w longing and pathetic, but Polly was obdurate.

"I can't have children about," she said to herself, and soon she was
busy peeling her apples and preparing her crust for the pie. She
succeeded fairly well, although the water with which she mixed her dough
would run all over the board, and her nice fresh butter stuck in the
most provoking way to the rolling-pin. Still, the pie was made, after a
fashion, and Polly felt very happy, as she amused herself cutting out
little ornamental leaves from what remained of her pastry to decorate
it. It was a good-sized tart, and when she had crowned it with a wreath
of laurel leaves she thought she had never seen anything so handsome and
appetizing. Alas, however, for poor Polly, the making of this pie was
her one and only triumph.

The morning had gone very fast, while she was walking to the village
securing her purchases, and coming home again. She was startled when she
looked at the kitchen clock to find that it pointed to a quarter past
twelve. At the same time she discovered that the kitchen fire was nearly
out, and that the oven was cold. Father always liked the early dinner to
be on the table sharp at one o'clock; it would never, never do for
Polly's first dinner to be late. She must not wait any longer for that
naughty Maggie; she must put coals on the fire herself, and wash the
potatoes, and set them on to boil.

This was scarcely the work of an ordinary lady-like housekeeper; but
Polly tried to fancy she was in Canada, or in even one of the less
civilized settlements, where ladies put their hands to anything, and
were all the better for it.

She had a great hunt to find the potatoes, and when she had washed
them--which it must be owned she did not do at all well--she had
still greater difficulty in selecting a pot which would hold them. She
found one at last, and with some difficulty placed it on the
kitchen-range. She had built up her fire with some skill, but was
dismayed to find that, try as she would, she could get no heat into the
oven. The fact was, she had not the least idea how to direct the draught
in the right direction; and although the fire burned fiercely, and the
potatoes soon began to bubble and smoke, the oven, which was to cook
poor Polly's tart, remained cold and irresponsive.

Well, cold as it was, she would put her pie in, for time was flying as
surely it had never flown before and it was dreadful to think that there
would be nothing at all for dinne