“Have you turned a churn?”
Alison smiled. “My father was a small farmer in the bleak North. The soil is barren and one must fight floods and storms; but somehow when one knows the moors one does not go away. Well, I was afraid; I wanted to be where people traffic and life is thrilling.”
“All the same, to-night you felt Whinnyates called?”
“I expect I wasn’t logical, but in summer, when the wind drops and the fern is long, Whinnyates is a charming spot. While I sang I saw the hills get dark and my aunt by the fire; the rough-haired dogs, and my uncle on the oak bench. They’re kind, blunt folks. I knew they thought about me, and I wanted to be back.”
“In some respects you are luckier than I am. I believe my relations are glad I went. But are you joining friends in Canada?”
“I have a friend at a Manitoba town, and she thinks I might get employment.”
“You are going to do so. So long as you’re not daunted, you’ll get all you’d like to get.”
Alison smiled, for Kit’s talk was bracing. “You are very hopeful, but as a rule one must be resigned to go without. For example, I wanted, just for once, to walk about the first-class passengers’ deck.”
“Then let’s go; it’s pretty dark,” said Kit, and gave her his arm.
They went up a ladder and round the spacious deck, but the wind was keen, and Kit steered Alison to a nook behind a boat. Two or three people occupied the sheltered spot, and by and by a steward, carrying a tray, came along the deck.