"Yes, of course it was news to her. I, myself, only knew it last night, and I wouldn't tell her; she would have betrayed herself in her joy. So when the market people stayed so long--and I did all I could to make them stay"--here her small bead eyes were pinched tight in merriment--"I said there was nothing for your dinner and we must have a fish and that Mignon might better go for it. Watch her when she returns: her face will tell you whether she has seen him or not. Now give me the box, monsieur, and thank you for helping me. Listen! There she comes; I hear her singing." And so did the whole court-yard, and she kept on singing, her basket on her arm, her face in full sunlight, until she espied Leà. Then down went the fish and away she flew, throwing her arms around the dear old woman's neck, not caring who saw her; hugging her one minute, kissing her seamed cheeks the next, chattering like a magpie all the time, her eyes flashing, her cheeks red as two roses. Only when Lemois appeared in the kitchen door and bent his steps toward us did her customary demureness return, and even then the joy in her heart was only stifled for the moment by a fear of his having overheard her song and of his wondering at the cause. And if the truth be told, he did come very near finding out when luncheon was served, and would have done so but for the fact that I upset Le Blanc's glass of Vouvray and followed up the warning with a punch below his fat waist-line when he began telling us how sorry he was for being late, he having made a wide détour to avoid the market carts, winding up with: "And oh, by the way, I met your little maid, Mignon, in the fish-market; she was having a beautiful time with a young fisherman who----" It was here the dig came in. "Ouch! What the devil, High-Muck, do you mean? Oh, I understand--yes, as I was saying"--here he stole a glance at Lemois--"I met Mignon in the market; she was buying a beautiful fish. I hope, Monsieur Lemois, we are to have it for dinner. Don't bother, Leà, about the spilt wine; just get me a fresh glass. And, Louis, do you mind letting go that crusting of cobwebs so I can get another taste of that nosegay?" and thus the day was saved. We broke loose, however, when Lemois was gone, and I told the whole story as Leà had given it, Louis, in his customary rôle of toast-master, rising in his seat and pledging the young couple, whose health and happiness we all drank, Brierley whistling the Wedding March to the accompaniment of a great clatter of knives and forks on the plates.