"Can't help it. Butter before buttercups," declared Ruth, keeping the
dasher steadily at work. "And then, Aunt Alvirah may want me for
something else before dinner."

"We've got dinner with us-- or, Tom has. At least, Babette put us up a
basket of lunch."

"Oh! A picnic!" cried Ruth, flushing with pleasure. This visit had
driven out of her mind -- for the time, at least-- her trouble of
overnight.

"I'm going to ask Aunt Alviry for you," went on Helen, and skipped
away to find the little old woman who, despite the drawback of "her
back and her bones" was a very neat and particular housekeeper. She
was back in a few moments.

"She says you can go, just as soon as you get the butter made. Now,
hurry up, and let us get into the buttercup field, which is a whole
lot nicer than the butter churn and-- Oh! it smells much nicer, too.
Why, Ruth, that cream actually smells sour!"

"I expect it is sour," laughed her friend. "Didn't you know that sweet
butter comes from sour cream? And that most nice things are the result
of hard work? The sweet from the bitter, you know."

"My! how philosophical we are this morning. Isn't that butter ever
coming?"

"Impatience! Didn't you ever have to wait for anything you wanted in