"Clear out," said Jefferson angrily, his face turned quite from
Phronsie.

But she caught the tone and immediately laid down the bit of dough she
was moulding.

"Do go," she begged, "and come back quickly," smiling up into his face.
"See, I'm going to pat and pat and pat, oh! ever so much before you come
back."

So Jefferson followed the under cook, the scullery boy went back to
cleaning the knives, Susan, the parlor maid who was going through the
kitchen with her dustpan and broom, hurried off with a backward glance
or two, and Phronsie was left quite alone to hum her way along in her
blissful culinary attempt.

"Bless me!" exclaimed a voice close to her small ear, as she was
attempting for the fifth time to roll out the paste quite as thin as she
had seen Jefferson do, "what is this? Bless my soul! it's Phronsie!"

Phronsie set down the heavy rolling-pin and turned in her chair with a
gleeful laugh.

"Dear, dear Grandpapa!" she cried, clasping her floury hands, "oh! I'm
so glad you've come to see me make a pie all by myself. It's for Polly,
and it's to be full of plums; Jefferson let me make it."

"Jefferson? And where is he, pray?" cried Mr. King irately. "Pretty
fellow, to bring you down to these apartments, and then go off and
forget you. Jefferson!" he called sharply, "here, where are you?"