"But I love you better because you are black, Jefferson," insisted
Phronsie, "a great deal better. You are not like everybody else, but you
are just yourself," clinging to his hand.

"Well, Miss, I ain't just fit for a lily to touch and that's the truth,"
looking down at his palm that the small white hand grasped closely.
"It's clean, Miss," he added with pardonable pride, "but it's awful
black."

"I like it better black, Jefferson," said Phronsie again, "really and
truly I do, because then it's your very, very own," in a tone that
thrilled him much as if a queen had knighted him on the spot.

This important declaration over, the two set forth on their way toward
the kitchen, Phronsie clinging to his hand, and chatting merrily over
the particular pie in prospect, with varied remarks on pies in general,
that by and by would be ventured upon if this present one were a
success--and very soon tied up in one of the cook's whitest aprons she
was seated with due solemnity at the end of the baking table, the proper
utensils and materials in delightful confusion before her, and the lower
order of kitchen satellites revolving around her, and Jefferson the
lesser sphere.

"Now all go back to your work," said that functionary when he considered
the staring and muttered admiration had been indulged in long enough,
"and leave us."

"I want you," said his assistant, touching his elbow.