“Now, Milly, wait one minute till you hear the bell ring, and then you may come down as fast as you like.”

So Milly waited, her little feet dancing with impatience, till the bell began to ring as if it had gone quite mad.

“Oh, that’s Olly ringing,” cried Milly, rushing off.  And sure enough when she got to the hall there was Olly ringing as if he meant to bring the house down.  He dropped the bell when he saw Milly, and dragged her breathlessly into the dining-room.

And what did Milly see there I wonder?  Why, a heap of red and white roses lying on the breakfast table, a big heap, with odd corners and points sticking up all over it, and under the roses a white napkin, and under the napkin treasures of all sorts—­a book from father, a little work-box from mother, with a picture of Windermere on the outside, and inside the most delightful cottons and needles and bits of bright-coloured stuffs; a china doll’s dinner-service from Aunt Emma, a mug from nurse, a little dish full of big red strawberries from gardener, and last, but not least, Olly’s present—­a black paint-box, with colours and brushes and all complete, and tied up with a little drawing-book which mother had added to make it really useful.  At the top of the heap, too, lay two letters addressed in very big round hand to “Miss Milly Norton,” and one was signed Jacky and the other signed Francis.  Each of these presents had neat little labels fastened on to them, and they were smothered in roses—­deep red and pale pink roses, with the morning dew sprinkled over them.

“We got all those roses, mother and me, this morning, when you was fast asleep, Milly,” shouted Olly, who was capering about like a mad creature.  “Mother pulled me out of bed ever so early, and I putted on my goloshes, and didn’t we get wet just!  Milly, isn’t my paint-box a beauty?”

But it’s no good trying to describe what Milly felt.  She felt as every happy little girl feels on a happy birthday, just a little bit bewitched, as if she had got into another kind of world altogether.

“Now,” said father, after breakfast, “I’m yours, Milly, for all this morning.  What are you going to do with me?”

“Make you into a tiger, father, and shoot you,” said Olly, who would have liked to play at hunting and shooting games all day long.

“I didn’t ask you, sir,” said Mr. Norton, “I’m not yours, I’m Milly’s.  Now, Milly, what shall we do?”

“Will you take us right to the top of Brownholme, father?  You know we haven’t been to the very top yet.”

“Very well, we’ll go if your legs will carry you.  But you must ask them very particularly first how they feel, for it’ll be stiff work for them.”

Not very long after breakfast, and before they started for their walk, Aunt Emma’s pony carriage came rattling up the drive, and she, too, brought flowers for Milly, above all a bunch of water-lilies all wet from the lake; and then she and mother settled under the trees with their books and work while the children started on their walk.