“Sartin, she heard him say so.”

Shadrach strode to the mantel, took from it a hand-lamp, lighted the lamp and with it in his hand walked from the room and ascended the stairs.  Zoeth called after him, but he did not answer.

He entered Mary-’Gusta’s room.  The child was in bed, the dolls beside her.  She was not asleep, however.  The tear stains on her cheeks and the dampness of the pillow showed how she had spent the time since leaving the dining-room.

Shadrach put the lamp upon the washstand, pulled a chair beside the bed and sat down.  He took her hand in his.

“Mary-’Gusta,” he said, gently, “you knew ’twas my gun that Ab Bacheldor was tryin’ to shoot David with?”

Mary-’Gusta moved her head up and down on the pillow.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“You was here when he borrowed it?”

“Yes, sir.  And then I knew it was yours when he had it there in the field.  I saw the silver name thing on the handle.  It kind of shined in the sun.”

“Um-hm.  Yes, yes.  I see.  You knew it, of course.  But you didn’t tell me.  Why on earth didn’t you?  Didn’t you know that if I’d realized that swab had borrered my gun to kill my cat that would have been enough?  If the critter had stole a million chickens ’twouldn’t have made any difference if I’d known that.  The cheeky lubber!  Well, he won’t shoot at anything of ours for one spell, I’ll bet.  But why didn’t you tell me?”

Mary-’Gusta’s answer was promptly given.

“Why, ’cause,” she said, “that was just it.  I knew if you knew that you wouldn’t care whether David stole the chicken or not.  And I wanted you to know he didn’t.”

“Um, I see.  But if you had told me you wouldn’t have had to tell about the parlor.  I’d never asked a single question.”

“Ye-yes, sir; but I wanted you to know David doesn’t steal chickens.”

Shadrach swallowed hard.  “I see,” he said.  “Yes, yes, I see.  So just to clear that cat you was willin’ to give up the picnic and everything.”

Mary-’Gusta sobbed:  “I—­I did want to go so,” she moaned.

The Captain lifted her from the pillow and put his arm about her.

“You are goin’,” he declared, emphatically, “you just bet you’re goin’.”

“Oh!  Oh, am I?  Am I really?  I—­I know I hadn’t ought to.  I was a bad girl.”

“You!  You’re a dummed good girl!  The best and squarest—­yes, and the spunkiest little girl I ever saw.  You’re a brick.”

“I’m awful sorry I went into the parlor, Cap’n Gould.”

“Blast the parlor!  I don’t care if you stay in there a week and smash everything in it.  And—­and, see here, Mary-’Gusta, don’t you call me ‘Cap’n Gould’ any more.  Call me ‘Uncle Shad,’ will you?”

Just before bedtime that night Mr. Hamilton broached a subject which had troubled him all day.

“Shadrach,” he said, timidly.  “I—­I guess I ought to tell you somethin’.  I know you won’t want to talk about it, but seems ’s if I must tell you.  I had a letter this morning from Judge Baxter.  He says he can’t wait much longer for an answer from us about Marcellus’s girl.  He’s got to know what we’ve decided to do with her.”