The rest of that day went off beautifully, and Billie was beginning to feel very confident when suddenly Debbie threw a suggestion bomb-like in the midst of her contentment.

“I hate to bother you, miss,” said the black cook, approaching her mistress the next morning—­Billie, by the way, was busily dusting the living-room with a very becoming dust cap perched on top of her pretty hair, “but this is mah day out.”

“Your—­day—­out!” gasped Billie, sitting down hard on the chair she had been dusting and regarding Debbie’s black face with dismay.  “You never can mean that you are going to desert me, Debbie?  Leave me to do all the cooking and—­and—­everything—­” The awful vision was too much for her and her voice died down to a whisper.

“I’m tur’ble sorry, Miss Billie,” said Debbie, gently but very, very firmly, “but mah young man and me we has a mos’ awful impo’tant in-gagement fo’ dis aft’noon, an’ I couldn’t break it—­no’m, much as I want to.”  She added that last in the evident hope of appeasing her young mistress, who was still regarding her with horrified eyes.

“But, Debbie,” gasped Billie when she could find her voice, “I don’t know a thing in the world about cooking.  Have you—­have you—­ordered anything?”

“Yas, indeed,” Debbie assured her, going on to explain that the meal was virtually prepared anyway.  “I done made a salad for you and Chet, an’ the butter beans am in de pan.  Dere is some stew too, which all you has to do is to warm up, Miss Billie.  An’ I done make a big peach pie, an’ dere’s some whipped cream in de ’frig’rater.  So I reckons you-all won’t starve to death,” she added, with a broad smile that showed all her strong white teeth back to the last molar.

As for Billie, she could have hugged the mountainous black figure in the relief she felt.  Why, with the dinner all prepared like this it would be just a lark to put it on the table—­for just her and Chet alone.

“Debbie, you’re a darling and I love you!” she cried, joyfully.  “But you know you really shouldn’t have scared me so—­it wasn’t fair.”

For answer Debbie grinned again and began to get her bulky figure up the stairs, preparatory to dressing for the “in-gagement” with her “young man.”

Billie watched her go, and then with a little chuckle resumed her dusting.

“I’d like to see Debbie’s young man,” she mused, a smile twisting the corners of her mouth.  “He ought to be a giant.  Anyway, I feel sorry for him if he isn’t.  Dear funny old Debbie—­won’t Chet and I have a picnic to-night?”

And as she had predicted, they did have the time of their lives.  Chet refused to sit in the dining-room in lonely state, and in masterly fashion invaded the kitchen.

“Say, that smells good, Billie, old girl,” and he sniffed hungrily at the stew.  “Give me an apron and I’ll help.”

“Oh, look who wants to help,” cried Billie, finding an apron nevertheless and tying it around his waist so that he looked like a butcher’s assistant.  “You will probably only get under my feet and bother me to death, but I suppose I’ll have to humor you.  There, if you must do something, set the table.”