“No. But you see I suppose when your daddy was a little chap around the house, and calling me and calling me ‘Mother’ sixty times a day, as you do your mamma, Grandpa got in the habit of saying ‘Mother,’ too. And habits, you know, Sunny Boy, are the funny little things that stay with us.”
“Yes, I know—we had ’em in Sunday school,” agreed Sunny absently. “Is that my pie?”
“That’s your pie, lambie,” declared Grandma, smiling. “One, two, three large ones, and a saucer pie for my own laddie. How much sugar shall I put in for you, Sunny Boy?”
“A bushel,” replied Sunny Boy confidently. “Let me shake the brown powder, Grandma.”
So Sunny Boy sprinkled in the cinnamon, and Grandma added dots of butter and put on the crust. Then she cut little slits in it “so the apples can breathe” and then that pie was ready for the oven.
“Now I’m going up to change my dress while they’re baking,” said Grandma, taking off her apron. “If you want to stay here with Araminta, all right, Sunny. I’ll be back in time to take the pies out.”
Araminta bustled about, washing the table top and putting away the salt and sugar and spice box and all the things Grandma had used for her baking. Sunny Boy ate his apple quietly and waited for Grandma to come back.
“My land of Goshen!” Araminta stopped to peer out of the window over the sink. “Here’s company driving in. If it isn’t Mrs. Lawyer Allen, and she always stays till supper time! And your Grandma’s pies not out of the oven!”
Grandma, too, had seen the gray horse and buggy, and she hurried down in her pretty black and white dress.
“Hook my collar, please, Araminta,” she whispered. “And I am sure the pies are done. You can take them out very carefully and set them where they’ll cool. You’ll be good, won’t you, lambie? There goes the door-bell.”