"To tell you the truth," added Priscilla, "I'm afraid that the Airtons have very little money indeed. Eunice says that there's a mortgage on their house, and that they may have to give it up before long. Balfour has offered to stay out of college and look for work in Halifax, but his mother will not listen to this; she wishes him to be a lawyer like his grandfather." "He has a scholarship at college, and he earns more or less money all the year, so that really his education costs his family nothing." "I fear our conversation is too personal," interrupted Amy, "though it has certainly been a pleasure to meet two people so free from self-consciousness as Eunice and Balfour. That reminds me," concluded Amy, "that I had a letter to-day from my friend Brenda, Mrs. Weston. She is surprised that we find so much to interest us in Nova Scotia. She made a trip this way one summer with her parents, but they travelled rather hurriedly through the province and made their longest stay at Halifax." "Oh, Halifax," interrupted Martine. "Nothing but English; only fancy," with a true English accent, and she raised her hand toward her eye as if holding a monocle. "If there's anything in the world I dislike, it's the real English. Excuse me, Priscilla; I did not mean to hurt your feelings." "My feelings? Why, I'm no more English than you are, Martine. You won't deny that you have some English blood in your veins?" "Unluckily, I can't deny it; but I'm glad that they named me Martine; that at least is un-English." "It certainly is a queer name." "Not queer at all, Priscilla. My grandfather was Martin, and Martine is the French feminine for it. If I'd been a boy, I would have been named Martin. Unluckily I wasn't, and so Martine was the best that could be done. My elder brother had been named for my father; Lucian, you know, is his name. I never heard any one else call 'Martine' a queer name;" and the Chicago girl turned away petulantly. Noting again the signs of a coming storm, already too frequent on this trip, Amy hastened to change the subject. "I don't know why I should have so many letters in my pocket to-day, but since I brought my mail with me, let me read you a little from Brenda's letter; you know her, Priscilla?" "Yes, indeed." "Oh, Brenda,--Mrs. Weston," cried Martine, eagerly, all trace of annoyance disappearing from her face and voice. "I've never talked with her, but I've seen her several times; I think she's just fine. She isn't a bit prim and stiff like most Bostonians. Why, she has as much style as a Chicago girl." "My dear," interposed Amy, "remember that Priscilla and I are from the neighborhood of Boston." "Oh, yes, but you don't set up for style--there, I don't mean that, of course; I only mean--" But Martine was getting herself into deep water, and her floundering amused Amy, although she maintained a grave face, as she said: