Ann Mary herself was of a different opinion; she
was twelve years old, if she _was_ small for her age, and she considered
herself quite capable of making pies and cup-cake.
However, it was something to sit there at the table and have that covert
sense of superintending her grandmother, and to be reasonably sure that
some of the food would have a strange flavor were it not for her
vigilance.
Mrs. Little's mince-pies had all been baked the day before; to-day, as
she said, she was "making apple and squash." While the apple-pies were
in progress, Ann Mary watched her narrowly. Her small folded hands
twitched and her little neck seemed to elongate above her apron; but she
waited until her grandmother took up an upper crust, and was just about
to lay it over a pie. Then she spoke up suddenly. Her voice had a timid
yet assertive chirp like a bird's.
"Grandma!"
"Well, what is it, child?"
"You goin' to put that crust on that pie now, grandma?"
Mrs. Little stood uneasily reflective. She eyed the pie sharply. "Yes, I
be. Why?" she returned, in a doubtful yet defiant manner.
"You haven't put one bit of sugar in."
"For the land sakes!" Mrs. Little did not take correction of this kind
happily, but when she was made to fairly acknowledge the need of it, she
showed no resentment. She laid the upper crust back on the board and
sweetened the pie. Ann Mary watched her gravely, but she was inwardly
complacent.
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