“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.