The partners, looking rather foolish, said nothing for a moment.  Then Zoeth muttered that he didn’t know but she had.

“Yes,” said Mary-’Gusta, “I—­I think so.  You see I’m—­I mean I was a stepchild ’long as father was here.  Now he’s dead and I ain’t even that.  And I ain’t anybody’s cousin nor nephew nor niece.  I just ain’t anything.  I’m different from everybody I know.  And—­and—­” very solemnly—­“I don’t like to be so different.”

Her lip quivered as she said it.  Sitting there on the cranberry crate, hugging her dolls, she was a pathetic little figure.  Again the partners found it hard to answer.  Mr. Hamilton looked at the Captain and the latter, his fingers fidgeting with his watchchain, avoided the look.  The girl went on.

“I was thinking,” she said, “how nice ’twould have been if I’d had a—­a brother or somebody of my very own.  I’ve got children, of course, but they’re only dolls and a cat.  They’re nice, but they ain’t real folks.  I wish I had some real folks.  Do you suppose if—­if I have to go to the—­the orphans’ home, there’d be anybody there that would be my relation?  I didn’t know but there might be another orphan there who didn’t have anybody, same as me, and then we could make believe we was—­was cousins or somethin’.  That would be better than nothin’, wouldn’t it?”

Zoeth stepped forward and, bending over, kissed her cheek.  “Never you mind, Mary-’Gusta,” he said.  “You ain’t gone there yet and afore you do maybe Cap’n Shad and I can think up some relations for you.”

“Real relations?” asked Mary-’Gusta, eagerly.

“Well, no, not real ones; I’m afraid we couldn’t do that.  But when it comes to make-believe, that might be different.”  He hesitated an instant, glanced at the Captain, and then added:  “I tell you what you do:  you just pretend I’m your relation, a—­well, an uncle, that’s better’n nothin’.  You just call me ‘Uncle Zoeth.’  That’ll be a start, anyhow.  Think you’d like to call me ’Uncle Zoeth’?”

Mary-’Gusta’s eyes shone.  “Oh, yes!” she cried.  “Then I could tell that Jimmie Bacheldor I had one relation, anyhow.  And shall I call Cap’n Gould ’Uncle Shadrach’?”

Zoeth turned to his companion.  “Shall she, Shadrach?” he asked, with a mischievous smile.

If it had not been for that smile the Captain’s reply might have been different.  But the smile irritated him.  He strode to the door.

“Zoeth Hamilton,” he snapped, “how long are you goin’ to set here?  If you ain’t got anything else to attend to, I have.  I’m goin’ up to the store.  It’s pretty nigh eight o’clock in the mornin’ and that store ain’t open yet.”

“Want to come along, Mary-’Gusta?” asked Zoeth.  “She can come, can’t she, Shad?”

“Yes, yes, course she can,” more genially.  “Cal’late there’s some of those sassafras—­checkerberry lozengers left yet.  Come on, Mary-’Gusta, if you want to.”

But the child shook her head.  She looked wistful and a trifle disappointed.