Shadrach regarded her with a little of the questioning scrutiny he had
devoted to Crawford during dinner.

"You do, eh?" he mused. "How much?"

"How much?" repeated Mary, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"I mean how much do you like him? More'n you do your Uncle Zoeth and me,
for instance?"

She looked up into his face. What she saw there brought the color to her
own. He might have said more, but she put her finger-tips upon his lips.

"Nonsense!" she said hotly. "What wicked, silly nonsense, Uncle Shad!
Don't you ever, ever say such a thing to me again. You KNOW better."

Shadrach smiled and shook his head.

"All right, Mary-'Gusta," he said; "I won't say it again--not till you
say it to me fust, at any rate. There, there, dearie! Don't blow me
clean out of the water. I was only jokin', the same as Isaiah was tryin'
to that night when you came home for your Christmas vacation."

"I don't like that kind of joking. I think it's silly."

"I guess maybe 'tis--for a spell, anyhow. We'll heave the jokes
overboard. Yes, I like that Crawford Smith fust-rate. But the funniest
thing about him is the way he reminds me of somebody else. Who that
somebody is I can't make out nor remember. Maybe I'll think sometime or
other, but anyhow I like him now for his own sake. I asked him to come