“O, Katy! I’ll bet you left it sticking out!” said Floris, and burst into tears. Katy did the same. With one accord they ascended the stairs to their room.
When, with red eyes, they came down to dinner, they found mamma in the dining-room as placid as usual. The kitchen door was wide open. After dinner Floris was requested to wipe the dishes. Her work took her into every part of the kitchen domains, and her red eyes peered about sharply; but nothing unusual was to be seen—not one trace of the beautiful patties, not a raisin-stem, even!
Christmas day came and went. Floris had her silver thimble, and Katy her work-box. The dinner table was in the usual holiday trim. But the little frosted pies, with the pink greetings, were not brought forward—no, and not one word was said concerning them, not even by mamma’s eyes.
At night they cried softly in their little white bed, after mamma had gone down. “And, Floris, I ’member now, there was something else, under a white cloth, like a plate of kisses, I thought,” sobbed Katy, her wet little face pressed into the pillows; “and I shall always think she was going to make fruitcake, for there was citron all cut up, and there was almonds—”
“Don’t, Katy! I don’t want to hear it! I can’t hear it!” said Floris, in a thick voice; “and don’t let us disobey mamma more by talking.”
But what did become of the beautiful, frosted, pink-lettered little pies—would you like to know?
Floris and Katy cannot tell you; for never yet have mamma and her little daughters exchanged a word upon the subject—but I think I can. At least I was told that a factory-weaver’s family, where there were several little girls, had the most lovely of patties, and kisses, and sugar-plums sent them for their Christmas dinner last year.