a transport, "and bake one for my dear Grandpapa. That is, if this one
is good. Oh! you do suppose it will be good, don't you?" appealingly at
him.

"It shall," said Jefferson stoutly, and seizing the rolling-pin with
extreme determination. "You want a bit more butter worked in, here," a
dab with skillful fingers, and a little manipulation with the flour, a
roll now and then most deftly, and the paste was laid out before
Phronsie. "Now, Miss, you can put it in the dish."

"But is isn't my pie," said Phronsie, and, big girl as she felt herself
to be, she sat back in her chair, her lower lip quivering.

"Not your pie?" repeated the cook, bringing himself up straight to gaze
at her.

"No," said Phronsie, shaking her yellow head gravely, "it isn't my pie
now, Jefferson. You put in the things, and rolled it."

"Leave your fingers off from it, can't you?" cried Mr. King sharply.
"Goodness! this pie isn't to have a professional touch about it. Get
some more flour and stuff, whatever it is you make a pie of, and let her
begin again. There, I'll sit down and watch you; then there'll be some
chance of having things straight." So he drew up a chair to the side of
the table, first calling off Pete, the scullery boy, from his knives to
come and wipe it off for him, and Mrs. Tucker who was in kitchen dialect
"Tucker," to see that the boy did his work well.

"Lor' bless you, sir," said Tucker, bestowing a final polish with her
apron, "'twas like satin before, sir--not a wisp of dust."