“Jumpin’ fire!” said the latter on one occasion, “every time that woman calls us town folks ‘natives’ I feel as if she cal’lated I lived up a tree and chucked coconuts at folks.  I don’t wonder some of the South Sea Islands heathen eat missionaries.  If I ate that woman she might agree with me; she don’t as ’tis.  Every time I say yes she says no, and that makes me think yes harder’n ever.”

So Mrs. Keith was not popular with the South Harniss natives, perhaps because she tried so hard to be; her husband, who apparently did not try to be, was.  He and his opinions were liked and respected.  When he came into the store, therefore, on this occasion, Zoeth and Shad welcomed him, asked him to sit down, and the conversation began with the astonishing rise in the price of sea-front property and drifted from that to other timely and general topics.

Just how it drifted to Mary-’Gusta and her future neither of the partners could have told—­however, drift there it did, and they found themselves chanting her praises to their caller, who seemed much interested.

“She is a remarkably capable girl,” observed Mr. Keith.  “And before we realize it she will be a young woman.  Are you planning that she shall keep store and keep house for you the rest of her life, or the rest of yours?”

Zoeth shook his head.  “Why,” he said, mildly, “I don’t know’s we’ve planned much about it so fur.  Those things sort of take care of themselves, always seemed to me.  Or the Almighty takes care of ’em for us.”

Their visitor smiled.  “Someone else will be willing and anxious to take care of her before many years, or I miss my guess,” he said.  “She is likely to marry, you know.  There must be some promising young fellows down here.”

Shadrach sniffed.  It was a subject he never discussed with his partner and did not like even to think about.  The remark of the hat and cap drummer concerning the coming of a “Mr. Right” had troubled him not a little.

“Ugh!” he grunted; “there’s promisin’ ones enough.  Most of those that are contented to stay here in South Harniss are nothin’ but promise; they ain’t so strong on makin’ good.  ’Tain’t like ’twas when Zoeth and me were young ourselves.  Now all the smart, ambitious boys go up to the city to work.”

“Some of the girls go up there, too, don’t they?  To school, or college?  Didn’t I hear that Christopher Mullet’s daughter was at school in Bridgewater?”

“Ugh!” grunted Shadrach again.  “I cal’late you did hear.  If you didn’t you’re the only one in town that ain’t.  Becky Mullet—­yes, and Chris, too—­ain’t done anything but brag about their Irene’s goin’ off to what they call ‘finishin’ school.’  Judas!  I see her finish.  She ain’t got—­I swan that girl ain’t got anything in her head but gas, and every time she opens her mouth she loses enough of that to keep a lighthouse lit up all night.”

“Shadrach,” murmured Zoeth, “don’t say such unlikely things about folks.  Be charitable as you can.”