p off about ten
miles and take us back to Needley through Barton's Mills."

"Of course, I don't mind," Helena answered. "How far are we from
Needley?"

"About thirty-five miles or so," Thornton replied. "Say, an hour and a
half with any kind of going at all. We ought to be back by nine."

Helena nodded brightly and leaned back in her seat. Rather than
objecting to the short cut that Thornton had begun to negotiate, the
road, now that she gave her attention to it, she found to be quite the
prettiest bit she had seen in the whole afternoon's run, where, in the
rough, sparsely settled north country, all was both pretty and a
delight--miles and miles without the sign of even a farmhouse, just the
great Maine forests, so majestic and grand in their solitude, bordering
the road that undulated with the country, now to a rise with its
magnificent sweep of scenery, now to the cool, fresh valleys full of the
sweet pine-scent of the woods. They had explored much of it together in
the little 'run-about,' nearly every day a short spin somewhere; to-day
a little more ambitious run--the whole afternoon, and tea, a picnic tea,
an hour or more back, in a charming glade beside a little brook.

"Oh, this is perfectly lovely!" she exclaimed; and then, with a
breathless laugh, as a bump lifted her out of her seat: "It _is_
rough--isn't it?"

Thornton laughed and slowed down.

"I don't fancy it's used much, except in the winter for logging. But if
the map says we can get through, I guess we're all right--there's about
an eight mile stretch of it."

It was growing dusk, and the shadows, fanciful and picturesque; were
deepening around them. Now it showed a solid mass of green ahead, and,
like a sylvan path, the road, converging in the distance, lost itself in
a wall of foliage; now it swerved rapidly, this way and that, in short
curves, as though, like one lost, it sought its way.

A half hour passed. Thornton stopped the car, got down and lighted his
lamps, then started on again. The going had seemed to be growing
steadily worse--the road, as Thornton had said, was little more indeed
than a logging trail through the heart of the woods; and now, deeper in,
with increasing frequency, the tires slipped and skidded on damp, moist
earth that at times approached very nearly to being oozy mud.

Silence for a long while had held between them. It was taking Thornton
all his time now to guide the car, that, negotiating fallen branches
strewn