“The beck! why, what’s the matter with it?”

“It’s the rain has made it so full I suppose,” said nurse.  “To-morrow, gardener says, it’ll be over the lawn if the rain goes on.”

“Oh, but it mustn’t go on,” said Milly.  “Now, rain, dear rain, good rain, do go away to-night, right away up into the mountains.  There’s plenty of room for you up there, and down here we don’t want you a bit.  So do be polite and go away.”

But the rain didn’t see any good reason for going away, in spite of Milly’s pretty speeches, and next morning there was the same patter on the window, the same gray sky and dripping garden.  After breakfast there was just a hope of its clearing up.  For about an hour the rain seemed to get less and the clouds a little brighter.  But it soon came on again as fast as ever, and the poor children were very much disappointed.

“Mother,” said Milly, when they had settled down to their lessons again in the drawing-room, “when we get back to Willingham, do you know what I shall do?”

“No, Milly.”

“I shall ask you to take me to see that old gentleman—­you know who I mean—­who told you about the rain.  And I shall say to him, ’please, Mr. Old Gentleman, at first I thought you were quite wrong about the rain, but afterwards I thought you were quite right, and it does rain dreadfully much in the mountains.’”

“Very well, Milly.  But you have only just had a taste of what the rain can do in the lakes you know, so far.  Father and I have been here sometimes when it has rained two or three weeks without stopping.”

“Oh dear!” said Milly, looking extremely melancholy.  “I like the mountains very much, mother; but do you think we’d better come to Ravensnest again after this year?”

“Oh you ungrateful little woman!” said Mrs. Norton, whose love for the place was so real that Milly’s speech gave her quite a pang.  “Have you forgotten all your happy sunshiny days here, just because it has rained for two?  Why, when I was a little girl, and used to come here, the rainy days never made me love the place a bit the less.  I always used to think the fine days made up.”

“But then, mother, you were a nice little girl,” said Milly, throwing her arms round her mother’s neck and kissing her.  “Now, I don’t feel a bit nice this morning.  It makes me so cross not to be able to go out and get flowers and wild strawberries.  And you know at home it hardly ever rains all day.”

“Gardener says sometimes it rains all over the road,” interrupted Olly, “and people can’t walk along, and they have to go right up on the mountains to get past the water place.  And sometimes they have to get a boat to take people across.  Do you think we shall have to go in a boat to church on Sunday, mother?”

“Well, we’re a long way off that yet, Olly.  It will take a good many days’ rain to flood the roads so deep that we can’t get along them, and this is only the second rainy day.  Come, I don’t think we’ve got much to complain of.  Now suppose, instead of doing all your lessons this morning, you were presently to write to Jacky and Francis—­you write to Jacky, Milly, and Olly to Francis.  Don’t you think that would be a good thing?”