The instant after he had taken the tray from Ellen’s hands his face clouded.
“Isn’t your breakfast all right?” she asked, a little furrow appearing in her forehead. Ellen’s expression was nearly always serious, but it was even more so now. Although it was so early in the morning and she had been cooking, she looked exquisitely neat in a fresh white blouse, a dark khaki skirt and one of her big hospital aprons. Her sandy-colored hair, a little redder from the past week’s outdoors, was drawn English fashion into a kind of bun at the back of her head. But, although Ellen tried to be prim, and although she could control her face, she had rebellious hair. One knows the kind—it would break out into little ripples on her forehead and at the back of her neck. And her skin, where it was not exposed, had the peculiar whiteness and beauty that belongs to her type of coloring.
The young man in the chair laughed at her question.
“My breakfast is perhaps the most perfect thing that ever happened, or at least that has happened to me in many a day,” he answered. “You see I have been living under my Sister Marta’s ministrations for a year, and Marta thinks herself above cooking. She prefers to follow the fine arts. Truth of the matter is the child has never been taught anything and has never had the right kind of feminine influence. You see, my mother and father died when Marta was a little girl and she and I have spent our lives in boarding houses. I don’t mean to criticise her; the child has made a terrible struggle to take care of me, and it has been awfully hard on her, staying out here in the wilds with a hopeless stick of a brother. You can’t imagine what it means—her discovery of the Camp Fire girls and your kindness. As for you, Miss Deal; well, I haven’t words to express my gratitude. It positively takes away my appetite for breakfast because I feel under such obligation to you.”
Ellen flushed uncomfortably. Her companion was a Southerner and talked easily and charmingly. He might say he did not know how to express his gratitude, but this was not true, for few hours passed in the day without his showing it in one way or another.
However, Ellen had not the gift of self-expression, and cordiality from another seemed to freeze her up. It was this trait of her character which had made Mrs. Burton not care for her much at first, and which kept her from greater intimacy with the girls, except Alice Ashton, who was not unlike her.
Now, instead of appearing gracious, she looked annoyed.
“I have asked you several times not to mention gratitude,” she returned, staring ahead and turning undeniably red. “If I must tell you the truth, I like it better here than at our own camp. That is, I like being useful—not your camp itself—there is no comparison.”
This time her companion showed embarrassment.
“Naturally there is no comparison. My sister’s and my arrangements are of the simplest and I have no doubt Mrs. Burton’s camp leaves nothing to be desired. That is one of the causes of my gratitude. I am afraid we have not been able to make you comfortable, though there is little doubt of what you have done for us.”