"What is it, Isaiah?" she asked.

Isaiah seemed to be excited about something.

"I've got a surprise for you, Mary-'Gusta," he whispered. "There's somebody downstairs to see you."

His manner was so important and mysterious that Mary was puzzled.

"Someone to see me?" she repeated. "Who is it?"

Mr. Chase winked.

"It's somebody you wan't expectin' to see, I bet you!" he declared. "I know I wan't. When I opened the door and see him standin' there I--"

"Saw him? Who? Who is it, Isaiah? Stop that ridiculous winking this instant. Who is it?"

"It's that young Crawford Smith feller from way out West, that's who 'tis. Ah, ha! I told you you'd be surprised."

She was surprised, there could be no doubt of that. For a moment she stood perfectly still. Had it not been that the hall was almost dark in the shadows of the late afternoon Isaiah would have noticed how pale she had become. But it was evident that he did not notice it, for he chuckled.

"I told you you'd be some surprised," he crowed. "Well, ain't you comin'

on down to see him? Seems to me if I had a beau--excuse me, a gentleman friend--who come a-cruisin' all the way from t'other side of creation to see me I wouldn't keep him waitin' very long. Ho! ho!"

Mary did not answer at once. When she did she was surprised to find that she was able to speak so calmly.

"I shall be down in a moment," she said. "Isaiah, will you please go in and stay with Uncle Zoeth until I come?"

Isaiah looked chagrined and disappointed. Visitors from the far West were rare and especially rare was a young gentleman who Mr. Chase, with what Captain Shadrach termed his "lovesick imagination," surmised was Mary-'Gusta's beau. He wished to see more of him.

"Aw, say, Mary-'Gusta," he pleaded, "I'm awful busy. I don't see how I can set along of Zoeth--Say, Mary'Gusta!"

But Mary had gone. She was hurrying along the hall toward her own room.

So Isaiah, remembering that the doctor had said Mr. Hamilton must not be left alone, grumblingly obeyed orders and went in to sit beside him.

In her own room Mary stood, white and shaken, striving to regain her composure. She must regain it, she must be cool and calm in order to go through the ordeal she knew was before her. His coming could mean but one thing: his father had still refused consent and he had come to tell her so and to beg her to wait for him in spite of it. If only he had written saying he was coming, if she had been forewarned, then she might have been more ready, more prepared. Now she must summon all her resolution and be firm and unwavering. Her purpose was as set and strong as ever, but ah, it would be so hard to tell him! To write the letter she had meant to write would have been easy compared to this. However, it must be done--and done now. She went down the stairs and entered the sitting-room.

He was sitting in the rocker by the window and when she came into the room he sprang to his feet and came toward her. His face, or so it seemed to her, showed some traces of the trouble and anxiety through which he had pa.s.sed so recently. He was a little thinner and he looked less boyish. He held out his hands.

"Well, Mary," he cried, eagerly, "here I am. Aren't you glad to see me?"

He seized both her hands in his. She disengaged them gently. Her manner seemed odd to him and he regarded her in a puzzled way.

"AREN'T you glad?" he repeated. "Why, Mary, what is the matter?"

She smiled sadly and shook her head. "Oh, Crawford," she said, "why did you come? Or, at least, why didn't you write me you were coming?"

He laughed. "I didn't write," he answered, "because I was afraid if I did you would write me not to come."

"I certainly should."

"Of course you would. So I took no chances but just came instead."

"But why did you come?"

"Why? To see you, of course."

"Oh, Crawford, please don't joke. You know I asked you not to come here.

When we last spoke together, over the telephone, I told you that if you came here I should not see you. And yet you came."

His manner changed. He was serious enough now.

"I came," he said, "because--well, because I felt that I must. I had many things to tell you, Mary, and something to ask. And I could neither tell nor ask in a letter. Dad and I have quarreled--we've parted company."

She had expected to hear it, but it shocked and grieved her, nevertheless. She knew how he had loved his father.

"Sit down, Crawford," she said gently. "Sit down and tell me all about it."

He told her. There was little more to tell than he had written. His father had not become more reconciled to the idea of his marrying Mary.

Instead his opposition was just as violent and, to his son's mind, as unreasonably absurd. Day after day Crawford waited, hoping that time would bring a change or that his own arguments might have an effect, but neither time nor argument softened Edwin Smith's obstinacy.

"He behaved like a madman at times," declared Crawford. "And at others he would almost beg me on his knees to give you up. I asked him why. I told him over and over again that he should be proud to have such a girl for his daughter-in-law. I said everything I could. I told him I would do anything for him--anything he asked--except give you up. That I would not do. And it was the only thing he seemed to wish me to do. Talked about bringing shame and disgrace on his head and mine--and all sorts of wild nonsense. When I asked what he meant by disgrace he could not tell me. Of course he couldn't."

That was true, of course he could not tell. Mary knew, and she realized once more the tortures which the man must have suffered, must be suffering at that moment.

"So at last we parted," said Crawford. "I left word--left a letter saying that, so far as I could see, it was best that I went away. We could not agree apparently, he and I, upon the one point which, as I saw it, was the most important decision of my life. And I had made that decision. I told him how much I hated to leave him; that I loved him as much as I ever did. 'But,' I said, 'I shall not give up my happiness and my future merely to gratify your unreasonable whim.' Then I came away and started East to you."

He paused, evidently expecting Mary to make some comment or ask a question, but she was silent. After a moment he went on.

"I haven't made any definite plans as yet," he said. "I have another year at the Medical School--or should have it. I am hoping that I may be able to go back to the Harvard Med. here in Boston and work my way through. Other chaps have done it and I'm sure I can. And after that--well, after that I must take my chance at finding a location and a practice, like any other young M.D. But first of all, Mary, I want you to tell me that you will wait for me. It's a lot to ask; I know how much. But will you, Mary dear? That's what I've come here for--to get you to say that you will. After that I can face anything--yes, and win out, too."

Mary looked at him. His face was aglow with earnestness and his voice shook as he finished speaking. He rose and held out his hands.

"Will you, Mary?" he begged.

She looked at him no longer. She was afraid to do so--afraid of her own weakness. But no sign of that weakness showed itself in her tone as she answered.

"I'm sorry, Crawford," she said, gently. "I wish I could, but I can't."

"Can't! Can't wait for me?"

"I could wait for you, it isn't that. If it were merely a question of waiting--if that were all--how easy it would be! But it isn't. Crawford, you must go back to your father. You must go back to him and forget all about me. You must."

He stared at her for a moment. Then he laughed.

"Forget you!" he repeated. "Mary, are you--"

"Oh, please, Crawford! Don't make this any harder for both of us than it has to be. You must go back to your father and you must forget me. I can not marry you, I can't."

He came toward her.