"Is it burned?" asked Florence, anxiously.
"No, only just a weeny bit caught. I'll take it out. Doesn't it look good?"
Florence gave an admiring assent, and they proceeded to take their meal; but alas!—when the pie was cut a mass of sticky dough and raw apple was disclosed to the disappointment of them all.
"We'll have to put it back and eat it after awhile," said Florence. "It will taste just as good then."
"Yes, and we can eat cake for dessert," and the pie was again placed in the oven.
Not long after, a rapping was heard at the side porch. "Who in the world can that be around there!" exclaimed Dimple. "Go and see, Bubbles."
Bubbles looked out, cautiously, for it was not the usual place for any one to make an appearance. Presently she came back with big eyes and a somewhat scared expression. "Hit's a man, Miss Dimple," she said, in an excited whisper, "with a gre't big haid an' long hair, an' somethin' on his back."
Florence and Dimple looked at each other. "Let's peep and see," whispered the latter, as the rapping, which had ceased, began again.
They peeped timidly through the shutters. "He looks queer," said Dimple, "maybe he is crazy."
"Oh!" cried Florence, with a stifled scream, "maybe he is an escaped lunatic. Dimple, let's lock all the doors, and hide," and the two ran into the kitchen, barring and locking the door, and then raced upstairs as fast as they could go, with Bubbles close following at their heels.