“Have done, you naughty boy; you’ll make me upset the pan.”
“That would be a pity, mother; for it smells delightfully. Let’s see what it is.”
“Wait half a moment.”
“I’ll swear, now, you have some of the fried potatoes and bacon I’m so fond of.”
“Being Saturday, of course!” said Frances, in a tone of mild reproach.
“True,” rejoined Agricola, exchanging a smile of innocent cunning with Mother Bunch; “but, talking of Saturday, mother, here are my wages.”
“Thank ye, child; put the money in the cupboard.”
“Yes, mother!”
“Oh, dear!” cried the young sempstress, just as Agricola was about to put away the money, “what a handsome flower you have in your hand, Agricola. I never saw a finer. In winter, too! Do look at it, Mrs. Baudoin.”
“See there, mother,” said Agricola, taking the flower to her; “look at it, admire it, and especially smell it. You can’t have a sweeter perfume; a blending of vanilla and orange blossom.”