"I don't think it's fair that little boys shouldn't never be ill," said Olly, with his eyes fastened on Becky's plate of strawberries, which was on the chest of drawers.

"Oh, you funny boy," said Milly, "why, mother gives you some every day though you aren't ill; and I'm sure you wouldn't like staying in bed."

"Yes, I should," said Olly, just for the sake of contradicting. "Do you know, Becky, we've got a secret, and we're not to tell it you, only Milly and I are going to--"

"Don't!" said Milly, putting her hand over, his mouth. "You'll tell in a minute. You're always telling secrets."

"Well, just half, Milly, I won't tell it all you know. It's just like something burning inside my mouth. We're going to make you something, Becky, when we get home. Something be--ootiful, you know. And you can look at it in bed, and we won't make it big, so you can turn over the pages, and--"

"Be quiet, Olly," said Milly, "I should think Becky'll guess now. It'll come by post, Becky. Mother's going to help us make it. You'll like it I know."

"It's--it's--a picture-book!" said Olly, in a loud whisper, putting his head down to Becky. "You won't tell, will you?"

"Oh, you unkind boy," said Milly, pouting. "I'll never have a secret with you again."

But Becky looked very pleased, and said she would like a picture-book she thought very much, for it was dull sometimes when mother was busy and Tiza was nursing baby. So perhaps, after all, it didn't matter having told her.

"I'm going to write to you, Becky," said Milly, when the time came to go away, "and at Christmas I'll send you a Christmas card, and perhaps some day we'll come here again you know."

"And then we'll milk the cows," said Olly, "won't we, Becky? And I'll ride on your big horse. Mr. Backhouse says I may ride all alone some day when I'm big; when I'm sixty--no, when I'm ninety-five you know."

And then Milly and Olly kissed Becky's pale little face and went away, while poor little Becky looked after them as if she was _very_ sorry to see the last of them; and outside there were Tiza and baby and Mrs.

Backhouse and even John Backhouse himself, waiting to say good-bye to them. It made Milly cry a little bit, and she ran away fast down the hill, while Tiza and Olly were still trying which could squeeze hands hardest.

"Oh, you dear mountains," said Milly, as she and nurse walked along together. "Look Nana, aren't they lovely?"

They did look beautiful this last evening. The sun was shining on them so brightly that everything on them, up to the very top, was clear and plain, and high up, ever so far away, were little white dots moving, which Milly knew were cows feeding.

"Good-bye river, good-bye stepping-stones, good-bye doves, good-bye fly-catchers! Mind you don't any of you go away till we come back again."

But I should find it very hard to tell you all the good-byes that Milly and Olly said to the places and people at Ravensnest, to the woods and the hay-fields, and the beck, to Aunt Emma's parrot, John Backhouse's cows, to Windermere Lake and Rydal Lake, above all to dear Aunt Emma herself.

"Mind you come at Christmas," shouted both the children, as the train moved away from Windermere station and left Aunt Emma standing on the platform; and Aunt Emma nodded and smiled and waved her handkerchief to them till they were quite out of sight.

"Mother," said Milly, when they could not see Aunt Emma any more, and the last bit of Brownholme was slipping away, away, quite out of sight, "I think Ravensnest is the nicest place we ever stopped at. And I don't think the rain matters either. I'm going to tell your old gentleman so.

He said it rained in the mountains, and it does, mother--doesn't it? but he said the rain spoilt everything, and it doesn't--not a bit."

"Why, there's that curious old fairy been sprinkling dust in your eyes too, Milly!"

But something or other had been sprinkling tears in mother's. For to the old people there is nothing sweeter than to see the young ones opening their hearts to all that they themselves have loved and rejoiced over.

So the chain of life goes on, and joy gives birth to joy and love to love.