“Bless your heart, dearie,” he said, “it’s all right.  Zoeth and me were talkin’ about this very thing a little while ago.  And do you know what he said?  He said:  ’What wrecked all our lives thirty-five year ago shan’t wreck these two, if I can help it.  If Mary-’Gusta cares for him and he for her they shall have each other and be happy.  And we’ll be happy watchin’ their happiness.’  That’s what he said.  I don’t know’s I said ‘Amen’ exactly, but I thought it, anyhow.  God bless you, Mary-’Gusta.  Now you and Crawford go and see your Uncle Zoeth.  He’s down at the house.  You just run along and tell him about it.”

Mary turned to Mr. Chase.

“Well, Isaiah,” she said, “haven’t you anything to say to me?”

Isaiah looked at Crawford and then at her.

“I should say you’d better go somewheres, both of you, and get dry,” he said.  “His overcoat’s soakin’ wet and your waist ain’t much better.  I—­I—­don’t know what sort of—­of congratulations or—­or whatever they be I ought to say, but—­but I hope you’ll be terrible happy, Mary-’Gusta.”

“Thank you, Isaiah,” laughed Mary.

“Yes, you’re welcome.  Now, just let me talk to Cap’n Shad a minute.”

He swung about and faced the Captain and in his eye was triumph great and complete.

“Cap’n Shad Gould,” crowed Isaiah, “a good many times in the last four or five year you’ve called me a fool for heavin’ out hints that somethin’ about like this was liable to happen.  Well?  Well?  What have you got to say now?  Who’s the fool now?  Hey?  Who is?”

CHAPTER XXX

The story of Mary-’Gusta Lathrop is almost told.  Before Crawford left South Harniss, which was not until the end of another week, it had been decided that on a day in June of the following year she should cease to be Mary-’Gusta Lathrop.  There was a great deal of discussion before this decision was reached, for many perplexing questions had to be answered.

First, there was the question of Crawford’s future.  His father had left a comfortable fortune and an interest in mining properties which would have rendered it quite unnecessary for the young man to keep on with his professional studies had he wished to discontinue them.  But he did not so wish.

“As I think I told you that Sunday afternoon when we first met at Mrs. Wyeth’s, Mary,” he said, “I have always intended to be a doctor.  Dad did not want me to be; he wanted me to come in with him, but I wouldn’t do it.  I love my work and I mean to stick to it and go on with it.  If I were as rich as a dozen Rockefellers it wouldn’t make any difference.  But, as I see it, I am not rich.  It is a grave question in my mind how much of that money out there belongs to me.”

Mary nodded.  “I think I understand what you mean,” she said.

“Yes, I think there is no doubt that almost all of my father’s money was made there in the West after”—­he hesitated and then went on—­“after the—­the other died and after he married my mother.  But nevertheless I shall always feel as if whatever there was belonged to your uncles, the surviving members of the old firm.  If I could, I should give it to them.”