"Look at there, boys!" he half said, half whispered; and the crew halted behind him, looking at Marjorie as if she were some very wonderful and lovely thing. The steps, or perhaps the eyes fixed admiringly on her, woke Marjorie. She opened her eyes, and smiled a little. She had gone to sleep very pleased, on account of the flowers, and of having arranged her work so it fitted in properly. "Oh, you've come!" she said, smiling at them as a friendly child might smile, flushed with sleep. "Did you have a hard day? Everything's ready." She was up and out in the cook-shed, half-frightened of their friendly eyes, before they could say any more. That is, to her. "Gosh, that's some wife of yours!" said one of them to Francis, who was a little in the rear of the others. "But ain't she a little thing?" Francis simply said "Yes" constrainedly. He had heard all that before. Pennington, who did not as a rule like girls, had been telling him what a lucky devil he was, as they went over to the working place together. He also had said that Marjorie was a little thing. And the note in his voice as he said it had insinuated to Francis, who was all too sensitive for such insinuations, that she was scarcely the type of woman to cook for a men's camp. Francis felt quite remorseful enough already. He sat down with the rest, while Marjorie brought in first the big platter of fish, then the vegetables, and a big pitcher of cocoa which she had made. "Some eats!" said another of the crew, and Marjorie dimpled appreciatively. While she went out again, after something she had forgotten, one of the Frenchmen whispered bashfully to Pennington, who was Francis's assistant. He smiled his slow, half-mocking, half-kindly smile, and passed it on to Francis. "Ba'tiste says that he wonders if the lady would sit down and eat with us. Do you think she would, Ellison? It's a long time since any of us had a lady keep house for us." "I'll ask her," said Francis, the taciturn. He would rather have done a good many things than go to Marjorie with a request, as things stood between them, but there was nothing else for it. He came on her, standing on tiptoe at the cupboard, like a child, trying to reach down a cup. She had counted one too few. He stood behind her and took it down, reaching over her head. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Pennington!" she said, taking it for granted that it was her accustomed helper. "It isn't Pennington; it's--me," said Francis. "I--I wouldn't have bothered you, but you see the men sent me out here on an errand." "The men sent you on an errand?" she said wonderingly. "That sounds topsy-turvy. I thought you sent them on errands." "Not this kind. They want to know if you won't sit down and eat with them to-night. The flowers and the food made a hit, and they agree with everybody else in the world, as far as I can see," said Francis, with bitterness in his voice, "that this is no work for you to be doing."