of a pie, made of meat, out of the bag what she’d brought along to eat on the way home, not feelin’ hungry at lunch time, an’ give it to me.  An’ not wantin’ to hurt her feelin’s, I jes’ took it, an’ when I went to my house I het it an’ eat it, an’ bless your soul, Miss Miriam, it did taste good; for that there woman in the kitchen don’t give me half enough to eat, an’ never no corn-bread an’ ham fat, which is mighty cheap, Miss Miriam, an’ a long sight better for a workin’ pusson than crusts of wheat bread a week old an’—­”

“You don’t mean to say,” interrupted Miriam, “that Molly does not give you enough to eat?  I’ll speak to her about that.  She ought to be ashamed of herself.”

“Now look here, Miss Miriam,” said Mike, speaking more earnestly, “don’t you go an’ do that.  If you tell her that, she’ll go an’ make me the biggest corn-pone anybody ever seed, an’ she’ll put pizen into it.  Oh, it’d never do to say anythin’ like that to Molly Tooney, if she’s got me to feed.  Jes’ let me tell you, Miss Miriam, don’t you say nothin’ to Molly Tooney ’bout me.  I never could sleep at night if I thought she was stirrin’ up pizen in my vittles.  But I tell you, Miss Miriam, if you was to say Molly, that you an’ Mr. Haverley liked corn-cakes an’ was always used to ’em before you come here, an’ that they ’greed with you, then in course she’d make ’em, an’ there’d be a lot left over for me, for I don’t ‘spect you all could eat the corn-bread she’d make, but I’d eat it, bein’ so powerful hungry for corn-meal.”

“Mike,” said Miriam, “you shall have corn-bread, but that is all nonsense about Molly.  I do not see how you could get such a notion into your head.”

Mike gave himself a shrug.

“Now look a here, Miss Miriam,” he said; “I’ve heard before of red-headed cooks, an’ colored pussons as wasn’t satisfied with their victuals, an’ nobody knows what they died of, an’ the funerals was mighty slim, an’ no ‘count, the friends an’ congregation thinkin’ there might be somethin’ ’tagious.  Them red-headed kind of cooks is mighty dangerous, Miss Miriam, an’ lemme tell you, the sooner you git rid of them, the better.”

Miriam’s previous experiences had brought her very little into contact with negroes, and although she did not care very much about what Mike was saying, it interested her to hear him talk.  His intonations and manner of expressing himself pleased her fancy.  She could imagine herself in the sunny South, talking to an old family servant.  This fancy was novel and pleasant.  Mike liked to talk, and was shrewd enough to see that Miriam liked to listen to him.  He determined to take advantage of this opportunity to find out something in regard to the doleful news brought to him by La Fleur and which, he feared, might be founded upon fact.