The voyage was rather rough and stormy, as westerly voyages are likely to be, but the ship was comfortable and speedy and they made good time. Mary spent but one day in Boston and, on the morning of the next, started for South Harniss. She had one week before school opened and that week was to be spent with her uncles; no one else, she vowed, should have a minute of it. Great were the rejoicings in the white house by the shore that day, and marvelous was the dinner Isaiah served in honor of the occasion. Mary was obliged to relate the story of her trip from start to finish, while three rapt listeners nodded and exclaimed in sympathy or broke in to ask questions. She had written faithfully, but, as Isaiah said, “writin' ain't tellin'.” So Mary told and her uncles and Mr. Chase listened and questioned. It was twelve o'clock that night before anyone thought of going to bed, and next morning at the breakfast table the questioning began all over again. “Mrs. Wyeth was down at the dock, I presume likely, to meet you when your ship made port?” queried Zoeth. “Yes, she was there,” replied Mary. “Anybody else? How about that young Smith feller? Wa'n't he there, too?” asked Captain Shadrach with elaborate innocence. Mary colored just a little. She knew it was foolish; there was no reason in the world why she should be embarrassed, but she could not help it. “No, Uncle Shad,” she answered. “He wasn't there. He has not returned from the West yet, but he will be in Boston next week when the Medical College opens.” “Been havin' a good time out West there, has he?” inquired the Captain, still with studied unconcern. “Yes. At least he writes me that he has.” She looked from one to the other of her trio of listeners and then added: “I have some of his letters here with me. If you'd like to hear them I'll read them aloud.” “No, no, you needn't do that,” protested Shadrach hastily. But after another look at him Mary said, “I think I will,” and departed in search of the letters. Captain Shad, looking a trifle guilty, glanced at his partner. “She needn't read 'em unless she wants to, need she, Zoeth?” he said. “I--I didn't mean for her to do that.” Mr. Hamilton's face expressed doubt and disapproval. “Humph!” he said and that was all. Mary returned bearing the packet of letters, some of which she proceeded to read. Crawford had spent the summer either at his home in Carson City or in camping with his father in the Sierras, where he had shot and fished and apparently enjoyed himself hugely. The letters were frank and straightforward, full of fun and exuberance, the sort of letters a robust, clean-minded young fellow ought to write and sometimes does. They were not sentimental; even Isaiah, with what Captain Shadrach termed his “lovesick imagination,” would not have called them so.