"You poor little thing, how came you to be so troubled ?" Miriam gave a long sigh and dropped her head on her brother's shoulder.
"Oh, Ralph," she said, "they are six inches high." "What are ?" cried Ralph, in great amazement.
"The tarts," she said; "the raspberry tarts I was making for you, because you like them, and because Dora Bannister was going to make them for you, and I determined that I could do it just as well as she could, and that I would do it and that you would not have to miss her for anything.

But it is of no use; I cannot do things as well as she can, and those tarts are not like tarts at all; they are like chimneys." "I expect they are very good indeed.

Now do not drop another tear, and let us go in and eat them." "No," said Miriam, "they are not good.

I know what is the matter with them.

I have found out that I have no more idea of making pie crust than I have about the nebulous part of astronomy, and that I never could comprehend.