“It shall,” said Jefferson stoutly, and seizing the rolling-pin with extreme determination.  “You want a bit more butter worked in, here,” a dab with skillful fingers, and a little manipulation with the flour, a roll now and then most deftly, and the paste was laid out before Phronsie.  “Now, Miss, you can put it in the dish.”

“But is isn’t my pie,” said Phronsie, and, big girl as she felt herself to be, she sat back in her chair, her lower lip quivering.

“Not your pie?” repeated the cook, bringing himself up straight to gaze at her.

“No,” said Phronsie, shaking her yellow head gravely, “it isn’t my pie now, Jefferson.  You put in the things, and rolled it.”

“Leave your fingers off from it, can’t you?” cried Mr. King sharply.  “Goodness! this pie isn’t to have a professional touch about it.  Get some more flour and stuff, whatever it is you make a pie of, and let her begin again.  There, I’ll sit down and watch you; then there’ll be some chance of having things straight.”  So he drew up a chair to the side of the table, first calling off Pete, the scullery boy, from his knives to come and wipe it off for him, and Mrs. Tucker who was in kitchen dialect “Tucker,” to see that the boy did his work well.

“Lor’ bless you, sir,” said Tucker, bestowing a final polish with her apron, “’twas like satin before, sir—­not a wisp of dust.”

“I don’t want any observations from you,” said the old gentleman, depositing himself in the chair.  “There, you can go back to your work, Mrs. Tucker, and you too, Pete.  Now I’ll see that this pie is to your liking, Phronsie.”

But Phronsie still sat back in her chair, thoughtfully surveying Jefferson.

“Grandpapa,” she said at last slowly, “I think I’d rather have the first pie, I really would, Grandpapa, may I?” She brought her yellow head forward by a sudden movement, and looked deep into his keen eyes.

“Bless my soul!  Rather have the first pie?” repeated the old gentleman in astonishment, “why, I thought you wanted to make one all yourself.”

“I think I’d rather do part of it,” said Phronsie with great deliberateness, “then Polly’ll like it, and eat it, and I’ll do yours, Grandpapa dear, just as Jefferson fixed mine, all alone.  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.