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 fi