“Dimple, if you could look in the bag an’ bring me my armoire key – you know it – the brass one. Do not let on as though I would want that key in partic’lar.”
“De bag hangin’ on her arm. She got de string twis’ roun’ her wris’,” reported Dimple presently. Madame Félicie inwardly fumed with impotent rage.
“W’at is she doing, Dimple?” she asked uneasily.
“She got de cubbud do’s fling wide open. She standin’ on a cha’r lookin’ in de corners an’ behin’ eve’ything.”
“Dimple!” called out Bosey from the far room. And away flew Dimple, who had not been so pleasingly agitated since the previous Christmas.
After a little while, of her own accord she stole noiselessly back into the room where Madame Félicie sat in speechless wrath beside the table of books. She closed the door behind her, rolled her eyes, and spoke in a hoarse whisper:
“She done fling ‘way de barrel o’ meal; ‘low it all fill up wid weevils.”
“Weevil’!” cried out her mistress.
“Yas’um, weevils; ‘low it plumb sp’ilt. ‘Low it on’y fitten fo’ de chickens an’ hogs; ‘tain’t fitten fo’ folks. She done make Dan’el roll it out on de gal’ry.”
“Weevil’!” reiterated Madame Félicie, tremulous with suppressed excitement. “Bring me some of that meal in a saucer, Dimple. Don’t let on anything.”
She and Dimple bent over the cup of meal which the girl brought concealed under her skirt.
“Do you see any weevil’, you, Dimple?”
“No’um.” Dimple smelled it, and Madame felt the sample of meal
