II
THE THICKENING MIST
A Fortnight passed, after the evening when Doctor Joe had spoken to Thomas of the mist in Jamie’s eyes, before he appeared again at The Jug. It was early morning, and the family were at breakfast when he breezed in, without knocking—for in that country folk do not knock as they enter, and every one is welcome at all times.
“Well! Well!” he exclaimed. “Just in time, and I’m as hungry as an old grampus. What is it? Fried whitefish! Margaret, you must have expected me and read my mind, for I’d rather have fried whitefish for breakfast, the way you cook them, than anything else I can think of!”
“Then I’m glad I cooked un,” laughed Margaret. “But you likes most anything we ever has.”
“That’s true, because you cook everything so well,” complimented Doctor Joe, seating himself by Jamie. “I’m not much of a cook myself, you know.”
“You’re a rare fine cook, now, I thinks,” broke in David. “I always likes your cookin’ when I eats un.”
“Anybody’s cooking is good to a husky, healthy lad like you,” laughed Doctor Joe.