to this there’s been two names never mentioned in this house, one’s Patience Hall’s and t’other’s Ed Farmer’s.  You can see now why, when I thought that tintype was his, I was so took aback.  You see, don’t you, Mary-’Gusta?  Why!  Where you goin’?”

Mary had risen from her chair, taken up the lamp, and was on her way to the door.

“I’m going to my room,” she said.  “Good night, Isaiah.”

“What are you goin’ now for?  I could tell you a lot more partic’lars if you wanted to hear ’em.  Now I’ve told so much I might as well tell the rest.  If I’m goin’ to be hove overboard for tellin’ I might as well make a big splash as a little one.  If you got any questions to ask, heave ahead and ask ’em.  Fire away, I don’t care,” he added, recklessly.

But Mary shook her head.  She did not even turn to look at him.

“Perhaps I may ask them some other time,” she said.  “Not now.  Thank you for telling me so much.  Good night.”