Then came the putting up the letters, addressing them, and stamping them, all of which the children enjoyed very much, and by the time they were laid on the hall table ready to go to the post it was nearly dinner-time.

How the beck did roar that afternoon.  And when the children looked out from the drawing-room window they could see a little flood on the lawn, where the water had come over the side of the stream.  While they were having their tea, with mother sitting by, working and chattering to them, they heard a knock at the door, and when they opened it there was father standing in the unused kitchen, with the water running off his waterproof coat, making little streams all over the stone floor.

“I have been down to look at the river,” he said to Mrs. Norton.  “Keep off, children!  I’m much too wet to touch.  Such rain!  It does know how to come down here!  The water’s over the road just by the stepping-stones.  John Backhouse says if it goes on another twenty-four hours like this, there’ll be no getting to Wanwick by the road, on foot.”

“Father,” said Milly, looking at him with a very solemn face, “wouldn’t it be dreadful if it went on raining and raining, and if the river came up and up, right up to the drive and into the hall, and we all had to sit upstairs, and the butcher couldn’t bring us any meat, and John Backhouse couldn’t bring us any milk, and we all died of hunger.”

“Then they would put us into some black boxes,” said Olly, cheerfully, with his mouth full of bread and butter, “and they would put the black boxes into some boats, and take us right away and bury us krick—­wouldn’t they, mother?”

“Well, but—­” said Mr. Norton, who had by this time got rid of his wet coat, and was seated by Milly, helping himself to some tea, “suppose we got into the boats before we were dead, and rowed away to Windermere station?”

“Oh no! father,” said Milly, who always liked her stories to be as gloomy as possible, “they wouldn’t know anything about us till we were dead you know, and then they’d come and find us, and be very sorry for us, and say, ‘Oh dear! oh dear! what a pity!’”

Olly began to look so dismal as Milly’s fancies grew more and more melancholy, that Mrs. Norton took to laughing at them all.  What did they know about Westmoreland rain indeed.  This was nothing—­just nothing at all; she could remember some floods in the wintertime, when she was a little girl, and used to stay with Aunt Emma and great-grandmamma; but as for this, why, it was a good summer wetting, and that was all.

A romp sent the children to bed in excellent spirits again.  This time both Milly and Olly stood at the window together, and told the rain to be sure to go to Spain that night, and never come back again while they were at Ravensnest.

“Or you might go to Willingham, you know, dear Mr. Rain,” said Milly; “I daresay mother’s flowers want a good watering.  And there’s Spot—­you might give her a good washing—­she can wash herself, but she won’t.  Only we don’t want you here, Mr. Rain.”