Delighted with these woodland treasures—such a delicious addition to her frugal board—she returned to the cabin, and began to prepare their evening meal. Rosalie had not superintended her uncle’s Virginia farm-house for two years, to no purpose. She was a skilful little cook. It was not much to prepare a meal twice a day, for two persons; besides, her “good will was to it.” And I doubt if, in all the elegance and luxury of her Southern home, she was ever gayer, gladder, _happier_, than when preparing, with her own hands, this first little supper in her log cabin. The meal was soon ready. The damask table linen and the delicate china that adorned the table, and the fair girl that hovered around it, I was about to say, were somewhat out of keeping with the house. But that would not have been true; for there was nothing mean, poor, or squalid, in the surroundings of the log cabin. It had a wild, woodland air—there was as yet nothing to offend the most æsthetic taste. The arrangement of the table was complete—the last things set upon it being the delicate pastry and the cut-glass bowl of raspberries, powdered with sugar. But, there was no cream or butter; and this was Rosalie’s sole regret, as she gave a pleased glance at the whole effect, and then went to each window, and put aside the muslin curtains to let in the evening breeze, and the green woodland prospect. As she turned from the window, she was startled by a thump upon the floor, and the exclamation of— “_There!_ she sent you _these_! And I wonder why you couldn’t o’ comed arter them yourself!” And with astonishment Rosalie saw standing in the room a large, fair-complexioned, middle-aged man, clothed in coarse blue linen jacket and trousers, with a waiter’s white apron tied before him. He had just thumped on the floor a large basket filled with vegetables. He still held in his hand a tin pail, with a tin pan covered upon the top of it. “Who are you?” inquired she. “_Billy._ Here’s the butter. Where am I to pour the milk?” said the man, lifting the little pan that contained a pound print, and displaying half a gallon of milk in the pail. “Who sent these?” asked Rose, in surprise. “_She!_ Can’t you empty the milk? I’ve got to carry the bucket back.” “I am afraid there is some mistake,” said Rose, hesitating. “Who did you say sent you?” “_Her_, I tell you. I can’t stand here gablin’ all day.” “But, my good friend, there is some error—these things were not sent to me,” persisted Rosalie, looking longingly at the hard, sweet-smelling butter, with the dew rising on it.