“Yes, all that’s very nice, but how would you like your hay washed away, and your corn beaten down, and your fruit all spoilt?  Those are things that are constantly happening to John Backhouse, I expect, in the rainy country.”

“Yes, and it won’t always be summer,” said Milly, considering.  “I don’t think I should like to stay in that little weeny house all the winter.  Is it very cold here in the winter, Aunt Emma?”

“Not very, generally.  But last winter was very cold here, and the snow lay on the ground for weeks and weeks.  On Christmas eve, do you know, Milly, I wanted to have a children’s party in my kitchen, and what do you think I did?  The snow was lying deep on the roads, so I sent out two sledges.”

“What are sledges?” asked Olly.

“Carriages with the wheels taken off and two long pieces of wood fastened on instead, so that they slip along smoothly over the snow.  And my old coachman drove one and my gardener the other, and they went round all the farmhouses near by, and gathered up the children, little and big, into the sledges, till the coachman had got eight in his sledge, and the gardener had got nine in his, and then they came trotting back with the bells round the horses’ necks jingling and clattering, and two such merry loads of rosy-faced children.  I wish you had been there; I gave them tea in the kitchen, and afterward we had a Christmas tree in the drawing-room.”

“Oh what fun,” said Milly.  “Why didn’t you ask us too, Aunt Emma?  We could have come quite well in the train, you know.  But how did the children get home?”

“We covered them up warm with rugs and blankets, and sent them back in the sledges.  And they looked so happy with their toys and buns cuddled up in their arms, that it did one’s heart good to see them.”

“Mind you ask us next time, Aunt Emma,” said Milly, hanging round her neck coaxingly.

“Mind you get two pairs of wings by that time, then,” said Aunt Emma, “for mother’s not likely to let you come to my Christmas tree unless you promise to fly there and back.  But suppose, instead of your coming to me, I come to you next Christmas?”

“Oh yes! yes!” cried Olly, who had just joined Aunt Emma and Milly, “come to our Christmas tree, Aunt Emma.  We’ll give you ever such nice things—­a ball and a top, and a train—­perhaps—­and—­”

“As if Aunt Emma would care for those kind of things!” said Milly.  “No, you shall give her some muffetees, you know, to keep her hands warm, and I’ll make her a needlebook.  But, Aunt Emma, do listen!  What can be the matter?”

They were just climbing the little bit of steep road which led to the farm, and suddenly they heard somebody roaring and screaming, and then an angry voice scolding, and then a great clatter, and then louder roaring than ever.

“What is the matter?” cried Milly, running on to the farm door, which was open.  But just as she got there, out rushed a tattered little figure with a tear-stained face, and hair flying behind.