“And you see,” continued Phronsie, receiving the rolling-pin, and making the deftest of passes with it over the soft mass, “I couldn’t send you anything better, though I wanted to, Grandpapa dear.”

“Better?” cried Mr. King.  “I should think not; you couldn’t have made me anything that pleased me more, had you tried a thousand times.”

Phronsie never tired of hearing this, and now humming a soft note of thanks, proceeded with her task, declaring that she would make the best gingerbread boy that could possibly be achieved.

Grandma Bascom was still reiterating “I never,” and going slowly from one group to another to inspect operations.  When she came to Phronsie, she stopped short, raising her hands in surprise.  “Seems as ef ’twas only yesterday when the Peppers went away, though land knows I’ve missed ’em all most dretfully, ’an there sets that blessed child baking, as big as any of ’em.  I never!”

“Have you any more raisins to give us, Grandma?” shouted Joel across the kitchen.  “They were terribly hard,” he added in his natural voice; “almost broke our teeth.”

“Hey?” called Grandma back again.

“Raisins, Grandma, or peppermints,” cried Joel.

“Oh, Joe, for shame!” called Ben.

“I’m going to have the fun of going after them,” declared Joel, throwing down his dough-pat, and wiping his sticky fingers on his apron; “just like old times—­so there!”

“I’ll go over and get ’em,” said Grandma; “you come along with me,” looking admiringly up at the tall boy; so the two, Joel laughing and hopping by her side as if he were five years younger, disappeared, well-pleased with each other.

“Now I shall take his dough,” declared Dick, rushing around the end of the table to Joel’s deserted place.

“No such thing,” declared Van, flying out of his chair.  “Leave your hands off, youngster! that’s to be mine.”

Polly looked up from the little cookies she was cutting with the top of a tin baking powder box and their eyes met.

“I didn’t promise not to have it out with Dicky,” said Van stoutly.  “He’s a perfect plague, and always under foot.  I never thought of such a thing as not making him stand around, Polly.”

But the brown eyes did not return to their task, as Polly mechanically stamped another cooky.

“I only promised not to have a bout with Percy,” Van proceeded uncomfortably.  And in the same breath, “Go ahead, If you want it, Dicky, I don’t care.”

“I do want it,” declared Dick, clambering into Van’s chair, while Van returned to his own, “and I’m going to have it too.  I guess you think you’d better give it up now, sir; I’m getting so big.”

“Softly there, Dicky,” said Mrs. Whitney, over in the window-seat with her fancy work; “if Van gives up, you should thank him; I think he is very good to do it.”  And the bigger boy’s heart warmed with the radiant smile she sent him.