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 strings I shall probably send for both.  Isaiah Chase, behave yourself!  What is the matter with you?”

Isaiah, during his years as sea cook, had learned to obey orders.  Mary’s tone had its effect upon him.  He dropped one hand, but he still held the photograph in the other.  And he stared at it as if it possessed some sort of horrible charm which frightened and fascinated at the same time.  Mary had never seen him so excited.

“Ed Farmer!” he exclaimed.  “Oh, I swan to man!  I don’t see how—­Say, it is him, ain’t it, Mary-’Gusta?  But of course ’tis!  I can see ’tis with my own eyes.  My godfreys mighty!”

Mary shook her head.  “If I didn’t know you were a blue ribboner, Isaiah,” she said, “I should be suspicious.  That photograph was sent me from the West.  It is a picture of a gentleman named Edwin Smith, someone I have never seen and I’m perfectly sure you never have.  Why in the world it should make you behave as if you needed a strait-jacket I can’t see.  Does Mr. Smith resemble someone you know?”

Isaiah’s mouth fell open and remained so as he gazed first at the photograph and then at her.

“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.