made, disappearing, since, after all, things were quite satisfactory.
And the little plate forthcoming, Phronsie tucked away the paste
lovingly in its depths, and began the important work of concocting the
mixture with which the pie was to be filled, Mr. King sitting by with
the gravity of a statue, even to the deliberate placing of each plum.

"Where's Phronsie?" called a voice above in one of the upper halls.

"Oh! she's coming, Polly is!" cried Phronsie, deserting a plum thrust in
endwise in the middle of the pie, to throw her little sticky fingers
around Jefferson's neck; "oh! do take off my apron; and let me go.
She'll see my pie!"

"Stop!" cried Mr. King, getting up somewhat stiffly to his feet, "I'll
take off the apron myself. There, Phronsie, there you are. Whew! how hot
you keep your kitchen, Jefferson," and he wiped his face.

"Now we'll run," said Phronsie softly, "and not make a bit of noise,
Grandpapa dear, and, Jefferson, please put on my top to the pie, and
don't let it burn, and I'll come down very, very soon again, and bake
one all alone by myself for Grandpapa."

The old gentleman kept up very well with the soft patter of her feet
till they reached the foot of the staircase. "There, there, child," he
said, "there's not the least need of hurry now."

"But she will come down," said Phronsie, in gentle haste pulling at his
hand, "then if she should see it, Grandpapa!"

"To be sure; that would indeed be dreadful," said Mr. King, getting over