window--here. Um . . . yes. I don't wonder you turn red. I should think
you might be ashamed."

"I--I--what's that?" stammered Shadrach, turning redder than ever. "What
do you mean? Turnin' red! Who's turnin' red?"

"You are," said the young lady, firmly, "and you know it. Now, look me
straight in the eye. Uncle Shad Gould, don't you think it would have
been more honorable, if you wished to know whether Crawford Smith and
I corresponded, to have asked me instead of hinting? Don't you think it
would?"

"Hintin'? Why--why, Mary-'Gusta, what-what--?"

His face was a study in expression. Mary bit her lip, but she managed to
appear solemn.

"Yes, hinting," she said. "Instead of asking if Crawford and I had
written each other you hinted. Well, now you know that we did write, and
have heard his letters to me, have you any objection?"

"Objection? No, no, course not. Why--I--I think 'twas a fine thing. I--I
like to get letters; a heap better than I do to write 'em," he added
truthfully.

"Then why?"

"Well--well--I--I--"

"And aren't you ashamed?" repeated Mary.