The story of Mary-'Gusta Lathrop is almost told. Before Crawford left South Harniss, which was not until the end of another week, it had been decided that on a day in June of the following year she should cease to be Mary-'Gusta Lathrop. There was a great deal of discussion before this decision was reached, for many perplexing questions had to be answered.
First, there was the question of Crawford's future. His father had left a comfortable fortune and an interest in mining properties which would have rendered it quite unnecessary for the young man to keep on with his professional studies had he wished to discontinue them. But he did not so wish.
"As I think I told you that Sunday afternoon when we first met at Mrs. Wyeth's, Mary," he said, "I have always intended to be a doctor. Dad did not want me to be; he wanted me to come in with him, but I wouldn't do it. I love my work and I mean to stick to it and go on with it. If I were as rich as a dozen Rockefellers it wouldn't make any difference. But, as I see it, I am not rich. It is a grave question in my mind how much of that money out there belongs to me."
Mary nodded. "I think I understand what you mean," she said.
"Yes, I think there is no doubt that almost all of my father's money was made there in the West after"--he hesitated and then went on--
"after the--the other died and after he married my mother. But nevertheless I shall always feel as if whatever there was belonged to your uncles, the surviving members of the old firm. If I could, I should give it to them."
Mary smiled. "Thank you for saying it, dear," she said, "and I know you mean it; but it would be no use to offer; they wouldn't take it."
"I know they wouldn't. So we must try and make it up to them in some other way. But suppose we leave that for a time and get back to my work. I'm going to keep on with it; I want to and you say that you want me to."
"I do, very much. I am sure you will be happier in that work than in any other, and besides--I suppose I am ever so unpractical, but I do feel it--I had rather you made your own way. Somehow the idea of our depending upon that money out there doesn't--doesn't-- Oh, I can't explain exactly, but I don't like the idea a bit."
"I know. I prefer to paddle my own canoe, if I can. But a young doctor's canoe is likely to move pretty slowly at first. And I intend taking a passenger, you know, and I want her to be comfortable."
Mary laughed, a contented little laugh. "She will be," she declared. "Did I tell you of the talk Uncle Shad and I had the other day? He saw me sitting by the dining-room window looking out at nothing in particular--and looking silly enough, too, I dare say--and he asked me what I was thinking. I said, 'Nothing much,' which wasn't true, and he said nothing must be good to think of, I looked so cheerful. I told him I was. Then I asked him--my conscience troubled me a little, you know--if he was sure that he and Uncle Zoeth were happy, because I shouldn't be unless they were."
"Well, that was characteristic. What did he say to that?"
"Oh, he laughed that big laugh of his and told me not to worry.
'I'M feelin' pretty average satisfied with life just now, Mary-
'Gusta,' he said, 'and as for Zoeth--well, he asked me this mornin' if I didn't cal'late 'twas wicked for him and me to be so contented with the things of this world, so I know HE'S all right. When Zoeth gets real happy he always begins to feel sinful.' I hope that a consciousness of sin isn't the only test of happiness," she added, "because I don't believe you feel wicked the least bit. At least you have never said you did."
Crawford laughed, and there followed one of those interruptions to conversation with which, although undoubtedly interesting to the participants, outsiders are not supposed to be concerned. When it was over Mary said:
"Of course I am not so foolish as to mean that you must not touch the money your father left. That would be ridiculous. But I mean I think we should not depend upon it; it should not change our plans or spoil your life work, or anything like that. It will make life easier for us, of course, and with its help we can make it easier for other people. I think that is what we should do with it."
"So do I, my dear. And our first duty, it seems to me, is toward your uncles. If they would consent, and I suppose there isn't the least chance that they would, I should like to sell out the store and the Lookout and the rest of it and take them with us, wherever we decide to go, and give them an easy, carefree time of it the rest of their lives."
Mary shook her head. "They wouldn't like it a bit," she said.
"That precious old store is the joy of their lives. Without it they wouldn't know what to do; they would be as lost and lonesome and miserable as a pair of stray kittens. No, if we take care of them we must take care of Hamilton and Company, too. And we mustn't let them know we're doing it, either," she added with decision.
Crawford looked troubled. "I suppose you're right," he said; "but it is likely to be something of a puzzle, their problem. It will mean, of course, that you and I must go and leave them."
"Oh, no, we can't do that--not for some time, at any rate."
"It seems to me we must. We have decided, you and I, that I shall go back West, finish my preparatory work, then come here and marry you. After that--well, after that we have decided that I am to locate somewhere or other and begin to practice my profession.
You'll go with me then, I presume?"
"Silly! Of course I will."
"I hoped so. But if we can't leave your uncles and they won't leave the store, what are we going to do? Put the store on a truck and take it with us?"
She looked up at him and smiled. "I have a plan," she said. "I haven't quite worked it out yet, but if it does work I think it's going to be a very nice plan indeed. No, I'm not going to tell you what it is yet, so you mustn't tease. You don't mind my planning for you and bossing you and all that sort of thing, do you? I hope you don't, because I can't help it. It's the way I'm made, I think."
"I don't mind. Boss away."
