, up to Maine, or down to the Cape."

Her enchantment was now so great that nothing seemed impossible.

"And we'll go down to Plymouth, too, some Sunday soon, if this weather
keeps up. If we start early enough we can get there for lunch, easy.
We'll see the rock. I guess some of your ancestors must have come over
with that Mayflower outfit--first cabin, eh? You look like it."

Janet laughed. "It's a joke on them, if they did. I wonder what they'd
think of Hampton, if they could see it now. I counted up once, just to
tease father--he's the seventh generation from Ebenezer Bumpus, who
came to Dolton. Well, I proved to him he might have one hundred and
twenty-six other ancestors besides Ebenezer and his wife."

"That must have jarred him some," was Ditmar's comment. "Great old man,
your father. I've talked to him--he's a regular historical society all
by himself. Well, there must be something in it, this family business.
Now, you can tell he comes from fine old American stock-he looks it."

Janet flushed. "A lot of good it does!" she exclaimed.

"I don't know," said Ditmar. "It's something to fall back on--a good
deal. And he hasn't got any of that nonsense in his head about labour
unions--he's a straight American. And you look the part," he added. "You
remind me--I never thought of it until now--you remind me of a picture
of Priscilla I saw once in a book of poems Longfellow's, you know. I'm
not much on literature, but I remember that, and I remember thinking
she could have me. Funny isn't it, that you should have come along? But
you've got more ginger than the woman in that picture. I'm the only man
that ever guessed it isn't that so?" he asked jealously.

"You're wonderful!" retorted Janet, daringly.

"You just bet I am, or I couldn't have landed you," he asserted. "You're
chock full of ginger, but it's been all corked up. You're so prim-so
Priscilla." He was immensely pleased with the adjective he had coined,
repeating it. "It's a great combination. When I think of it, I want to
shake you, to squeeze you until you scream."

"Then please don't think of it," she said.

"That's easy!" he exclaimed, mockingly.

At a quarter to one they entered a sleepy village reminiscent of a New
England of other days. The long street, deeply shaded in summer, was
bordered by decorous homes, some of which had stood there for a century
and a half; others were of the Mansard period. The high school, of
strawberry-coloured brick,