"There," as she whisked in the flour, "now that's done."

"No, I didn't say Japser," said Phronsie; "I didn't say Japser," she
repeated, emphatically.

"Why, what did you say, Fet?" asked Polly, astonished, while little
Davie repeated, "What did you say, Phronsie?"

"I said my sick man," said Phronsie, shaking her yellow head;
"poor sick man."

"Who does she mean?" said Polly in despair, stopping a moment
her violent stirring that threatened to overturn the whole
cake-bowl.

"I guess she means Frince," said Joel. "Can't I stir, Polly?"

"Oh, no," said Polly; "only one person must stir cake."

"Why?" asked Joel; "why, Polly?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Polly, "cause 'tis so; never mind now, Joel.
Do you mean Prince, Phronsie?"

"No, I don't mean Princey," said the child decisively; "I mean my
sick man."

"It's Jasper's father, I guess she means," said Mrs. Pepper over in
the corner; "but what in the world!"