But Polly was not listening. She was looking at something that she had found in her cake.
She poked it with her fork. Then she took it up in her fingers.
"Why, mother," she said, "what a queer thing there is in my cake. How did it get there?"
Just then Peter said, "There is a lump in my piece, too. It is something hard."
Father said, "Clean the cake from your lumps and see what they are. Why, I have a lump myself."
"And so have I," said the Story Lady.
"And so have I," said mother.
"Then," said grandmother, "I am the only one who has no lump. How did you let these lumps fall into your cake, daughter? Can I ever again call you a good cook?" And she laughed at Mrs. Howe.
Just then her fork struck something.
"Dear me!" cried grandmother. "A