no doubt;
and having brought us to a stand before the Damascus blade of Miles
Standish, she considered her duty done.

"I'm tireder than I thought I was," she said. "I believe I shall have to
go back to the hotel myself, and rest a bit before we start for Boston.
I wouldn't stay long here if I were you. If Mr. Storm buys a guide-book
at the hotel, or some postcards, you'll have pictures of everything
without standing on your feet."

Pat replied meekly that she would return to the hotel the minute she
felt tired, but did want to see John Adams' Bible and a few things like
that. Mrs. Shuster mustn't at all mind leaving her.

Mrs. Shuster did mind, but she went nevertheless. I longed to catch
Pat's eye, and smile; but she didn't appear to have a smile in her. Such
innocent gravity you never saw, and when Mrs. S. had left us, the girl
made no reference to the episode.

I did buy some picture postcards, but not until we'd seen everything
they represented. I bought also, at the same shop, a pretty little box
containing three green candles made of bayberry wax. Both cards and
candles I offered to Miss Moore, and she accepted them, sniffing with
childlike ecstasy at the candles, which are supposed to give forth, in
burning, the perfume which the bayberries pour out in the heat of the
sun. Afterward I was told by Molly Winston the sentimental superstition
about bayberry candles. I wonder if Miss Moore knew it, and if she
thought I knew.

I haven't, as you see, given up hope that the forced association of this
motor trip may make the child realize how impossible for her would be a
permanent association with that worm C. If she breaks her engagement
before anything happens, so much the better; but the thing, in one form
or other, will now have to happen, of course.

A letter from you could reach me at Bretton Woods, and I should be glad
to hear there just when you think affairs might be settled.

I'm hideously impatient, but I'm not unhappy.

Yours as ever, and a little more,

P. S.

We came back from Plymouth to-night, along the short road, Caspian
patched up but sulky as an owl. Luckily I didn't lose the way once.

XXIV

EDWARD CASPIAN TO RICHARD MOYLE, KNOWN PROFESSIONALLY AS "CAMERA-EYED
DICK"

_Portsmouth, New Hampshire._

DEAR MR. MOYLE:

The more I think of it, the more I feel