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.