She gave the dasher a vigorous twirl, which produced a tumult in the churn, but accomplished nothing. “Softly, softly,” urged Dame Tillery, rubbing her fat hands together. “There, sink the dasher so, give it one turn under the milk, then lift it daintily. Oh! what butter! it makes my mouth water! Oh! you are an apt scholar. If the people could only teach you other things as easily.” “Hush, woman! You will offend the queen!” Dame Tillery lifted her eyes to the haughty woman who gave her this warning, and answered gravely, “Be careful, madame, that you and your mates do not offend the people.” The lady’s eyes flashed, and her red lip curved ominously, still there was no real dignity in her resentment; that small commonplace figure had nothing imposing in it, and a low, heavy forehead spoiled the otherwise beautiful face. She turned to the queen. “Madame, do you know whom we have here?” “A kind woman, who has taught me how to make the most beautiful butter,” answered Marie Antoinette, laughing gleefully. “Why, Polignac, I am delighted! It is a triumph over the—over my good man, who disputed my power to accomplish anything of the kind. You shall all see my success astonish him. It will be delicious! Now what are we to do next, dame? This is to be made into little pats, somehow, with pretty devices on the top.” “But first, the milk must be worked out.” “Ah, I see; but how?” Dame Tillery placed a hand on each knee, and lifted herself slowly from the stool. Taking the dish of butter from Marguerite, with a deep, long breath, she carried it to the table, where a butter-stick had been lying all the morning, with its uses quite unknown. With this in one hand, the dame tilted the dish a little that the milk might drain off, and began patting, pressing and moulding the butter with a dexterity that excited even the queen to rival her in a work so delightfully pleasant. Directly her own white fingers closed on the butter-stick, and with much laughter and infinite grace, she managed to press out the few drops of milk Dame Tillery had left, and sent them rolling out of the dish like waste pearls, that broke as they fell. When the fragrant mass lay on the dish, pure and golden, the queen was at a loss once more. How were the delicate little pats and balls, which sometimes graced her table, produced? In order to make her triumph complete, the precious contents of that dish must take this last artistic form. Again Dame Tillery chuckled, and this time her hand plunged deeply into her pocket, and brought forth a little wooden mould carved daintily in the inside. This she dipped into water and thrust into the butter, closing it like a pair of scissors. When it was drawn forth, a large golden strawberry dropped from its clasp, which so delighted and surprised the group of ladies looking on, that their soft murmurs of wonderment filled the room.