"May I assist at the butter's toilet?" queried Tom, grinning. "You may sit down and watch," said his sister, in a tone intended to quell any undue levity on her brother's part. Ruth had rolled her sleeves above her elbows, so displaying her pretty plump arms, and now worked and worked the butter in cold water right "from the north side of the well" as though she were kneading bread. First she had poured Tom a pitcher of the fresh buttermilk, and given him a glass. Even Helen tasted a little of the tart drink. "Oh, it's ever so nice, I suppose," she said, with a little grimace; "but I much prefer my milk sweet." Again and again Ruth poured off the milky water and ran fresh, cold water upon her butter until no amount of kneading and washing would subtract another particle of milk from the yellow ball. The water was perfectly clear. "Now I'll salt it," she said; "and put it away until this afternoon, and then I'll work it again and put it down in the butter-jar. When I grow up and get rich I am going to have a great, big dairy; with a herd of registered cattle, and I'm going to make all the butter myself." "And Tom's going to raise horses. He's going to own a stock farm--so he says. You'd better combine interests," said Helen, with some scorn. "I like horses to ride, and butter to eat, but--well, I prefer buttercups just now. Hurry up, Miss Slow-poke! We'll never get enough flowers for a pillow." So Ruth cleaned her face, taking a peep into the glass in the kitchen to make sure, before going out to her friends. Tom looked at her with plain approval, and Helen jumped up to squeeze her again. "No wonder Aunt Alvirah calls you 'pretty creetur'," she whispered in Ruth's ear. "For that's what you are." Then to Tom: "Now young man, have you the lunch basket?" "What there is left of it is in charge of Reno down at the bridge," he replied, coolly. They found the huge mastiff lying with the napkin-covered basket between his forepaws, on the grass by the water side. Reno was growling warningly and had his eyes fixed upon a figure leaning upon the bridge railing. "That there dawg don't seem ter take to me," drawled Jasper Parloe, who was the person on the bridge. "He needn't be afraid. I wouldn't touch the basket." "You won't be likely to touch it while Reno has charge of it," said Tom, quietly, while the girls passed on swiftly. Neither Ruth nor Helen liked to have anything to do with Parloe. When Tom released Reno from his watch and ward, the dog trotted after Ruth and put his nose into her hand. "Ye been up ter the mill, hev ye?" queried Parloe, eyeing Tom Cameron aslant, "ye oughter be gre't friends with Jabe Potter. Or has he squared hisself with ye?" "Say, Mister Parloe," said Tom, sharply, "you've been hinting something about the miller every time you've seen me lately.