Jefferson, said Phronsie, with a grave uplifting of her eyebrows, "I think I will go down into the kitchen and bake a pie; a very little pie, Jefferson." "Bless you, Miss," replied the cook, showing his white teeth in glee, "it is the making of the kitchen when you come it." "Yes, Jefferson," said Phronsie slowly, "I think I will go down make one. It must be very, very full of plums, you know," looking up at him anxiously, "for Polly dearly loves plums." "It shall be that plummy," said Jefferson convincingly, "that you'd think you never saw such a one for richness. Oh, my! what a pie that shall be!" exclaimed the cook, shutting up one eye to look through the other in a spasm of delight at an imaginary pie; "so it's for Miss Mary, is it?" "Yes," said Phronsie, "it is. Oh, Jefferson, I'm so glad you like to have me make one," she clasped her hands in silent rapture, and sat down on the lowest stair to think it over a bit, Jefferson looking at her, forgetful that the under cook was fuming in the deserted domains over his delay to return.