“Oh, no, Phronsie, you can't,” began Polly.
“Hey?” asked Joel, with a daub of flour on the tip of his chubby nose, gained by too much peering into Polly's flour-bag. “What did she say, Polly?” watching her shake the clouds of flour in the sieve.
“She said she was goin' to bake something for Jasper,” said Polly. “There,” as she whisked in the flour, “now that's done.”
“No, I didn't say Jasper,” said Phronsie; “I didn't say Jasper,” she repeated, emphatically.
“Why, what did you say, Pet?” asked Polly, astonished, while little Davie repeated, “What did you say, Phronsie?”
“I said my sick man,” said Phronsie, shaking her yellow head; “poor sick man.”
“Who does she mean?” said Polly in despair, stopping a moment her violent stirring that threatened to overturn the whole cake-bowl.
“I guess she means Prince,” said Joel. “Can't I stir, Polly?”
“Oh, no,” said Polly; “only one person must stir cake.”
“Why?” asked Joel; “why, Polly?”