“Well, little lass, our God, who made the pretty flower, and caused the bees to make the sweet honeycomb, is a God of order, and He loves order. He does not wish my little Phœbe to be the untidy little maid she is.”
Phœbe lay quiet for a few minutes, thinking to herself how kindly Uncle Roger always spoke to her, and how much easier it was to “feel good” with him than with Mrs. Nott or Margaret Prettyman. “But what did Mrs. Nott mean by ‘apple-pie order,’ uncle?” she said after a little, looking up in her uncle’s face.
Uncle Roger smiled and smoothed her hair, not saying anything for a moment or two; then, instead of answering her question, he asked, “When is your birthday, Phœbe?”
“The twenty-sixth of next month,” she replied quickly, and wondering very much.
“Do you remember,” continued Uncle Roger, “the custard feast I gave you last birthday? I’ve been asking your mother here to bring you over this year too to Lady’s Mead, and I’ll give you another feast, and father, and mother, and Bob, and little Charlie; and we’ll have Uncle and Aunt Leyton, and little Mary-Anne to keep you company; and then, Niece Phœbe, I’m thinking of showing you by that time what apple-pie order is. Don’t you know how good Uncle Roger’s apple-pies are?”
“O uncle!” cried Phœbe, clasping him closely round the neck; “how good you are to me, Uncle Roger—custards and apple-pies, and Cousin Mary-Anne!”
“Fair and softly,” said her uncle, loosening her hold. “You haven’t heard it all yet, Phœbe. It is nearly a month till that, you know. Well, you must promise me that every day of that month you will please your mother by keeping your drawer, or whatever it is, as tidy as a nut; and I must have from Mrs. Nott a good account of your order and neatness. Mind, every day; no books lost, no pencils falling off, else no apple-pies for you, Niece Phœbe.”
Phœbe’s face fell. “O uncle!” she said.
Her mother looked round again. “Roger, you spoil the child,” she exclaimed.
“Not if I teach her order, Sister Marjory,” was his reply.