"I'll let you wash the dishes," promised Miss Bridger generously. "But
I'll cook the supper--really, I want to, you know. I won't say I'm
not hungry, because I am. This Western air does give one _such_ an
appetite, doesn't it? And then I walked miles, it seems to me; so that
ought to be an excuse, oughtn't it? Now, if you'll show me where the
coffee is--"

She had risen and was looking at him expectantly, with a half smile
that seemed to invite one to comradeship. Charming Billy looked at her
helplessly, and turned a shade less brown.

"The--there isn't any," he stammered guiltily. "The Pilgrim--I mean
Walland--Fred Walland--"

"It doesn't matter in the least," Miss Bridger assured him hastily.
"One can't keep everything in the house all the time, so far from any
town. We're often out of things, at home. Last week, only, I upset the
vanilla bottle, and then we were completely out of vanilla till just
yesterday." She smiled again confidingly, and Billy tried to seem very
sympathetic--though of a truth, to be out of vanilla did not at that
moment seem to him a serious catastrophe. "And really, I like tea
better, you know. I only said coffee because father told me cowboys
drink it a great deal. Tea is so much quicker and easier to make."

Billy dug his nails into his palms. "There--Miss Bridger," he blurted
desperately, "I've got to tell yuh--there isn't a thing in the shack
except some dried apricots--and maybe a spoonful or two of tapioca.
The Pilgrim--" He stopped to search his brain for words applicable to
the Pilgrim and still mild enough for the ears of a lady.