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?”