“No,” said Tom, opening his pocket-knife and holding it over the puff, with his head on one side in a dubitative manner. (It was a difficult problem to divide that very irregular polygon into two equal parts.) “What do _I_ care about Lucy? She’s only a girl,—_she_ can’t play at bandy.” “Is it the tipsy-cake, then?” said Maggie, exerting her hypothetic powers, while she leaned forward toward Tom with her eyes fixed on the hovering knife. “No, you silly, that’ll be good the day after. It’s the pudden. I know what the pudden’s to be,—apricot roll-up—O my buttons!” With this interjection, the knife descended on the puff, and it was in two, but the result was not satisfactory to Tom, for he still eyed the halves doubtfully. At last he said,— “Shut your eyes, Maggie.” “What for?” “You never mind what for. Shut ’em when I tell you.” Maggie obeyed. “Now, which’ll you have, Maggie,—right hand or left?” “I’ll have that with the jam run out,” said Maggie, keeping her eyes shut to please Tom. “Why, you don’t like that, you silly. You may have it if it comes to you fair, but I sha’n’t give it you without. Right or left,—you choose, now. Ha-a-a!” said Tom, in a tone of exasperation, as Maggie peeped. “You keep your eyes shut, now, else you sha’n’t have any.” Maggie’s power of sacrifice did not extend so far; indeed, I fear she cared less that Tom should enjoy the utmost possible amount of puff, than that he should be pleased with her for giving him the best bit. So she shut her eyes quite close, till Tom told her to “say which,” and then she said, “Left hand.” “You’ve got it,” said Tom, in rather a bitter tone. “What! the bit with the jam run out?” “No; here, take it,” said Tom, firmly, handing, decidedly the best piece to Maggie. “Oh, please, Tom, have it; I don’t mind—I like the other; please take this.” “No, I sha’n’t,” said Tom, almost crossly, beginning on his own inferior piece. Maggie, thinking it was no use to contend further, began too, and ate up her half puff with considerable relish as well as rapidity. But Tom had finished first, and had to look on while Maggie ate her last morsel or two, feeling in himself a capacity for more. Maggie didn’t know Tom was looking at her; she was seesawing on the elder-bough, lost to almost everything but a vague sense of jam and idleness. “Oh, you greedy thing!” said Tom, when she had swallowed the last morsel. He was conscious of having acted very fairly, and thought she ought to have considered this, and made up to him for it. He would have refused a bit of hers beforehand, but one is naturally at a different point of view before and after one’s own share of puff is swallowed. Maggie turned quite pale. “Oh, Tom, why didn’t you ask me?” “_I_ wasn’t going to ask you for a bit, you greedy. You might have thought of it without, when you knew I gave you the best bit.” “But I wanted you to have it; you know I did,” said Maggie, in an injured tone.