The person who washed these pans was Elizabeth, the king’s sister; the lady who received them was the Princess Lambella—but all titles were ignored in this rustic retreat, and each highborn lady went by her simple name. “See, Dame Campan, I have brought a person here who will set us all right,” cried the queen, introducing Dame Tillery, with mischievous laughter in her eyes. The lady, who was skimming milk, dropped her hand to the edge of the pan, and turned her pleasant eyes on the landlady. “Ah! I dare not go on with my work,” she said, laughing merrily; “that is, with any one who understands it better than I do standing by.” “No wonder,” answered Dame Tillery, going up to the table and taking the skimmer from the plump, little hand that held it. “Why, you are ladling out more milk than cream; and that makes sour butter.” With a subtle turn of her wrist, the landlady glided the skimmer between the strata of golden cream and impoverished milk with a dexterity that separated them entirely. “There,” she said, allowing the rich mass to glide into the dish, “that is the way to skim a pan of milk.” “Ah! what a bungler I have been!” exclaimed Madame Campan, clasping her hands in mimic humiliation; “but I can never do it like that.” The landlady laughed, and stood with a hand resting on either hip, while Campan made an effort to imitate her dexterity; but that moment the queen called her away. She stood by a tall churn of spotless wood, mounted with silver and with the dasher grasped in both hands, called out, “Come hither, landlady—come hither! Dame Capet stands in more need of help than any one. This churn is obstinate as a mule. See how it has bespattered my dress.” Certainly, there did seem to be cause for the queen’s complaint, for little rivulets of cream were running down the side of the churn, and a shower of drops hung like pearls upon her white arms and her dress; while she worked so vigorously with the dasher that her cheeks were one glow of roses, and her eyes sparkled brighter than all the diamonds she had ever worn. “What is it that makes the cream grow thinner and thinner the more I beat it?” Dame Tillery took the dasher from those beautiful hands, lifted the lid of the churn, and examined its contents with wistful interest. Then she drew a fancy milking stool towards her, sat down upon it, and holding the churn between her knees, began to agitate the cream with a slow rise and fall of the dasher, which would have irritated Marie Antoinette with its dull monotony. “There, there! let me try!” she exclaimed, all impatience. “It is easy enough.”