And then it passed, the mood—­and she tried to think more calmly, still answering him as he called from the woods.  She had seen a great deal of Thornton lately—­a great deal.  He had been kind and thoughtful and considerate—­nothing more.  More!  What more could there have been?  Love!  There was something of mockery in that, wasn’t there?  Everything she thought about lately, every way her mind turned seemed to hold something of mockery now.  Of course, Mrs. Thornton’s words expressing the wish that she and Thornton might come together had been often enough with her—­mockingly again!—­but Thornton could have known nothing of that—­so, after all, what did that matter?  She had snatched at every opportunity to motor with Thornton despite Doc’s protests, protests that had grown sullen and angry of late—­snatched at the opportunities eagerly, as she would snatch at a breath of air where all else stifled her—­snatched at them because they took her out of herself temporarily, away from everything, where everything at times seemed to be driving her mad.  Hate Thornton!  No, of course, she didn’t hate him—­she had thought that a moment ago because—­because her brain was—­was—­oh, she didn’t know—­so tired and weary, and she was cold now and quite wet.  She didn’t hate him, she even—­

“All ready now—­house to let furnished”—­he was calling out, laughing as he came thrashing through the undergrowth—­“excellent situation, high altitude, luxuriant pine grove surrounds the 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 sweeping his forehead, their lips mingling one another’s breaths.  He seemed to stumble—­then his arms closed about her in a quick, fierce pressure, clasping her, straining her to him—­relaxed as suddenly—­and then he had set her down inside the shelter he had built.