"but I much prefer my milk sweet."

Again and again Ruth poured off the milky water and ran fresh, cold
water upon her butter until no amount of kneading and washing would
subtract another particle of milk from the yellow ball. The water was
perfectly clear.

"Now I'll salt it," she said; "and put it away until this afternoon,
and then I'll work it again and put it down in the butter-jar. When I
grow up and get rich I am going to have a great, big dairy; with a
herd of registered cattle, and I'm going to make all the butter
myself."

"And Tom's going to raise horses. He's going to own a stock farm-- so
he says. You'd better combine interests," said Helen, with some scorn.
"I like horses to ride, and butter to eat, but-- well, I prefer
buttercups just now. Hurry up, Miss Slow-poke! We'll never get enough
flowers for a pillow."

So Ruth cleaned her face, taking a peep into the glass in the kitchen
to make sure, before going out to her friends. Tom looked at her with
plain approval, and Helen jumped up to squeeze her again.

"No wonder Aunt Alvirah calls you 'pretty creetur'," she whispered in
Ruth's ear. "For that's what you are." Then to Tom: "Now young man,
have you the lunch basket?"

"What there is left of it is in charge of Reno down at the bridge," he
replied, coolly.