No answer; everything was just as still as a
mouse. "Joel and David!" called Polly again, in her loudest tones.

"Yes," came up the crooked stairs, in Davie's voice.

"Come up here, right away!" went back again from Polly. So up the stairs
trudged the two boys, and presented themselves rather sheepishly before
the big chair.

"What was that noise?" she asked; "what have you been doing?"

"Twasn't anything but the pail," answered Joel, not looking at her.

"We had something to eat," said Davie, by way of explanation; "you
always let us."

"I know," said Polly; "that's right, you can have as much bread as you
want to; but what you been doing with the pail?"

"Nothing," said Joel; "'twouldn't hangup, that's all."

"And you've been bumping it," said Polly; "oh! Joel, how could you! You
might have broken it; then what would mamsie say?"

"I didn't," said Joel, stoutly, with his hands in his pockets, "bump it
worse'n Davie, so there!"

"Why, Davie," said Polly, turning to him sorrowfully, "I shouldn't have
thought you would!"

"Well, I'm tired of hanging it up," said little Davie, vehemently; "and
I said I wasn't a-goin' to; Joel always makes me; I've done it for two
million times, I guess!"

"Oh, dear," said Polly, sinking back into the chair, "I don't know
what I ever shall do; here's Phronsie hurt; and we want to celebrate
to-morrow; and you two boys are bumping and banging out the bread pail,
and--"

"Oh! we won't!" cried both of the children, perfectly overwhelmed with
remorse; "we'll hang it right up."

"I'll hang it," said Davie, clattering off down the stairs with a will.

"No, I will!" shouted Joel, going after him at double pace; and
presently both came up with shining faces, and reported it nicely done.

"And now," said Polly, after they had all sat around the stove another
half-hour, watching and sniffing expectantly, "the cake's done!--dear
me! it's turning black!"

And quickly as possible Polly twitched it out with energy, and set it on
the table.

Oh, dear; of all things in the world! The beautiful cake over which so
many hopes had been formed, that was to have given so much happiness
on the morrow to the dear mother, presented a forlorn appearance as it
stood there in anything but holiday attire. It was quite black on the
top, in the center of which was a depressing little dump, as if to say,
"My feelings wouldn't allow me to rise to the occasion."

"Now," said Polly, turning away with