Mr. Horton jumped out and went over to them.
Sunny Boy, curled up in the seat, smiled vaguely at the little girl, who smiled back. Somewhere, hidden in the trees along the roads, insects were humming. A faint wind rustled the dry, dusty grass. The engine of the other car started chugging with a gay, determined sound. Mr. Horton shook hands with the men and came back to the car.
“Mother,” he said carelessly, putting his tools away in the box, “I think some one is going to sleep.”
Sunny wondered who was going to sleep, and who was lifting him over the back of the seat, and whose lap was so soft—and why—and what—and then—
“Well, precious, you’ve had a nice little nap. We’re almost at Nestle Cove. Sit up, and smell the salt in the air,” said Mrs. Horton.
Sunny Boy rubbed his eyes. He had been asleep.
“Harry,” Mrs. Horton leaned forward, and touched her husband’s arm. “There’s a little inn; couldn’t we stop there a minute? We’d like to look half-way presentable when we go through the town. Every one will be out on the porches, you know.”
“And my hair’s a sight,” declared Aunt Bessie positively.
“I would like to wash my face,” announced Miss Martinson.
“Old man, what do you want to do?” asked Mr. Horton, turning the car into the pretty white driveway bordered on either side with dazzling white clam shells.