“Isn’t it queer,” she observed presently, “how persistent a part the fog has played in this trip? The morning we landed at Yarmouth, that first night in Halifax, several times on our motor trip——”
“And on Turtle Head,” interrupted Jim in a low tone.
“And now it is pushing us into Boston,” she finished, smiling at him.
“Pushing us in!” echoed Martha, who had caught her last sentence. “How do you get that way? Keeping us out, you mean!”
“Miss Scott has recovered her speech at last,” observed Jim. “Is she often silent for so long a time?”
“Very seldom; but Jim, why don’t you call her Martha? Miss Scott sounds so very formal.”
“It isn’t very easy for me to get on familiar terms with people,” he replied slowly. “I never have made friends quickly—at least,” he corrected himself as he caught sight of her dancing eyes and funny little smile, “never until the present instance.”
“The exception which proves the rule?” she inquired.
“Exactly.”
“But Jim,” she added, more seriously; “the girls like you, and—and my friends must be yours too.”