"You see we always boarded," went on Sylvia, "because father--well, it was better; he was contented if he could play cards and go to a show sometimes; and when he had had too much he always kept away from me--he was so good about that." "Too much?" echoed her companion questioningly. "Yes, of course he'd go out with the boys some nights, but they always kept him away from me until he was all right again." The matter-of-fact tone gave the listener a pang. His big hand closed over the one he had been caressing. "You're in a prohibition state now," he remarked. "Yes, I remember. I've heard father speak of it. I was just thinking of a verse he used to say:-- "'Johnny and Jane, Maiden and swain, Never had tasted a drop of champagne; Reason is plain, They lived in Maine, Where all the folks are obliged to drink rain.'" "H'm. I wish they were," commented the other, regarding the black-clothed figure beside him. A thin veil was pinned to her hat in such a way as to cover the shortness of the soft curls. Her figure was erect, her coloring exquisite, her eyes innocent. She seemed to him like a jewel which had been set in base metal, carelessly guarded, and was now in danger of sinking into the mud of the highway. Laura's little girl! He patted her hand again. "Here we are," he said, as the train slackened and stood still. He took his own limp bag and Sylvia's plump, rubbed old one, and they moved down the aisle and out upon the platform. "There's Lem." Jacob Johnson moved across the platform, and Sylvia followed him to where stood a two-seated wagon with a pair of strong horses. The driver leaned one arm on his leg as he looked passively at Sylvia. He wore a sweater and a felt hat, and had on blue overalls the color of his eyes. He was older than his employer, and a fringe of white whiskers surrounded his red, weather-beaten face. "Howdy, Thinkright," he said, nodding as the couple approached. "How are you, Cap'n Lem? This is my little cousin, Miss Lacey." "Glad to see ye, Miss Lacey. Ye've got hahnsome weather," observed the old man. "Mawdrate, too, to what it has ben. Apple-trees hev all bust out." "Yes, you must have had a fresh trip in this morning," responded Thinkright, as he saw to having Sylvia's trunk and the bags put on the wagon. At last he climbed in beside his guest. A slap of the reins set the heavy horses trotting deliberately. Cap'n Lem sat halfway around in his seat in order to converse on farm matters, and Sylvia enjoyed the spring beauty about her as they drove out of the little town and took the country road. "How's the jedge?" asked the captain at last. "He's well. Told me to tell you he'd be after you for lobsters before long." The old man gave a toothless smile. "Miss Lacey smaht?" he inquired. "I suppose so. I didn't see her this time."