The Captain interrupted.

“Writin’ you, of all people!” he said.  “Writin’ you and beggin’ you not to let Mary-’Gusta marry his son:  and for what?  To save the boy from somethin’ bad?  No!  For all he knew, Mary-’Gusta might be what she is, the best and finest girl on earth.  What he was beggin’ for was himself—­that his son shouldn’t know what he was, that’s all.  No, Zoeth, I can’t pity him much.  He’s dead, and that’s a good thing, too.  The wonder of it is that he’s been alive all this time and we didn’t know.  And to think—­but there; it’s all wonderful.”

Both were silent for a moment.  Then Zoeth said: 

“The one thing that’s troubled me most in all this, Shadrach, is about Mary-’Gusta herself.  How does she really feel towards Crawford?  She sent him away, you told me that, but are you sure she did it because she didn’t care enough for him to marry him?  Are you sure there wan’t any other reason?”

“She gave me to understand there wan’t.  What other reason could there be?”

“Well—­well, Shadrach, it all depends, seems to me.  You know Mary-’Gusta; the last person she thinks about on earth is herself.  If she did think a sight of Crawford, if she thought enough of him, she wouldn’t let him suffer on account of her, would she?  She knew, probably, that he loved and respected his father and a father’s good name must mean a lot to a son.  Then, there is us—­you and me, Shadrach.  She wouldn’t let us suffer, if she could help it.  Do you see what I mean?”

“Humph!” mused the Captain, thinking aloud, “I cal’late I do, Zoeth.  You mean if Mary-’Gusta had found out the facts about Ed Farmer, who he was and what he done, and if she knew Crawford Smith’s dad was Ed Farmer and that Crawford didn’t know it and we didn’t know it—­you mean that, bein’ Mary-’Gusta, rather than bring sorrow and trouble on Crawford and on us, she’d sacrifice her own feelin’s and—­and would pretend she didn’t care for him so as to get him to go away and save him and us.  That’s what you mean, I presume likely.”

“That’s it, Shadrach.”

“Um—­yes.  Well, there’s just one thing that makes that notion seem consider’ble more than unlikely.  How in the world could she have found out that there ever was an Edgar Farmer—­”

“Good many folks in South Harniss could have told her that if they’d had a mind to.”

“Maybe so; but they couldn’t have told her that Edwin Smith, of Carson City, Nevada, was ever Edgar Farmer.  No, sir, they couldn’t!  Nobody knew it—­but Ed Farmer himself.  How could our Mary-’Gusta know it?”

“I don’t know, Shadrach, unless—­she’s awful smart, you know—­somethin’ might have put her on the track and she puzzled it out.  I know that ain’t likely; but, Shadrach, if she does care for Crawford and he cares for her, I—­I want ’em to have each other.  I do.  They must.”

Shadrach stared at him.

“Zoeth Hamilton,” he exclaimed, “do you know what you’re sayin’?  You want our girl to marry the son of the man that—­that—­”