property, and—and"—he had halted beside the car and opened the door—"what else do they say?"
Helena caught his spirit—or, rather, forced herself to do so. It wasn't quite fair that one of them should do all the pretending.
"Flies," she laughed. "They always speak of flies in Maine."
"None!" said Thornton promptly. "There hasn't been one since the house was built. Now then, Miss Vail"—he held out his arms.
"Oh, but really, I can walk."
"And I can carry you," he said—and, from the step, gathered her into his arms.
And then, as she lay there passively at first, she seemed to sense again that curious diffidence, that gentleness, like the touch upon her throat of a little while ago, though now he held her in both his arms. How strong he was—and, oh, how miserably wet—her hand around his shoulder felt the thin shirt clinging soggily to his arm. Yes; she was glad he hadn't let her walk—it wasn't far, but she would have had to force her way continually through bushes that scattered showers from their dripping leaves, and underfoot she could hear his boots squash through the mud. And then suddenly it happened—the trees, just a yard or so from the fire, were thick together, tangled—she bent her head quickly, instinctively, to avoid a low-hanging branch as he for the same reason swerved a little—and their cheeks lay close-pressed against each other's, her hair sweep-
