"Oh, it isn't that kind of flower," said La Fleur, laughing; "but it doesn't matter a bit,—it sounds the same. And now, Michael, you must warm this and eat it for your dinner. Have you a fire in your house?"
"I can make one in no time," said Mike. "Then you think I'd better not let the cook warm it for me?"
"You are quite right," said La Fleur. "I don't believe she's half as good a cook as you are, Michael, for I've heard that all colored people have a knack that way; and like as not she'd burn it to a crisp."
Wrapping up the pie and handing it to the delighted negro, La Fleur proceeded to business, for she felt she had no time to lose.
"And how are you getting on, Michael?" said she. "I suppose everybody is very busy preparing for the master's wedding."
"The what!" exclaimed Mike, his eyebrows elevating themselves to such a degree that his hat rose.
"Mr. Haverley's marriage with Miss Dora Bannister. Isn't that to take place very soon, Michael?"
Mike put his pie on the post of the barn gate, took off his hat, and wiped his brow with his shirt-sleeve.
"Bless my evarlastin' soul, Mrs. Flower! who on this earth told you that?"
"Is it then such a great secret? Miss Panney told it to me not twenty minutes ago."