Lincoln's ancestors flourished in this region. So, to Scituate,
though over a wrong road again (Pat called it "a dear little wrong
road"), to Marshfield, where Daniel Webster died and was laid to rest.
On the way we "guessed" that a detestable yellow house we saw, with a
well and a bucket, were the house, well and bucket of Samuel Woodworth
himself, the "Old Oaken Bucket" man. Caspian was sure it wasn't the
house, and this seemed to make the darling Pat equally sure it _was_.
(Don't you think from what I tell you that the signs and omens are
good?)

I dared to believe that the girl wasn't sorry to have me beside her
again. Once in a while I threw a glance at her face as we spun over the
perfect road through woods which might never have been touched by the
hand of man, and there was a rapt look on it, the sweetest look you ever
saw--sweeter than you ever saw, because you haven't seen _her_ yet. But
you will--you will!--when you've finished your work and I've finished
mine.

Fortunately for me I have a good memory, and luckily I'd kept my ears
open while Molly and Jack Winston discussed the route, for I know
nothing of this country, which, by the way, I find so beautiful. I
reproach myself for thinking too little of my own land, and seeking
adventure in others. In Duxbury, you know probably, Miles Standish and
John Alden both had houses. John's second house is still standing, and
Pat insisted on stopping to see it; though I take courage from her
confession that she likes the bold rough Standish best. Queer to
remember, in a sleepy little place like Duxbury, that a man who chose to
build there had in his mind memories of fierce, wild fighting against
the Duke of Alva!

Past a nice-smelling tarry rope factory we sailed into Plymouth and
joined forces with the other cars. It's a fine entrance into the old
Pilgrim town, isn't it? Bowers of trees, and some of the noblest elms on
earth.

"How do things go?" Molly Winston whispered to me, when we had all
crowded hungrily into that jolly old-fashioned yellow-painted hotel
you're sure to remember, even though you didn't lunch in it with a
Patricia Moore.

I knew what she meant, because we three (she, her husband, and I)
started out with a secret pact against the firm of Caspian and Shuster.
And it gave me a good warm feeling to be asked the question, because the
fair Molly hasn't been quite as gracious since I voluntarily fell out of
ranks at Boston. I hope I shall be able