It looks good,” said he.

It is good,” she declared. “Whenever you see coflee take that terra cotta colour, you may just say to yourself, It is good.’ 1t is the egg gives it the colour. Now this coffee is fit for a king; the term cotta-

The Silverstray made a dash for a rabbit, skulk- ing under a brush heap above the bank, just at the moment the coffee-maker lifted the pot above the fisherman’s tin cup.

There was a flash of his silver sides, a hasty retreat on the part of the rabbit, followed by a general stam- pede that sent the coffee-pot one way, the mistress another, and the rich, reddish liquid in a stream down the bank, as precise and particular as though it had been suddenly elected tributary to the Elk, and had fully determined upon accomplishing its destiny.

The small cook stood aghast,— there are moments in life when words are words. This was one of those moments. g

The fisherman didn’t laugh; he was one of those rare souls who know when to laugh. All he did was to follow with his eye the reddish liquid on its route to the river, and to say, quite soberly:


“Yes,” snapped the girl, “terra got it all; there isn’t another dust in the box. I’ve half a mind to jump in the river.”

Better not,” laughed the fisherman; “you ean’t swim.”