"This," she said, opening the wrapping, "is a pie--a veal and 'am pie--such as you would not be likely to find in this country, unless you got me to make it for you. I baked it early this morning, intending to come here, and being sure you would like it; and you needn't have any scruples about taking it. I bought everything in it with my own money. I always do that when I cook little dishes for people I like." The pie had been brought as a present for Mrs. Drane, but, feeling that it was highly necessary to propitiate the only person on the place who might be of use to her, La Fleur decided to give the pie to Mike. The face of the colored man beamed with pleasure. "Veal and ham. Them two things ought to go together fust rate, though I've never eat 'em in that way. An' in a pie, too; that looks mighty good. An' how do ye eat it, Mrs.--'scuse me, ma'am, but I never can rightly git hold of yer name." "No wonder, no wonder," said the other; "it is a French name. My second husband was a Frenchman. A great cook, Michael,--a Frenchman. But the English of the name is flower, and you can call me Mrs. Flower. You can surely remember that, Michael." Mike grinned widely. "Oh, yes indeed, ma'am," said he; "no trouble 'bout that, 'specially when I think what pie crust is made of, an' that you's a cook." "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." Mike put on his hat; he took his pie from the post, and held it, first in one hand and then in the other. He seemed unable to express what he thought. "Look a here, Mrs. Flower," he said presently, "she told you that, did she?" "She really did," was the answer.