"I've taken over Pierre's job for the moment," he replied. "Assuredly
I'll show you all I can. But it's rough work for a girl."
Marjorie smiled on.
"Very well, show me, please," she demanded, as she would if the question had been one of walking over red-hot plowshares.
She stood and looked about her as he answered her, so intent that she did not hear what he replied.
The place had rows of bunks in various stages of untidiness. It was lighted by two very smoky kerosene lamps, and had in its middle a table with cards on it. Three men sat about the table, as if they did not quite know whether to come forward and be included in the conversation or not. At the further end Marjorie could see the door that led to the cooking-place, and eyed it with interest.
"These are all of the men who are here," Francis explained. "There is another camp some miles further in the forest."
"Am I to cook for them as well?" demanded Marjorie coolly.
"Oh, no," the Englishman answered. He seemed deeply shocked at the idea. "They have a cook. By the way, Mrs. Ellison, it is only poetic justice that you should have taken over this job; for do you know that the reason Pierre gave for his sudden flight in the direction of marriage was that you and Mr. Ellison looked so happy he got lonesome for a wife!"
"Good gracious!" gasped Marjorie before she remembered herself. . . .
"That is—I didn't know our happiness showed as far off as that."
She did not dare to look at Francis, whom she divined to be standing rigidly behind her. "And now could you show me the place where I have to cook, and the things to cook with?"