IX
Having recovered somewhat from the partial anæsthesia that had come upon me from inhaling the fumes of my astonishing butter, I was seated before the fireplace trying to recover myself, when the excursionists rushed in, jubilant over the picturesque scenery of their drive.
“Oh, but you missed a good thing by not going with us,” they exclaimed.
“I am not so sure of that,” retorted the angel of the hearth.
“We’ve had the time of our lives!”
“So have I,” I tranquilly replied.
“What doing,—trout-fishing?”
“Just compose yourselves and I’ll show you.” Then I went out and brought in the butter. As the napkin was lifted, disclosing that mass of golden deception, there arose a universal chorus of delight and admiration.
“What lovely butter!” cried Mary. “Did you really make it yourself?”
“Why, you’re a butter-maker indeed!” exclaimed Tom. “We’re proud of you!”
My knowledge of the baleful aftermath kept me
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