Two or three bought
books without any urging, and it was some time before I could
get away. Finally I shut up the van and pulled off, as I was
afraid of seeing some one I knew. As I turned into the
Woodbridge Road I heard the whistle of the five o'clock train
to New York.
The twenty miles of road between Sabine Farm and Port Vigor
was all familiar to me, but now to my relief I struck into a
region that I had never visited. On my occasional trips to
Boston I had always taken the train at Port Vigor, so the
country roads were unknown. But I had set out on the
Woodbridge way because Mifflin had spoken of a farmer, Mr.
Pratt, who lived about four miles out of Port Vigor, on the
Woodbridge Road. Apparently Mr. Pratt had several times bought
books from the Professor and the latter had promised to visit
him again. So I felt in duty bound to oblige a good customer.
After the varied adventures of the last two days it was almost
a relief to be alone to think things over. Here was I, Helen
McGill, in a queer case indeed. Instead of being home at
Sabine Farm getting supper, I was trundling along a strange
road, the sole owner of a Parnassus (probably the only one in
existence), a horse, and a dog, and a cartload of books on my
hands.
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