"Tain't a mite o' use," at last said the old lady, sinking down in
despair, while Polly perched on the top of the chair and looked at
her; "I must a-give it away."

"Can't I have the next best one, then?" asked Polly, despairingly,
feeling sure that "Mirandy's wedding cake" would have celebrated
the day just right; "and I must hurry right home, please," she
added, getting down from the chair, and tying on her hood; "or
Phronsie won't know what to do."

So another "receet" was looked over, and selected; and with many
charges, and bits of advice not to let the oven get too hot, etc., etc.,
Polly took the precious bit in her hand, and flew over home.

"Now, we've got to--" she began, bounding in merrily, with
dancing eyes; but her delight had a sudden stop, as she brought up
so suddenly at the sight within, that she couldn't utter another
word. Phronsie was crouching, a miserable little heap of woe, in
one corner of the mother's big calico-covered rocking-chair, and
crying bitterly, while Joel hung over her in the utmost concern.

"What's the matter?" gasped Polly. Flinging the "receet" on the
table, she rushed up to the old chair and was down on her knees
before it, her arms around the little figure. Phronsie turned, and
threw herself into Polly's protecting arms, who gathered her up,
and sitting down in the depths of the chair, comforted her as only
she could.

"What is it?" she asked of Joel, who was nervously begging