“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 passed 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.”