With that she got up, went to a corner cupboard and brought out her can of vaseline.
"Yo' lyin' ole chile," she muttered; "yo' can sho' res' from yo' labours. This am a lan' o' honey an' the honeycomb."
Then voluntarily Sally raised the lid of the stove and pushed the tin can in upon a blazing piece of wood. The flames caught the grease and licked it greedily from the outer side of the box:
"Massa Fire," laughed Sally; "yo' like dat po'k chop?"
Then the heat hungrily battled for more and "pop" flew the cork and back leaped Sally.
"Gawd!" she gasped. "I sho' didn't think yo' would take it that-er-way. I was only foolin'!"
Sally had made great strides. She could laugh and joke with assurance in her heart. Sandy Morley had promised that she might have a home to the end of her days in Martin's cabin—the glorified cabin—and Sally, like many another, was learning to trust Sandy as no one had ever been trusted in Lost Hollow before. Sally rarely gave expression to her sentiments; she did not mean to permit the child whom she had helped Martin bring through his "teething," and whom she had spanked many a time, to get the upper hand; but she prayed by her very comfortable bed in the loft over the living-room that she might cook to Sandy's liking and prove herself worthy the blessing God bestowed upon her in her old age.
Glaring at the stove and not daring to risk another outburst of indignation, Sally stood helpless when Sandy entered the sunny kitchen.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"Dat stove done have a real human sense," Sally replied; "an open fire we-all can reckon with an' keep an eye on, but yo' shet fire up in a packin' box an' who knows what's goin' on in its min'?"