of the old plays, who used to disinherit his sons and drive his
daughters out into blinding snowstorms because they dared thwart his
imperial will. Edwin Smith was distinctly a handsome man, gray-haired,
of course, and strong-featured, but with a kind rather than a stern
expression. As Mary had said when she first saw his likeness, he looked
as if he might have had experiences. In this photograph he looked very
grave, almost sad, but possibly that was because of his recent sickness.

She was looking at the picture when Isaiah's voice was heard outside the
door.

"Hi, Mary-'Gusta," whispered Mr. Chase. "Ain't turned in yet, have you?
Can I speak with you a minute?"

"Certainly, Isaiah," said Mary. "Come in!"

Isaiah entered. "'Twan't nothin' special," he said. "I was just goin' to
tell you that Debby T. cal'lates Zoeth is a little mite easier tonight.
She just said so and I thought you'd like to know."

By "Debby T." Isaiah meant Mrs. Atkins. Mary understood.

"Thank you, Isaiah," she said. "I am ever so glad to hear it. Thank you
for telling me."

"That's all right, Mary-'Gusta. Hello! who's tintype's that?"

He had caught sight of the photograph upon the arm of Mary's chair. He
picked it up and looked at it. She heard him gasp. Turning, she saw
him staring at the photograph with an expression of absolute
amazement--amazement and alarm.

"Why, Isaiah!" she cried. "What is the matter?"

Isaiah, not taking his eyes from the picture, extended it in one hand
and pointed to it excitedly with the other.

"For godfreys mighty sakes!" he demanded. "Where did you get that?"

"Get what? The photograph?"

"Yes! Yes, yes! Where'd you get it? Where'd it come from?"

"It was sent to me. What of it? What is the matter?"

Isaiah answered neither question. He seemed to have heard only the first
sentence.

"SENT to you!" he repeated. "Mary-'Gusta Lathrop, have you been tryin'
to find out--Look here! who sent you Ed Farmer's picture?"

Mary stared at him. "WHOSE picture?" she said. "What are you talking
about, Isaiah?"

Isaiah thrust the photograph still closer to the end of her nose. Also
he continued to point at it.

"Who sent you Ed Farmer's picture?" he repeated. "Where--where'd you get
it? You tell me, now."

Mary looked him over from head to foot.

"I don't know whether to send for Uncle Shad or the doctor," she said,
slowly. "If you don't stop hopping up and down and waving your arms as
if they worked by