not ready, though."

"It ought to be. I tell you what, Diana, you must set your cream pot in
here o' nights; the dairy's too cold."

"Warm enough yet, mother. Makes better butter."

"You don't get nigh so much, though. That last buttermilk was all thick
with floatin' bits of butter; and that's what I call wasteful."

"I call it good, though."

"There's where you make a mistake, Diana Starling; and if you ever want
to be anything but a poor woman, you've got to mend. It's just those
little holes in your pocket that let out the money; a penny at a time,
to be sure; but by and by when you come to look for the dollars, you
won't find 'em; and you'll not know where they're gone. And you'll want
'em."

"Mother," said Diana, laughing, "I can't feel afraid. We have never
wanted 'em yet."

"You've been young, child. You will want 'em as you grow older. Marry
Will Flandin, and you'll have 'em; and you may churn your cream how you
like. I tell you what, Diana; when your arm ain't as strong as it used
to be, and your back gets to aching, and you feel as if you'd like to
sit down and be quiet instead of delvin' and delvin', _then_ you'll
feel as if 't would be handy to put your hand in your pocket and find
cash somewhere. My! I wish I had all the money your father spent for
books. Books just makes some folks crazy. Do you know it's the
afternoon for Society meeting, Diana?"

"I had forgotten it. I shall not go."

"One of us must," said Mrs. Starling. "I don't see how in the world I
can; but I suppose I'll have to. You'll have to make the bread then,
Diana. Yesterday's put me all out. And what are you going to do with
all those blackberries? They're too ripe to keep."

"I'll do them up this afternoon, mother. I'll take care of them."

The morning went in this way, with little intermission. Mrs. Starling
was perhaps uneasy from an undefined fear that something was going not
right with Diana's affairs. She could lay hold on no clue, but perhaps
the secret fear or doubt was the reason why she brought up, as if by
sheer force of affinity, every small and great source of annoyance that
she knew of. All the morning Diana had to hear and answer a string of
suggestions and complainings like the foregoing. She was not
unaccustomed to this sort of thing, perhaps; and doubtless she had her
own hidden antidote to annoyance: yet it belonged still more to the
large sweet nature of the girl, that though annoyed she was never
irritate