On Friday morning the children and their father trudged up very early to the farm to get news of Becky. She had had a bad night Mr. Backhouse said, but she had taken some milk and beef-tea; she knew her father and mother quite well, and she had asked twice for Tiza. The doctor said they must just be patient. Quiet and rest would make her well again, and nothing else, and Tiza was not to go home for a day or two.

As for poor Tiza, a long sleep had cheered her up greatly, and when Milly and Olly went to take her out with them after breakfast, they found her almost as merry and chatty as usual. But she didn’t like being kept at the Wheelers’s, though they were very kind to her; and it was all Mrs. Wheeler could do to prevent her from slipping up to the farm unknown to anybody.

“They don’t have porridge for breakfast,” said Tiza, tossing her head, when she and Milly were out together. “Mother always gives us porridge. And I won’t sit next Charlie. He’s always dirtying hisself. He stickied hisself just all over this morning with treacle. Mother would have given him a clout.”

However, on the whole, she was as good as such a wild creature could be, and the children and she had some capital times together. Wheeler the gardener let them gather strawberries and currants for making jam, a delightful piece of work, which helped to keep Tiza out of mischief and make her contented with staying away from home more than anything else. At last, after three days, the doctor said she might come home if she would promise to be quiet in the house. So one bright evening Tiza slipped into the farmhouse and squeezed in after her mother to the little room where Becky was lying, a white-faced feverish little creature, low down among the pillows.

“Becky,” said Tiza, sitting down beside her sister, as if nothing had happened, “here’s some strawberries. Wheeler gave me some. You can have some if you want.”

“Just one,” said Becky, in her weak shaky voice, smiling at her; and Tiza knelt on the bed and stuffed one softly into her mouth.

“You’ll have to nurse baby now, Tiza,” said Becky presently; “he’s been under mother’s feet terrible. Mind you don’t let him eat nasty things. He’ll get at the coals if you don’t mind him.”

“I’ll not let him,” said Tiza shortly, setting to work on her own strawberries.

All this didn’t sound very affectionate; but I think all the same Tiza did love Becky, and I believe she tried to do her best in her own funny way while Becky was ill. Baby screamed a good deal certainly when she nursed him, and it was quite impossible of course for Tiza to keep out of mischief altogether for two or three weeks. Still, on the whole, she was a help to her mother; while as for Becky she was never quite happy when Tiza was out of the house. Becky, like Milly, had a way of loving everybody about her, and next to her mother she loved Tiza best of anybody.

After all, the children were able to say good-bye to Becky. Just the day before they were to go away Mr. Backhouse came down to say that Becky would like to see them very much if they could come, and the doctor said they might.

So up they went; Milly a good deal excited, and Olly very curious to see what Becky would look like. Mr. Backhouse took them in, and they found Becky lying comfortably on a little bed, with a patchwork counterpane, and her shoulders and arms covered up in a red flannel dressing-gown that Aunt Emma had sent her.

Milly kissed her, and Olly shook her hand, and they didn’t all quite know what to say.

“Is your back better?” said Milly at last. “I’m so glad the doctor let us come.”

“Haven’t you got a bump?” asked Olly, looking at her with all his eyes. “We thought you’d have a great black bump on your fore-head, you know—ever so big.”

“No, it’s a cut,” said Becky; “there now, you can see how it’s plastered up.”

“Did it hurt?” said Olly, “did you kick? I should have kicked. And does the doctor give you nasty medicine?”

“No,” said Becky, “I don’t have any now. And it wasn’t nasty at all what I had first. And now I may have strawberries and raspberries, and Mr. Wheeler sends mother a plate everyday.”

“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. XR7kIKsJBuVkwnNIENmwuCZ8u6u5t52c5Vb4H+e/eIo2RKo5bXlO79p+GIonZhpz