Ruth’s face had lost its brightness as Helen said this.  The word “school” had brought again to the girl’s mind her own unfortunate position and Uncle Jabez’s unkindness.

“I hope you will have a delightful time at Briarwood,” Ruth said, softly.  “I expect I shall miss you dreadfully.”

“Oh, suppose the Ogre should send you to school there, too!” cried Helen, with clasped hands.  “Wouldn’t that be splendid!”

“That would be beyond all imagination,” said Ruth, shaking her head.  “I—­ I don’t know that I shall be able to attend the balance of the term here.”

“Why not?” demanded Helen.  “Won’t he let you?”

“He has said I could.”  Ruth could say no more just then.  She hid her face from her friend, but made believe that it was the butter that occupied her attention.  The dasher began to slap, slap, slap suggestively in the churn and little particles of beaten cream began to gather on the handle of the dasher.

“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; “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.”