“Butter—eh?” said the grocer. “Well, I hope it’s as good as the last.” He unpacked the basket and proceeded to weigh the butter, talking all the time.
“It’s an odd thing to me how your butter varies. Now, the last month it’s been as good again as it used to be. Of course in the winter there will be a difference because of the feed, I can understand that; but I can’t see why it shouldn’t be always the same in the summer. I don’t mind telling you,” he continued, leaning forward and speaking in a confidential tone, “that I’d made up my mind at one time to give it up. People won’t buy inferior butter, and I don’t blame ’em.”
“It’s good this time, anyhow,” said Peter.
“It’s prime,” said Mr Benson. “Is it the cows now, that you’ve got new, or is it the dairymaid?”
“The cows isn’t new, nor yet the dairymaid,” said Peter.
“Well, whichever it is,” said the grocer, “the credit of the farm’s coming back. Orchards Farm always had a name for its dairy in the old days. I remember my father talking of it when I was a boy.”
Mrs Pinhorn, who had been standing near during this conversation, now struck sharply in:
“They do say there was a brownie at the farm in those days, but when it got into other hands he was angered and quitted.”
“That’s a curious superstition, ma’am,” said the grocer politely.
“There’s folks in Danecross who give credit to it still,” continued Mrs Pinhorn. “Old Grannie Dunch’ll tell you ever so many tales about the brownie and his goings-on.”