It came out haltingly, the boyish expression of sympathy and
understanding. And the sympathy combined with a hitherto unmet
masterfulness conquered Judy. For a moment she stood very still, then
she turned to him an illumined face.

"You may call me--Judy," she said shyly, then slipped past him and ran
to the fire.

When he reached her, she was bending over the pan.

"How nice they look," she said, as Launcelot turned the fish, and they
lay all crisp and brown in an appetizing row.

"You shall do the next," said Launcelot, smiling a little as he glanced
at her absorbed face.

So while he made the coffee, Judy fried more bacon, and they slipped
six fish into the big pan.

"Mine don't seem to brown as yours did," she told him, anxiously.

"Perhaps the fat wasn't hot enough," was Launcelot's suggestion. "It
has to be smoking."

"Oh, dear," sighed Judy, "mine are going to look light brown instead of
lovely and golden like yours."

"Put on some more wood." Launcelot's tone was abstracted. He was
measuring the coffee, and it took all of his attention.