"I'm sorry," began poor Polly.

"'Tain't any matter," said Mrs. Bascom kindly, catching sight of
Polly's discomfited face; "tain't a mite of matter; you'll sweep
better next time; now let's go to the cake;" and putting the broom
into the corner, she waddled back again to the table, followed by
Polly, and proceeded to turn out the contents of the teapot, in
search of just the right "receet."

But the right one didn't seem to appear; not even after the teapot
was turned upside down and shaken by both grandma's and Polly's
anxious hands. Every other "receet" seemed to tumble out gladly,
and stare them in the face--little dingy rolls of yellow paper, with
an ancient odor of spice still clinging to them; but all efforts to
find this particular one failed utterly.

"Won't some other one do?" asked Polly, in the interval of fruitless
searching, when grandma bewailed and lamented, and wondered,
"where I could a put it!"

"No, no, child," answered the old lady; "now, where do you s'pose
'tis!" and she clapped both hands to her head, to see if she could
possibly remember; "no, no, child," she repeated. "Why, thcy had it
down to my niece Mirandy's weddin'--'twas just elegant! light as a
feather; and 'twan't rich either," she added; "no eggs, nor"-- "Oh, I
couldn't have eggs;" cried Polly, in amazement at the thought of
such luxury; "and we've only brown flour, grandma, you know."

"Well, you can make it of brown," said Mrs. Bascom, kindly;
"when the raisins is in 'twill look quite nice."