While Dorothy worked away at the table close inside the kitchen window, enveloped in an all-over white apron, on the other side of the lattice, Pinkie, sitting on a small bench in the corner of the back porch, delved away at the churning, while they exchanged reports of progress that were rather discouraging to the butter maker. It seemed to Pinkie that she had only fairly begun when Dorothy called out, “First pan gone in the oven.” “Ker-chunk--ker-chunk, ker-chunk,” answered the dasher in the churn, saying by the tone of its voice as plainly as any words, “Only cream yet, and thin at that.” [Illustration: “_Butter’s come!_”] Pinkie stopped for a moment and brought out Julia Minnehaha, her favourite doll, whom she stood close beside her for company. “First panful baked, and they are lovely. Crisp and good if the butter in ’em is lard,” called Dorothy, in a mumbling voice that proclaimed that she was eating. “You mustn’t eat them, they are for the _dog_ company,” expostulated poor Pinkie. “I’m only eating the broken ones,” said Dorothy. “Was there more’n one?” “Yes, three; you see when I help cook cut cookies at home I gener’ly make two or three broken ones out of the edge pieces on purpose to eat, so that’s why there’s three now, and next pan there’ll be four.” “Won’t you bring me one and put it in my mouth?” coaxed Pinkie. “‘Cause if I stop plunking this butter, it will what cook calls, ‘go back.’” Presently Luck and Pluck appeared on the scene, drawn by the smell of the baking cookies and the sound of the churn, and stood licking their lips, looking alternately at their little mistress and backward toward the kitchen window with a wistful gaze. “Ker-swish--ker-swash!” said the buttermilk, as it separated from the butter with a watery splash. “Butter’s come!” cried Pinkie. “Now listen, doggies, you are going to have company this afternoon, so now you can only have two drops of buttermilk apiece.” “The cream is frozen and the dasher is ready for us to scrape, hurry up,” called Dorothy, coming to the window armed with a plate and two spoons, “and it’s all pink with fresh stwaberries, too, the very last in the garden.” When this new excitement had subsided, and the frosting of the sponge cake hearts and rounds for the two-footed company had been closely inspected, with many remarks of regret that not one of these delicacies could, by any stretching of conscience, be called even damaged, it still lacked an hour of luncheon time, and the party was not to begin until half-past four. “Let’s set the table and fix the seats, and have everything ready,” suggested Dorothy, who was the leading spirit of the two. “I’ll bring out the table and you get the cups and saucers.”