Phronsie, before a board laid across two chairs, was enlightening old
Mr. King who sat by her, into the mysteries of baking day.

"Do bake a gingerbread boy," he begged. "I never had anything half so
good as the one you sent over to Hingham."

"You were my poor sick man then," observed Phronsie, with slow, even
pats on her bit of dough. "Please, the rolling-pin now, Grandpapa dear."

"To be sure," cried the old gentleman; "here, Jappy, my boy, be so good
as to hand us over that article."

"And you see," continued Phronsie, receiving the rolling-pin, and making
the deftest of passes with it over the soft mass, "I couldn't send you
anything better, though I wanted to, Grandpapa dear."

"Better?" cried Mr. King. "I should think not; you couldn't have made me
anything that pleased me more, had you tried a thousand times."

Phronsie never tired of hearing this, and now humming a soft note of
thanks, proceeded with her task, declaring that she would make the best
gingerbread boy that could possibly be achieved.

Grandma Bascom was still reiterating "I never," and going slowly from
one group to another to inspect operations. When she came to Phronsie,
she stopped short, raising her hands in surprise. "Seems as ef 'twas
only yesterday when the Peppers went away, though land knows I've missed
'em all most dretfully, 'an there sets that blessed child baking, as big
as any of 'em. I never!"