“Ed--Edwin Smith,” he repeated. “Edwin Smith! I--I don't know no Edwin Smith. Look here, now; honest, Mary-'Gusta, AIN'T that a picture of Ed Farmer?” Mary laughed. “Of course it isn't,” she said. “Who is Ed Farmer, pray?” Isaiah did not answer. He was holding the photograph near the end of his own nose now and examining it with eager scrutiny, muttering comments as he did so. “If it ain't him it's a better picture than if 'twas,” was one of his amazing observations. “Don't seem as if two folks could look so much alike and not be. And yet--and yet I can see--I can see now--this feller's hair's pretty nigh white and Ed's was dark brown. But then if this feller was Ed he'd be--he'd be--let's see--he'd be all of thirty-five years older than he was thirty-five years ago and that would account--” Mary burst out laughing. “Do be still, Isaiah!” she broke in. “You are perfectly idiotic. That man's name is Smith, I tell you.” Mr. Chase heaved a sigh. “You're sartin 'tis?” he asked. “Of course I am.” “Well, then I cal'late it must be. But if Ed Farmer had lived all these years and had had his tintype took he wouldn't get one to favor him more than that does, I bet you. My, it give me a start, comin' onto me so unexpected!” “But who is Ed Farmer?” asked Mary. The name had meant nothing to her so far. And yet, even as she spoke she remembered. Her expression changed. “Do you mean--” she cried, eagerly. “Why, Isaiah, do you mean the man in that old photograph I found in the garret ever and ever so long ago? The one you told me was a--a blackguard?” Isaiah, still staring at Mr. Smith's likeness, answered emphatically. “That's the one,” he said. “That's the one I meant. My, this feller does look like him, or the way I cal'late he would look if he lived as long as this!” “Is he dead, then?” “I don't know. We don't any of us know around here. I ain't laid eyes on him since the day afore it happened. I remember just as well as if 'twas yesterday. He come out of the office onto the wharf where I was workin' and he says to me, 'Isaiah,' he says, knockin' on the head of a barrel with his hand--the right hand 'twas, the one that had the bent finger; he got it smashed under a hogshead of salt one time and it never came straight again--'Isaiah,' says he, 'it's a nice day, ain't it.' And I answered up prompt--I liked him fust-rate; everybody liked him them days--'Yes, sir,' I says, 'this is a good enough day to go see your best girl in.' I never meant nothin' by it, you understand, just a sayin' 'twas, but it seemed to give him a kind of start. He looked at me hard. 'Did anyone tell you where I was goin'?' says he, sharp. 'Why, no,' says I. 'Why should they?' He didn't answer, just kept on starin' at me. Then he laughed and walked away. I didn't know where he was goin' then, but I know now, darn him! And the next day he went--for good.” He stopped speaking. Mary waited a moment and then asked, quietly: “Went where, Isaiah? Where did he go?”