"I hope you won't mind if the road is a bit rougher than usual for a few
miles," he said; "but you know we decided we didn't like the looks of
the weather at tea-time, and according to the map, which labels it
'rough but passable,' this is a short cut that will lop 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?"