Off trotted Polly with her heavy basket once again across the fields. It was a glorious September day, and the soft air fanned her cheeks and raised her already excited spirits. She felt more cheerful than she had done since her mother died, and many brilliant visions of hope filled her ambitious little head. Yes, father would see that he was right in trusting her; Nell would discover that there was no one so clever as Polly; Mrs. Power would cease to defy her; Alice would obey her cheerfully; in short, she would be the mainstay and prop of her family. On her way through the kitchen-garden Polly picked up a number of fallen apples, and then she went quickly into the house, to be met on the threshold by Firefly. "Oh, Poll Parrot, may I come down with you to the kitchen? I'd love to see you getting the dinner ready, and I could help, indeed I could. The others are all so cross; that is, all except Nell. Katie _is_ in a temper, and so are Dolly and Mabel; but I stood up for you, Poll Parrot, for I said you didn't mean to give us the very nastiest breakfast in the world. I said it was just because you weren't experienced enough to know any better--that's what I said, Poll." "Well, you made a great mistake then," said Polly. "Not experienced, indeed! as if I didn't know what a good breakfast was like. I had a misfortune; a dark deed was done, and I was the victim, but I scorn to complain, I let you all think as you like. No, you can't come to the kitchen with me, Firefly; it isn't a fit place for children. Run away now, _do_." Poor Fly's small face grew longing and pathetic, but Polly was obdurate. "I can't have children about," she said to herself, and soon she was busy peeling her apples and preparing her crust for the pie. She succeeded fairly well, although the water with which she mixed her dough would run all over the board, and her nice fresh butter stuck in the most provoking way to the rolling-pin. Still, the pie was made, after a fashion, and Polly felt very happy, as she amused herself cutting out little ornamental leaves from what remained of her pastry to decorate it. It was a good-sized tart, and when she had crowned it with a wreath of laurel leaves she thought she had never seen anything so handsome and appetizing. Alas, however, for poor Polly, the making of this pie was her one and only triumph. The morning had gone very fast, while she was walking to the village securing her purchases, and coming home again. She was startled when she looked at the kitchen clock to find that it pointed to a quarter past twelve. At the same time she discovered that the kitchen fire was nearly out, and that the oven was cold. Father always liked the early dinner to be on the table sharp at one o'clock; it would never, never do for Polly's first dinner to be late. She must not wait any longer for that naughty Maggie; she must put coals on the fire herself, and wash the potatoes, and set them on to boil.