“You silly boy!” said Aunt Emma, “as if I was going to keep you indoors listening to stories just now, when the sun’s shining for the first time for three whole days.  I promised you my story on a wet day, and you shall have it—­never fear.  There’ll be plenty more wet days before you go away from Ravensnest, I’m afraid.  There goes my knitting, and mother’s putting away her work, and father’s stretching himself—­which means we’re all going for a walk.”

“To fetch Becky and Tiza, mother?” asked Milly; and when mother said “Yes, if you like,” the two children raced off down the long passage to the nursery in the highest possible spirits.

Soon they were all walking along the dripping drive past high banks of wet fern, and under trees which threw down showers of rain-drops at every puff of wind.  And when they got into the road beside the river the children shouted with glee to see their brown shallow little river turned into a raging flood of water, which went sweeping and hurrying through the fields, and every now and then spreading itself over them and making great pools among the poor drowned hay.  They ran on to look for the stepping-stones, but to their amazement there was not a stone to be seen.  The water was rushing over them with a great roar and swirl, and Milly shivered a little bit when she remembered their bathe there a week before.

“Well, old woman,” said Mr. Norton, coming up to them, “I don’t suppose you’d like, a bathe to-day—­quite.”

“If we were in there now,” said Olly, watching the river with great excitement, “the water would push us down krick! and the fishes would come and etten us all up.”

“They’d be a long time gobbling you up, Master Fatty,” said his father.  “Come, run along; it’s too cold to stand about.”

But how brilliant and beautiful it was after the rain!  Little tiny trickling rivers were running down all the roads, and sparkling in the sun; the wet leaves and grass were glittering, and the great mountains all around stood up green and fresh against the blue sky, as if the rain had washed the dust off them from top to toe, and left them clean and bright.  Two things only seemed the worse for the rain—­the hay and the wild strawberries.  Milly peered into all the banks along the road where she generally found her favourite little red berries, but most of them were washed away, and the few miserable things that were left tasted of nothing but rain water.  And as for the hay-fields, they looked so wet and drenched that it was hard to believe any sunshine could ever dry them.

“Poor John Backhouse!” said Aunt Emma; “I’m afraid his hay is a good deal spoilt.  Aren’t you glad father’s not a farmer, Milly?”

“Why, Aunt Emma,” said Milly, “I’m always wishing father was a farmer.  I want to be like Becky, and call the cows, and mind the baby all by myself.  It must be nice feeding the chickens, and making the hay, and taking the milk around.”