“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.  There, Phronsie, there you are.  Whew! how hot you keep your kitchen, Jefferson,” and he wiped his face.

“Now we’ll run,” said Phronsie softly, “and not make a bit of noise, Grandpapa dear, and, Jefferson, please put on my top to the pie, and don’t let it burn, and I’ll come down very, very soon again, and bake one all alone by myself for Grandpapa.”

The old gentleman kept up very well with the soft patter of her feet till they reached the foot of the staircase.  “There, there, child,” he said, “there’s not the least need of hurry now.”

“But she will come down,” said Phronsie, in gentle haste pulling at his hand, “then if she should see it, Grandpapa!”

“To be sure; that would indeed be dreadful,” said Mr. King, getting over the stairs very creditably.  “There, here we are now.  Whew! it’s terribly warm in this house!”

But there was no danger from Polly; she was at this very instant, not being able to find Phronsie, hurrying off toward the library in search of Mrs. Whitney.

“We want to do the very loveliest thing!” she cried, rushing in, her cheeks aflame.  “Oh! pray excuse me.”  She stopped short, blushing scarlet.

“Don’t feel badly, Polly dear,” said Mrs. Whitney, over in the dim light, where the divan was drawn up in the east window, and she held out her hand and smiled; the other lady whose tete-a-tete was thus summarily disturbed was elderly and very tall and angular.  She put up her eyeglass at the intrusion and murmured “Ah?”

“This is Polly Pepper,” said Mrs. Whitney, as Polly, feeling unusually awkward and shy, stumbled across the library to get within the kind arms awaiting her.

“One of the children that your kindness received in this house?” said the tall lady, making good use of the eyeglass.  The color mounted steadily on Polly’s already rosy cheek, at the scrutiny now going on with the greatest freedom.

“One of the dear children who make this house a sunny place for us all.” said Mrs. Whitney distinctly.

“Ah?  I see.  You are extremely good to put it in that way.”  A low, well-bred laugh followed this speech.  Its sound irritated the young girl’s ear unspeakably, and the brown eyes flashed, and though there was really no occasion to feel what was not addressed to her, Polly was quite sure she utterly disliked the lady before her.

“My dear Mrs. Chatterton,” said Mrs. Whitney in the gentlest of accents, “you do not comprehend; it is not possible for you to understand how very happy we all are here.  The house is quite another place, I assure you, from the abode you saw last before you went abroad.”