"You’ve probably pounds and pounds, but I brought some over, just because I was so painfully proud of its colour!" said Aileen, beginning to unpack her basket swiftly.  "It wouldn’t ’come’ last night; I churned it until my arm wouldn’t churn any more, and then I hung it in the well all night, and attacked it again at six o’clock this morning.  Then it came quite meekly.  It’s the only way to deal with it in summer, isn’t it?"  The butter emerged, firm and yellow, from a wrapping of wet cloths and cabbage leaves.  "Put that meat in the safe, Bertha, like a good girl—it’s a great day for flies.  Polly, that’s cake; you unwrap it, and if you don’t say it’s a good cake, I won’t be friends with you.  Now we’ll have scones to try my butter.  What have you eaten to-day, ’Possum?"