“I can’t help the way I feel. I’m getting to the place where I don’t give a hang. I thought for a time you might help me. I see, as usual, I’m out o’ luck!” It hurt the girl to have the lad talk so, especially as he appeared sincere. Suppose Mrs. Theddon were wrong! Suppose she _were_ prejudiced! She, Madelaine, had known that horrible feeling of nobody caring. Was it square of her mother to put such restrictions upon her? The girl was a queer mixture of half woman, half child. The “child” was always the orphan child, wondering to whom it belonged, why life had been “different.” “Where do you want to drive?” she asked. “Oh, up to Amherst and back, or Greenfield; what does it matter so long as I have a good chance to talk, and get you back by eight o’clock?” “Well, I’ll have to tell Mrs. Anderson over to the House. And you may have to assure her you’re my cousin. It’s against the rules otherwise, you know.” “Fair enough! Hustle! We’ve a couple of hours yet before dark.” II Madelaine soon discovered, not without annoyance, that the pummeling of the machine precluded much confidential intercourse. Also, once under way on the Deerfield road, Gordon’s mood shifted. He began to show off his dexterity in managing the contraption. Beside the motors of five years hence, it would be listed as a “haybaler.” But in Gordon’s hands it was no “haybaler.” It was a threshing-machine with the “governor” lost. “I thought you wanted to tell me about yourself,” the girl reminded him as they reached a stretch of reasonably smooth roadway three miles out of town. “Oh, for the love of Mike! Can’t you be human for once, Madge? Simply enjoy yourself! Or if you can’t, let me enjoy myself. It’s enough for me to have you along at such a time. You’re that kind of girl. That’s why I’ve wanted you so much.” The sun sank down behind the Berkshires. The Connecticut valley was hushed and beautiful. Cattle lowed in moist barnyards along their way. They heard the clinking and squeaking of milk pails and the nicker of horses with heads hanging low over whitewashed paddock fences. A dew mist hung above the glassy river. The world grew dreamy. Gordon turned off upon a country road. With a sudden twinge of alarm Madelaine lost her sense of direction. “Where are you going, Gordon?” she demanded at the end of a half-hour. “Oh, I know a short cut. You’ll see. Hell! _What’s that?_” They had passed through a thickly shadowed wood. The road opened out between a hill of undergrowth on one side and a pasture on the other. No houses were in sight. They were surrounded by typical western Massachusetts country. And the car had stopped abruptly. The boy alighted, raised the hood, tinkered with the engine. He cranked several times in silence. At first Madelaine was interested. Then she grew annoyed. Gordon did not appear out of temper. This was unnatural. He even stood off, looked at the machine and—grinned.