ed Polly, despairingly,
feeling sure that "Mirandy's wedding cake" would have celebrated the day
just right; "and I must hurry right home, please," she added, getting
down from the chair, and tying on her hood; "or Phronsie won't know what
to do."

So another "receet" was looked over, and selected; and with many
charges, and bits of advice not to let the oven get too hot, etc., etc.,
Polly took the precious bit in her hand, and flew over home.

"Now, we've got to--" she began, bounding in merrily, with dancing eyes;
but her delight had a sudden stop, as she brought up so suddenly at
the sight within, that she couldn't utter another word. Phronsie was
crouching, a miserable little heap of woe, in one corner of the mother's
big calico-covered rocking-chair, and crying bitterly, while Joel hung
over her in the utmost concern.

"What's the matter?" gasped Polly. Flinging the "receet" on the table,
she rushed up to the old chair and was down on her knees before it, her
arms around the little figure. Phronsie turned, and threw herself into
Polly's protecting arms, who gathered her up, and sitting down in the
depths of the chair, comforted her as only she could.

"What is it?" she asked of Joel, who was nervously begging Phronsie not
to cry; "now, tell me all that's happened."

"I was a-nailing," began Joel; "oh dear! don't cry, Phronsie! do stop
her, Polly."

"Go on," said Polly, hoarsely.

"I was a-nailing," began Joel, slowly; "and--and--Davie's gone to get
the peppermint," he added, brightening up.

"Tell me, Joe," said Polly, "all that's been going on," and she looked
sternly into his face; "or I'll get Davie to," as little Davie came
running back, with a bottle of castor oil, which in his flurry he had
mistaken for peppermint. This he presented with a flourish to Polly, who
was too excited to see it.

"Oh, no!" cried Joel, in intense alarm; "Davie isn't going to! I'll
tell, Polly; I will truly."

"Go on, then," said Polly; "tell at once;" (feeling as if somebody
didn't tell pretty quick, she should tumble over.)

"Well," said Joel, gathering himself up with a fresh effort, "the old
hammer was a-shaking and Phronsie stuck her foot in the way--and--I
couldn't help it, Polly--no, I just couldn't, Polly."

Quick as a flash, Polly tore off the little old shoe, and well-worn
stocking, and brought to light Phronsie's fat little foot. Tenderly
taking hold of the white toes, the boys clustering around in the
great