“Oh, no, Phronsie, you can't,” began Polly. “Hey?” asked Joel, with a daub of flour on the tip of his chubby nose, gained by too much peering into Polly's flour-bag. “What did she say, Polly?” watching her shake the clouds of flour in the sieve. “She said she was goin' to bake something for Jasper,” said Polly. “There,” as she whisked in the flour, “now that's done.” “No, I didn't say Jasper,” said Phronsie; “I didn't say Jasper,” she repeated, emphatically. “Why, what did you say, Pet?” asked Polly, astonished, while little Davie repeated, “What did you say, Phronsie?” “I said my sick man,” said Phronsie, shaking her yellow head; “poor sick man.” “Who does she mean?” said Polly in despair, stopping a moment her violent stirring that threatened to overturn the whole cake-bowl. “I guess she means Prince,” said Joel. “Can't I stir, Polly?” “Oh, no,” said Polly; “only one person must stir cake.” “Why?” asked Joel; “why, Polly?” “Oh, I don't know,” said Polly, “cause 'tis so; never mind now, Joel. Do you mean Prince, Phronsie?” “No, I don't mean Princey,” said the child decisively; “I mean my sick man.” “It's Jasper's father, I guess she means,” said Mrs. Pepper over in the corner; “but what in the world!” “Yes, yes,” cried Phronsie, perfectly delighted at being at last understood, and hopping on one toe; “my sick man.” “I shall give up!” said Polly, tumbling over in a chair, with the cake spoon in her hand, from which a small sticky lump fell on her apron, which Joel immediately pounced upon and devoured. “What do you want to bake, Phronsie?” she gasped, holding the spoon sticking up straight, and staring at the child. “A gingerbread boy,” said the child, promptly; “he'd like that best; poor, sick man!” and she commenced to climb up to active preparations. A LETTER TO JASPER “Mamsie, what shall we do?” implored Polly of her mother. “I don't know,” said her mother; “however did that get into her head, do you suppose?” “I am sure I can't tell,” said Polly, jumping up and beginning to stir briskly to make up for lost time. “P'r'aps she heard us talking about Jasper's having to take care of his sick father, and how hard it must be to be sick away from home.” “Yes,” said Phronsie, “but he'll be glad to see my gingerbread boy, I guess; poor, sick man.” “Oh, Phronsie,” cried Polly, in great distress, “you aren't ever going to make a 'gingerbread boy' to-day! see, we'll put in a cunning little cake for Mr. King--full of raisins, Phronsie; won't that be lovely!” and Polly began to fill a little scalloped tin with some of the cake mixture. “N-no,” said the child, eying it suspiciously; “that isn't like a 'gingerbread boy,' Polly; he'll like that best.” “Mamsie,” said Polly, “we can't let her make a dreadful, horrid 'gingerbread boy' to send Mr. King! he never'll let Jasper come here again.”