Part 5

“Oh, Dick, Dick!” she cried impatiently, “everything is Dick with you.”

Barney glanced at her, and after a moment's pause said, “Yes. I guess you're right. Everything is pretty much Dick with me. Next to my mother, Dick is the finest in all the world.”

At the crest of the hill they stood looking silently upon the scene spread out before them.

“There,” said Barney, “if I live to be a hundred years, I can't forget that,” and he waved his hand over the valley. Then he continued, “I tell you what, with the moon just over the pond there making a track of light across the pond--” She glanced shyly at him. The sombre eyes were looking far away.

“I know,” she said softly; “it must be lovely.”

Through the silence that followed there rose and fell with musical cadence a call long and clear, “Who-o-o-hoo.”

“That's mother,” said Barney, answering the call with a quick shout. “You'll be in time for dinner.”

“Dinner!” she cried with a gasp. “I'll have to get my buttermilk and other things and hurry home.” And she ran at full speed down the hill and into the mill yard, followed by Barney protesting that it was too hot to run.

“How are you, Mrs. Boyle?” she panted. “I'm in an awful hurry. I'm after father's buttermilk and that recipe, you know.”

Mrs. Boyle's eyes rested lovingly upon her flushed face.

“Indeed, there's no hurry, Margaret. Barney should not be letting you run.”

“Letting me!” she laughed defiantly. “Indeed, he had all he could do to keep up.”

“And that I had,” said Barney, “and, mother, tell her she must come to the raising.”

“And are you not going?” said the older woman.

“I don't think so. You know father--well, he wouldn't care for me to be at the dance.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” quickly replied Mrs. Boyle, “but you might just come with me and look quietly on. And, indeed, the change will be doing you good. I will just call for you, and speak to your father this afternoon.”

“Oh, I don't know, Mrs. Boyle. I hardly think I ought.”

“Hoots, lassie! Come away, then, into the milk-house.”

Back among the overhanging willows stood the little whitewashed log milkhouse, built over a little brook that gurgled clear and cool over the gravelly floor.

“What a lovely place,” said Margaret, stepping along the foot stones.

“Ay, it's clean and sweet,” said Mrs. Boyle. “And that is what you most need with the milk and butter.”

She took up an earthen jar from the gravelly bed and filled the girl's pail with buttermilk.

“Thank you, Mrs. Boyle. And now for that recipe for the scones.”

“Och, yes!” said Mrs. Boyle. “There's no recipe at all. It is just this way--” And she elucidated the mysteries of sconemaking.

“But they will not taste a bit like yours, I'm sure,” cried Margaret, in despair.

“Never you fear, lassie. You hurry away home now and get your dinner past, and we will call for you on our way.”

“Here, lassie,” she cried, “your father will like this. It is only churned th' day.” She rolled a pat of butter in a clean linen cloth, laid it between two rhubarb leaves and set it in a small basket.

“Good-bye,” said the girl as she kissed the dark cheek. “You're far too kind to me.”