Mrs. Wyeth's answer was, as usual, frank and unmistakable. “Yes,” she said. “I shall be very glad to see you--occasionally.” Crawford turned to Mary. “May I?” he asked. Mary scarcely knew how to reply. There was no real reason why he should not call; she liked him so far. His frankness and earnestness of purpose appealed to her. And yet she was not at all sure that it was wise to continue the acquaintance. In her mind this coming to Boston to school was a very serious matter. Her uncles had sent her there to study; they needed her at home, but that need they had sacrificed in order that she might study and improve. Nothing else, friendships or good times or anything, must interfere with the purpose with which she had accepted the sacrifice. So she hesitated. “May I?” repeated Crawford. “Why, I don't know. I imagine I shall be very busy most of the time.” “That's all right. If you're busy you can send word for me to vamoose. That will be part of the bargain. Good-by.” Mrs. Wyeth's first remark, after entering, was concerning Sam's friend. “I rather like that young person,” she said. “Samuel idolizes him, of course, but Samuel would worship a hyena if it played football. But this Smith boy”--in Mrs. Wyeth's mind any male under thirty was a boy--“seems to have some common sense and a mind of his own. I don't approve of his name nor the howling wilderness he comes from, but he can't help those drawbacks, I suppose. However, if he is to call here we must know something about him. I shall make inquiries.” CHAPTER XII The school term ended on a Saturday morning in mid-December. Mary's trunk was packed and ready, and she and it reached the South Station long before train time. She was going home, home for the holidays, and if she had been going on a trip around the world she could not have been more delighted at the prospect. And her delight and anticipations were shared in South Harniss. Her uncles' letters for the past fortnight had contained little except joyful announcements of preparations for her coming. We are counting the minutes [wrote Zoeth]. The first thing Shadrach does every morning is to scratch another day off the calendar. I never saw him so worked up and excited and I calculate I ain't much different myself. I try not to set my heart on things of this world more than I ought to, but it does seem as if I couldn't think of much else but our girl's coming back to us. I am not going to worry the way Shadrach does about your getting here safe and sound. The Lord's been mighty good to us and I am sure He will fetch you to our door all right. I am contented to trust you in His hands. P.S. One or both of us will meet you at the depot. Captain Shad's epistle was more worldly but not more coherent.