poor old crab-stick. It'll do him no harm to have a good tea for once."

She was a contented woman, entirely satisfied with the position which
life had allotted to her, a position in which all her faculties had full
scope, and were to the full appreciated by those with whom she had most
to do, and being of a really kind heart she was a good friend to the
poor. When Anne arrived at the door of the dairy, she found its mistress
seated before a tin pail containing a mass of butter which she was
dividing into prints. With white sleeves and apron, a bucket of scalding
water on one side of her and a pail of cold on the other, her ample
knees spread apart for balance as she sat on a low chair, her bulky and
capable hands moved with decision and practice about her work. She
looked up as Anne appeared in the doorway, but her hands did not cease
working.

"It's not often we have to do this," she said, "but they sent down word
that there was no milk wanted yesterday, so we had to set to."

"It looks nice butter," said Anne, with the judgment of a connoisseur.

"_You_ ought to know what good butter is," returned Mrs Hankworth. "I've
just been having a laugh over that Peter Molesworth. He wrote on his
account, "17 pints." Did you ever hear such a thing! It took me quite a
long time to know what 17 pints was. Him and his 17 pints!"

"He's not very clever, Peter," said Anne, "but I don't know what his
poor mother would do without him."

"No," returned Mrs Hankworth, "he's hard-working if he's stupid, and
that's better than the other way round."