itself through the crevice, and a long red tongue lap approvingly
over the sugar-coated crust.

Missy gasped audibly. Mother followed her eyes, turned, saw, jumped
up--but it was too late. Mrs. Merriam viciously struck at Gypsy's
muzzle and pushed the encroaching head back through the aperture.

"Get away from here!" she cried angrily. "You little beast!"

"I think the pony shows remarkably good taste," commented Rev.
MacGill, trying to pass the calamity off as a joke. But his hostess
wasn't capable of an answering smile; she gazed despairingly,
tragically, at the desecrated confection.

"I took such pains with it," she almost wailed. "It was a deep-dish
peach pie--I made it specially for Mr. MacGill."

"Well, I'm not particularly fond of peach pie, anyway," said the
minister, meaning to be soothing.

"Oh, but I know you ARE! Mrs. Allen said that at her house you took
two helpings-that you said it was your favourite dessert."

The minister coughed a little cough--he was caught in a somewhat
delicate situation; then, always tactful, replied: "Perhaps I did
say that--her peach pie was very good. But I'm equally fond of all
sweets--I have a sweet tooth."

At this point Missy gathered her courage to quaver a suggestion.
"Couldn't you just take off the top crust, mother? Gypsy didn't