from within. Most of the onlookers seemed to suspect the outfit of
being part of a travelling menagerie, so almost against my will I
put up the flaps, tied Bock to the tail of the wagon, and began to
answer the humourous questions of the crowd. 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. Since the morning of the day
before my whole life had twisted out of its accustomed orbit. I had
spent four hundred dollars of my savings; I had sold about thirteen
dollars' worth of books; I had precipitated a fight and met a
philosopher. Not only that, I was dimly beginning to evolve a new
philosophy of my own. And all this in order to prevent Andrew from