Impulsively she clasped it in both of her own, swaying slightly toward me and looking her gratitude through eyes brim-full of tears--but the angels be my witness that spoken words have never been so eloquent! Then she began to laugh--a little wildly, a little hysterically--so I said: "It's all right--you're safe here, absolutely! I watched last night and there wasn't the slightest sign of anyone. You see, Smilax--that's Tachachobee, but we call him Smilax because he smiles--well, he and Echochee purposely led those fellows up the coast, and they'll keep on leading them any-old-where until it's safe to join us here. It's been carefully planned out. However, I'll tell you everything after--after----" I looked ruefully at the shriveled black stuff now incinerated on the bottom of my skillet, adding: "but there isn't going to be any after; it's all burned up!" She had pluckily taken herself in hand by now and, following my dejected stare, cried: "Is _that_ our breakfast? Heavens, what a calamity! But show me where the things are and I'll cook another!" "You'll soil your fingers," I hesitatingly protested. "Soil my fingers! Of course, I will; but there's no scarcity of water, nor of my appetite, either--and we can't possibly eat what you cook!" "Oh, I don't know," I said, just a little touchily. "I'm a pretty good sort of a cook, I am!" Often have I noticed how the majority of men get touchy about their cooking. "The evidence is convincing," she laughed. "Where do you keep your stores? Hurry, please do, if you don't want a fainting woman on your hands. I'm starved!" Now I saw that some of this was being put on; that it was the slackening of tightly pulled nerves; so I encouraged her as far as I dared without being suspected, knowing that it is best to open all vents when one's feelings have been dangerously pent up. As to my ability to cook!--why, there were extenuating circumstances governing this breakfast that should have excused it. Some day I'd surprise her. I changed that idea quickly enough when she took charge, however, for in ten minutes there were two or three things sizzling and sending out an aroma that might have brought Epicurus himself back to life. What's more, she did not seem to be worrying over them; she did not even seem particular about stirring them, nor did she burn her fingers, nor get red in the face and hot, nor suffer any of those agonies that I had supposed were a necessary part of culinary science. "You're a wonder," I exclaimed. "Darned if I've ever seen such a swell cook!" "Thank you, sir," she tossed her head and mimicked. "I'm glad I please, sir." "Like your new place?" I asked, gravely. "I've seen worse, sir." "Like your new master, too?" I ventured. "Marster, is it!" She sent me a look with which there was a most fetching little curve at the corners of her lips that she seemed unable to control. "I'll 'ave you understand that queens of the kitchen know no marster!"