"Oh!" cried Helen. "It's getting hard!"

"The butter is coming. Now a little cold water to help it separate.
And then you shall have a most delicious glass of buttermilk."

"No, thank you!" cried Helen. "They say it's good for one to drink it.
But I never do like anything that's good for me."

"Give it to me, Ruth," interposed another voice, and Tom put a smiling
face around the corner of the well. "I thought you were never coming,
Miss Flyaway," he said, to his sister.

"Butter before buttercups, young man," responded Helen, primly. "We
must wait for Ruth to-- er-- wash the butter, is it?"

"Yes," said her friend, seriously, opening the churn and beginning to
ladle out the now yellow butter into a wooden bowl.

"May I assist at the butter's toilet?" queried Tom, grinning.

"You may sit down and watch," said his sister, in a tone intended to
quell any undue levity on her brother's part.

Ruth had rolled her sleeves above her elbows, so displaying her pretty
plump arms, and now worked and worked the butter in cold water right
"from the north side of the well" as though she were kneading bread.
First she had poured Tom a pitcher of the fresh buttermilk, and given
him a glass. Even Helen tasted a little of the tart drink.

"Oh, it's ever so nice, I suppose," she said, with a little grimace;