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.
“If it ain't him it's a better picture than if 'twas,” was one of his amazing observations. “Don't seem as if two folks could look so much alike and not be. And yet—and yet I can see—I can see now—this feller's hair's pretty nigh white and Ed's was dark brown. But then if this feller was Ed he'd be—he'd be—let's see—he'd be all of thirty-five years older than he was thirty-five years ago and that would account—”
Mary burst out laughing.
“Do be still, Isaiah!” she broke in. “You are perfectly idiotic. That man's name is Smith, I tell you.”
Mr. Chase heaved a sigh. “You're sartin 'tis?” he asked.
“Of course I am.”
“Well, then I cal'late it must be. But if Ed Farmer had lived all these years and had had his tintype took he wouldn't get one to favor him more than that does, I bet you. My, it give me a start, comin' onto me so unexpected!”