cadence a call long and clear, "Who-o-o-hoo."

"That's mother," said Barney, answering the call with a quick shout.
"You'll be in time for dinner."

"Dinner!" she cried with a gasp. "I'll have to get my buttermilk and
other things and hurry home." And she ran at full speed down the hill
and into the mill yard, followed by Barney protesting that it was too
hot to run.

"How are you, Mrs. Boyle?" she panted. "I'm in an awful hurry. I'm after
father's buttermilk and that recipe, you know."

Mrs. Boyle's eyes rested lovingly upon her flushed face.

"Indeed, there's no hurry, Margaret. Barney should not be letting you
run."

"Letting me!" she laughed defiantly. "Indeed, he had all he could do to
keep up."

"And that I had," said Barney, "and, mother, tell her she must come to
the raising."

"And are you not going?" said the older woman.

"I don't think so. You know father--well, he wouldn't care for me to be
at the dance."

"Yes, yes, I know," quickly replied Mrs. Boyle, "but you might just come