“Yes, three; you see when I help cook cut cookies at home I gener’ly make two or three broken ones out of the edge pieces on purpose to eat, so that’s why there’s three now, and next pan there’ll be four.”
“Won’t you bring me one and put it in my mouth?” coaxed Pinkie. “‘Cause if I stop plunking this butter, it will what cook calls, ‘go back.’”
Presently Luck and Pluck appeared on the scene, drawn by the smell of the baking cookies and the sound of the churn, and stood licking their lips, looking alternately at their little mistress and backward toward the kitchen window with a wistful gaze.
“Ker-swish—ker-swash!” said the buttermilk, as it separated from the butter with a watery splash.
“Butter’s come!” cried Pinkie. “Now listen, doggies, you are going to have company this afternoon, so now you can only have two drops of buttermilk apiece.”
“The cream is frozen and the dasher is ready for us to scrape, hurry up,” called Dorothy, coming to the window armed with a plate and two spoons, “and it’s all pink with fresh stwaberries, too, the very last in the garden.”
When this new excitement had subsided, and the frosting of the sponge cake hearts and rounds for the two-footed company had been closely inspected, with many remarks of regret that not one of these delicacies could, by any stretching of conscience, be called even damaged, it still lacked an hour of luncheon time, and the party was not to begin until half-past four.
“Let’s set the table and fix the seats, and have everything ready,” suggested Dorothy, who was the leading spirit of the two. “I’ll bring out the table and you get the cups and saucers.”
They put the little table under the arbour, close to the entrance where it would be shady in the afternoon, and covered it with Mrs. Scott’s best fringed tea-cloth, that she let them have only on the promise that they would be very careful, and not let the dogs put their paws upon it.
They filled one little jug with flowers and left the other empty ready for the cream.