“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.”