Please let me."
She held him fast with her eyes, and waited for his answer.
"So you shall!" cried Mr. King in great satisfaction, "make mine all
alone. This one would better go as it is. Put away the flour and things,
Jefferson; Miss Phronsie doesn't want them."
Phronsie gave a relieved little sigh. "And, Jefferson, if you hadn't
showed me how, I couldn't ever in all this world make Grandpapa's. Now
give me the little plate, do."
"Here 'tis, Miss," said the cook, all his tremor over the blunder he had
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.
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