"What!" cried Rebecca, giving vent to her pent-up feelings, "an' never see my sister again! Why, I'd hev to come livin' along up behind her, and, all I could do, I'd never catch up with her--never! You'd ought to be ashamed to stand there an' think o' sech a thing, Copernicus Droop!" For some time he stood with bent head and shoulders, twirling his hat between his fingers. At length he straightened up suddenly and moved toward the door. "Well," he said, "the' isn't any use you seem' the Panchronicon now, is the'?" "What's it like, Mr. Droop?" Rebecca inquired. He paused helpless before the very thought of description. "Oh," he said, weakly, "et's like--et's a--why--Oh, it's a machine!" "Hez it got wings?" "Not exactly wings," he began, then, more earnestly, "why don't ye come and see it, anyway! It can't do ye any harm to jest look at it!" Rebecca dropped her hands into her lap and replied, with a hesitating manner: "I'd like to fust rate--it must be an awful queer machine! But I don't get much time fer traipsin' 'round now days." "Why can't ye come right along now?" Droop asked, eagerly. "It's dry as a bone underfoot down in the swamp now. The's ben no rain in a long time." She pondered some time before replying. Her first impulse was to reject the proposal as preposterous. The hour seemed very ill chosen. Rebecca was not accustomed to leaving home for any purpose at night, and she was extremely conservative. On the other hand, she felt that only under cover of the darkness could she consent to go anywhere in company with the village reprobate. Every tongue in the place would be set wagging were she seen walking with Copernicus Droop. She had not herself known how strong was the curiosity which his startling theories and incredible story had awakened in her. She looked up at her visitor with indecision in her eyes. "I don't see how I could go now," she said. "Besides, it's mos' too dark to see the thing, ain't it?" "Not a mite," he replied, confidently. "The's lights inside I can turn on, an' we'll see the hull thing better'n by daylight." Then, as she still remained undecided, he continued, in an undertone: "Cousin Phoebe's up in her room, ain't she? Ye might not get another chance so easy." He had guessed instinctively that, under the circumstances, Rebecca preferred not revealing to Phoebe her own continued interest in the wonderful machine. The suggestion was vital. Phoebe was in all probability sulking in her own bedroom, and in that event would not quit it for an hour. It seemed now or never. Rebecca rolled up her knitting work and rose to her feet. "Jest wait here a spell," she said, rapidly. "I won't be a minute!" * * * * * Shortly afterward, two swiftly moving, shadowy figures emerged from the little white gate and turned into a dark lane made more gloomy by overhanging maples. This was the shortest route to Burnham's swamp.