“It is possible you care to subscribe to Mudies’s?”

“And why should we not care to do so?” replied H.

“Why,” was the answer, “I do not see any connection between a love of reading and a love of butter-making.”

Now I do not think that either of us had any love of butter-making; and if we could have afforded to give $100 a year to a dairymaid, no doubt we should have left all to her management; but as it was we were obliged to buy it—­and very bad it was in our town—­or make it ourselves:  nor do either my sister or myself regret our resolution to do so.

At first we were quite proud of our skill, and told every one of our success with great triumph.  Now—­for womanhood is weak—­we are content to hear our dairymaid praised for her beautiful butter by our acquaintance, and Tom extolled for his care of the chickens.  It is only our friends, among whom I reckon my readers, who know that the butter is made, and the chickens fed, by the mistresses of “the four-acre farm.”

CHAPTER XV.

OUR PONY.

I have been told by several friends that, in order to render this little book complete, I should add a chapter detailing the expenses we incurred by keeping a pony and carriage.  Some persons imagine that this is an article of luxury which may well be dispensed with; but, though it may not be and absolute necessary, the expense attending one is so slight, in comparison with the comfort and pleasure derived from its possession, that I believe such of my readers as may contemplate residing in the country will readily agree with me, when I have told them the amount it will cost them to keep it,—­that if it is a luxury, it is one of the very cheapest in which they can indulge.

Without such a convenience a carriage must be hired every time any member of the family has occasion to go to the railway station; and besides that, it is useful for bringing home a variety of articles which in the country are frequently purchased at places five or six miles from home.  Then it is a great pleasure to be able to meet your friends at the station, whenever they are kind enough to leave London for the purpose of passing a few days with you in the country.

My sister and myself contrived to extract profit as well as pleasure from our little equipage.  During the summer months we frequently drove up to London; the short journey was very pleasant, and this mode of making it possessed the great advantage of costing nothing but 63 cents for the pony, and 12 cents for turnpikes.  Not that we had the temerity to drive through London.  We always left the pony two miles before we reached town, with strict orders to the civil ostler to whose care we confided him to great care of him, and be sure and give him a “good feed.”  We then proceeded on our way in a cab, which cost us no more than we should have paid for one from the station.