Mary Louise sighed. It was so hard to show little Ingua the error of her ways.
"As fer stealin'—out an' out stealin'," continued the girl, with a proud toss of her head, "we Craggs ain't never took noth'n' that don't belong to us from nobody. What a Cragg takes from a Cragg is a Cragg's business, an' when we takes someth'n' from somebody else I'll ask ye to tell me 'bout it."
"Where are you going, Ingua?"
"Home."
"You're not offended, I hope."
"No, but I got work to do. I ain't done my breakfas' dishes yet."
Mary Louise musingly watched the girl cross the river. On the opposite bank she turned to wave her hand and then ran into the cottage. Ingua's code of honor was a peculiar one. Her pride in the Craggs seemed unaccountable, considering she and her grandfather were the only two of the family in existence—except that wandering mother of hers.
But the recent conversation had uncovered a new phase of the mystery. Old Swallowtail was nervous over something; he could not sleep at night, but roamed the roads while others with clear consciences slumbered. There must be some powerful reason to account for the old man's deserting his bed in this manner. What could it be?
When she walked over to the postoffice the girl found the long-looked-for letter from Josie O'Gorman. It said:
Dear Mary Louise: