“No,” said Mrs. Pepper, picking up the stocking again, and attacking the biggest hole; “Joel must wait till he knows he’s right.”
“Then, I don’t want to bake yet,” said David with a sigh.
Polly flew around at her preparations for baking, making a great clatter with the things, and keeping up a cheery little chat with Phronsie. But all the while her heart was sore over Joel sitting lonely and disconsolate in the old Provision Room. It seemed as if she could not bear it another minute longer, when suddenly she heard the door open slowly, and his feet coming over the rickety steps. Mrs. Pepper mended steadily on, and did not turn her head. Polly held her breath, as Joel, without a glance for any one else, marched straight past the baking-table, and over to Mamsie’s side.
“I’m sorry I was bad, Mamsie,” he began. But he never got any further, for Mother Pepper had him in her arms, and there he was cuddled to his heart’s content. And Polly deserted the baking-table, leaving Phronsie to work her own sweet will among the materials, while she rushed over and dropped a kiss on Joel’s stubby head, telling him it was she who was so naughty, and she never was going to do it again. And little David clasped his hands, and beamed at them all in great satisfaction.
“Now you had better see what Phronsie is about,” advised Mrs. Pepper wisely.
“I don’t care,” cried Polly in a glad recklessness, and plunging over to the baking-table, with both boys at her heels. “Oh, my goodness me! what have you been doing, Phronsie?”
“Baking a cake,” hummed Phronsie, in a state of bliss. She had upset the flour-pan in trying to pull it toward her; and what didn’t fly over the floor was on her face and pinafore, while she patted the yeast in the cracked cup with her spoon.
“Hoh—hoh—how you look!” laughed Joel and David, “just like the old ash-man, with that brown flour all over your face.”
But Phronsie didn’t care; so while Polly shook off the flour, and cleaned things up, taking great care to get the yeast-cup the length of the table away from the little fingers, she was singing all the time, “I’m going to bake a cake—Polly said so.”
At last the bread was made, and, covered with an old towel, was set down to rise by the stove; Phronsie’s cake was set in her own little tin patty-pan, and tucked into the oven; and then the three children stood and looked at each other. It was still dark, the rain going patter—patter—patter worse than ever on the roof.