[Illustration:  “‘Haven’t you got a bump?’ asked Olly”]

Milly kissed her, and Olly shook her hand, and they didn’t all quite know what to say.

“Is your back better?” said Milly at last.  “I’m so glad the doctor let us come.”

“Haven’t you got a bump?” asked Olly, looking at her with all his eyes.  “We thought you’d have a great black bump on your fore-head, you know—­ever so big.”

“No, it’s a cut,” said Becky; “there now, you can see how it’s plastered up.”

“Did it hurt?” said Olly, “did you kick?  I should have kicked.  And does the doctor give you nasty medicine?”

“No,” said Becky, “I don’t have any now.  And it wasn’t nasty at all what I had first.  And now I may have strawberries and raspberries, and Mr. Wheeler sends mother a plate everyday.”

“I don’t think it’s fair that little boys shouldn’t never be ill,” said Olly, with his eyes fastened on Becky’s plate of strawberries, which was on the chest of drawers.

“Oh, you funny boy,” said Milly, “why, mother gives you some every day though you aren’t ill; and I’m sure you wouldn’t like staying in bed.”

“Yes, I should,” said Olly, just for the sake of contradicting.  “Do you know, Becky, we’ve got a secret, and we’re not to tell it you, only Milly and I are going to—­”

“Don’t!” said Milly, putting her hand over, his mouth.  “You’ll tell in a minute.  You’re always telling secrets.”

“Well, just half, Milly, I won’t tell it all you know.  It’s just like something burning inside my mouth.  We’re going to make you something, Becky, when we get home.  Something be—­ootiful, you know.  And you can look at it in bed, and we won’t make it big, so you can turn over the pages, and—­”

“Be quiet, Olly,” said Milly, “I should think Becky’ll guess now.  It’ll come by post, Becky.  Mother’s going to help us make it.  You’ll like it I know.”

“It’s—­it’s—­a picture-book!” said Olly, in a loud whisper, putting his head down to Becky.  “You won’t tell, will you?”

“Oh, you unkind boy,” said Milly, pouting.  “I’ll never have a secret with you again.”

But Becky looked very pleased, and said she would like a picture-book she thought very much, for it was dull sometimes when mother was busy and Tiza was nursing baby.  So perhaps, after all, it didn’t matter having told her.

“I’m going to write to you, Becky,” said Milly, when the time came to go away, “and at Christmas I’ll send you a Christmas card, and perhaps some day we’ll come here again you know.”

“And then we’ll milk the cows,” said Olly, “won’t we, Becky?  And I’ll ride on your big horse.  Mr. Backhouse says I may ride all alone some day when I’m big; when I’m sixty—­no, when I’m ninety-five you know.”

And then Milly and Olly kissed Becky’s pale little face and went away, while poor little Becky looked after them as if she was very sorry to see the last of them; and outside there were Tiza and baby and Mrs. Backhouse and even John Backhouse himself, waiting to say good-bye to them.  It made Milly cry a little bit, and she ran away fast down the hill, while Tiza and Olly were still trying which could squeeze hands hardest.