unctory politeness (?) that it didn't "upset" me in
the least to talk or be talked to while I "chauffed."

After that we did converse a little, about Captain John Smith and Miles
Standish, without Caspian venturing to butt in; but I must say he got
revenge through my losing myself in Hingham. You remember that wonderful
street of lawns and trees with a perfect specimen of an old church? I
believe it's the oldest church, still in use, in the United States, but
I dared not state this lest C. should seize the chance to snap me up and
say I was mistaken. Well, anyhow, I shared so recklessly in Pat's
admiration of the said church and the quaint, pleasant houses with
flag-staffs sticking out over their doors, that I fulfilled Caspian's
prophecy and got lost. The first thing I knew we were bumping over an
appalling road, and had to turn back.

"I told you so!" I heard C. muttering like distant thunder, and asked
him mildly if he preferred to take the wheel; but his finger was even
more painful than his temper. I felt his glare like a gimlet in the
back; but Pat more loudly than needful expressed her delight in seeing
Hingham a second time. "It is exactly like Cranford," she said. "New
England seems to be full of Cranfords, but Hingham is the most Cranfordy
of all. And I don't believe even the Old England Cranford could have
such elms in such a wonderful street. They are like tall, transparent
green wine glasses set for a dinner party of Titans."

"You get these exaggerated ideas from Mrs. Winston," came another mutter
from behind, but no reply was vouchsafed. Speaking of Mrs. Winston, I'd
happened to hear her talking with her husband last night, about the
day's run to Plymouth, and a word here and there had caught my
attention. I remembered that a "sky pilot" named Hobart had come from
Hingham in England, and somehow got the new place named after the old. I
remembered, too, a romantic story they spoke of: the hiding of "The
Nameless Nobleman" between the floors of a South Hingham house, and his
marrying the girl who saved him, Molly Wilder. (Jack Winston thinks that
all the nicest women since the Christian era have been named Mary.) I
hurried to tell Pat about these things, and a few others which I either
recalled or made up on the spot. While I talked, in defiance of orders,
I somehow contrived to get onto a splendid road to Cohasset: woods for
miles and miles; and an idea came into my head--which I passed on--that
Abraham