"I believe," said Martin, "that you do not like butter at all." "I do not like other people's butter," said Joscelyn. "Let us be sure," said Martin. And he twirled his buttercup under her chin. "Fie, Mistress Joscelyn!" he cried. "What a golden chin! I never saw any one so fond of butter in all my days." "Is it very gold?" asked Joscelyn, and ran to the duckpond to look, but couldn't see because she was on the wrong side of the gate. "Do I like butter?" cried Jessica. "Do I?" cried Jennifer. "Do I?" cried Joyce. "Do I?" cried Jane. "Oh, do I?" cried Joan. "We'll soon find out," said Martin, and put buttercups under all their chins, turn by turn. And they all liked butter exceedingly. "Do YOU like butter, Master Pippin?" asked little Joan. "Try me," said he. And six buttercups were simultaneously presented to his chin, and it was discovered that he liked butter the best of them all. Then every girl had to prove it on every other girl, and again on Martin one at a time, and he on them again. And in this delicious pastime the afternoon wore by, and evening fell, and they came golden-chinned to dinner. Supper was scarcely ended--indeed, her mouth was still full--when Jessica, looking straight at Martin, said, "I'm dying to swing." "I never saved a lady's life easier," said Martin; and in one moment she found herself where she wished to be, and in the next saw him close beside her on the apple-bough. The five other girls went to their own branches as naturally as hens to the roost. Joscelyn inspected them like a captain marshalling his men, and when each was armed with an apple she said: "We are ready now, Master Pippin." "I wish I were too," said he, "but my tale has taken a fit of the shivers on the threshold, like an unexpected guest who doubts his welcome." "Are we not all bidding it in?" said Joscelyn impatiently. "Yes, like sweet daughters of the house," said Martin. "But what of the mistress?" And he looked across at Gillian by the well, but she looked only into the grass and her thoughts. "Let the daughters do to begin with," said Joscelyn, "and make it your business to stay till the mistress shall appear." "That might be to outstay my welcome," said Martin, "and then her appearance would be my discomfiture. For a hostess has, according to her guests, as many kinds of face as a wildflower, according to its counties, names." "Some kinds have only one name," said Jessica, plucking a stalk crowned with flowers as fine as spray. "What would you call this but Cow Parsley?" "If I were in Anglia," said Martin, "I would call it Queen's Lace." "That's a pretty name," said Jessica. "Pretty enough to sing about," said Martin; and looking carelessly at the Well-House he thrummed his lute and sang--