Now we have come to a chapter which is going to be half merry and half sad.  I have not told you any sad things about Milly and Olly up till now, I think.  They were such happy little people, that there was nothing sad to tell you.  They cried sometimes, of course ­you remember Milly cried when Olly stickied her doll ­but generally, by the time they had dried up their tears they had quite forgotten what they were crying about; and as for any real trouble, why they didn’t know what it could possibly be like.  But now, just as they were going away from Ravensnest, came a real sad thing, and you’ll hear very soon how it happened.

After those three wet days it was sometimes fine and sometimes rainy at Ravensnest, but never so rainy as to keep the Nortons in all day.  And every now and then there were splendid days, when the children and their father and mother were out all day long, wandering over the mountains, or walking over to Aunt Emma’s or tramping along the well-known roads to Wanwick on one side, and the little village of Rydal and Rydal Lake on the other.  They had another row on Windermere; and one fine evening Mr. Norton borrowed a friend’s boat, and they went out fishing for perch on Rydal Lake, the loveliest little lake in the world, lying softly in a green mountain cup, and dotted with islands, which seemed to the children when they landed on them like little bits of fairyland dropped into the blue water.

And then! crown of delights! came the haymaking.  There were long fine days, when the six small creatures ­Milly, Olly, Becky, Tiza, Bessie, and Charlie ­followed John Backhouse and his men about in the hayfields from early morning till evening, helping to make the hay, or simply rolling about like a parcel of kittens in the flowery fragrant heaps.

Aunt Emma was often at Ravensnest, and the children learned to love her better and better, so that even wild little Olly would remember to bring her stool, and carry her shawl, and change her plate at dinner; and Milly, who was always clinging to somebody, was constantly puzzled to know whose pocket to sit in, mother’s or Aunt Emma’s.

Then there was the farmyard, the cows, and the milking, and the chickens.  Everything about them seemed delightful to Milly and Olly, and the top of everything was reached when one evening John Backhouse mounted both the children on his big carthorse Dobbin, and they and Dobbin together dragged the hay home in triumph.

And now they had only one week more to stay at Ravensnest.  But that week was a most important week, for it was to contain no less a day than Milly’s birthday.  Milly would be seven years old on the 15th of July, and for about a week before the 15th, Milly’s little head could think of nothing else.  Olly too was very much excited about it, for though Milly of course was the queen of the day, and all the presents were for her, not for him, still it was good times for everybody on Milly’s birthday; besides which, he had his own little secret with mother about his present to Milly, a secret which made him very happy, but which he was on the point of telling at least a hundred times a day.

“Father,” said Milly, about four days before the birthday, when they were all wandering about after tea one evening in the high garden which was now a paradise of ripe red strawberries and fruit of every kind, “does everybody have birthdays?  Do policemen have birthdays?”

“I expect so, Milly,” said Mr. Norton, laughing, “but they haven’t any time to remember them.”

“But, father, what’s the good of having birthdays if you don’t keep them, and have presents and all that?  And do cats and dogs have birthdays?  I should like to find out Spot’s birthday.  We’d give her cream instead of milk, you know, and I’d tie a blue ribbon round her neck, and one round her tail like the queen’s sheep in mother’s story.”

“I don’t suppose Spot would thank you at all,” said Mr. Norton.  “The cream would make her ill, and the ribbon would fidget her dreadfully till she pulled it off.”

“Oh dear!” sighed Milly.  “Well, I suppose Spot had better not have any birthday then.  But, father, what do you think?  Becky and Tiza don’t care about their birthdays a bit.  Becky could hardly remember when hers was, and they never have any presents unless Aunt Emma gives them one, or people to tea, or anything.’

“Well, you see, Milly, when people have only just pennies and shillings enough to buy bread and meat to eat, and clothes to put on, they can’t go spending money on presents; and when they’re very anxious and busy all the year round they can’t be remembering birthdays and taking pains about them like richer people can, who have less to trouble them, and whose work does not take up quite so much time.”

“Well, but why don’t the rich people remember the poor people’s birthdays for them, father?  Then they could give them presents, and ask them to tea and all, you know.”

“Yes, that would be a very good arrangement,” said Mr. Norton, smiling at her eager little face.  “Only, somehow, Milly, things don’t come right like that in this world.”

“Well, I’m going to try and remember Becky’s and Tiza’s birthdays,” said Milly.  “I’ll tell mother to put them down in her pocket-book ­won’t you, mother?  Oh, what fun!  I’ll send them birthday cards, and they’ll be so surprised, and wonder why; and then they’ll say, ’Oh, why, of course it’s our birthday!’ ­No, not our birthday ­but you know what I mean, father.”

“Well, but, Milly,” asked Mrs. Norton, “have you made up your mind what you want to do this birthday?”

Milly stopped suddenly, with her hands behind her, opposite her mother, with her lips tightly pressed together, her eyes smiling, as if there was a tremendous secret hidden somewhere.

“Well, monkey, out with it.  What have you got hidden away in your little head?”

“Well, mother,” said Milly, slowly, “I don’t want to have anybody to tea.  I want to go out to tea with somebody.  Now can you guess?”

“With Aunt Emma?”

“Oh no, Aunt Emma’s coming over here all day.  She promised she would.”

“With Becky and Tiza?”

Milly nodded, and screwed up her little lips tighter than ever.

“But I don’t expect Mrs. Backhouse will want the trouble of having you two to tea.

“Oh mother, she won’t mind a bit.  I know she won’t; because Becky told me one day her mother would like us very much to come some time if you’d let us.  And Nana could come and help Mrs. Backhouse, and we could all wash up the tea-things afterwards, like we did at the picnic.”

“Then Tiza mustn’t sit next me,” said Olly, who had been listening in silence to all the arrangements.  “She takes away my bread and butter when I’m not looking, and I don’t like it, not a bit.”

“No, Olly dear, she shan’t,” said Milly, taking his hand and fondling it, as if she were at least twenty years older.  “I’ll sit on one side of you and Becky on the other,” a prospect with which Olly was apparently satisfied, for he made no more objections.

“Well, you must ask Mrs. Backhouse yourselves,” said Mrs. Norton.  “And if it is her washing-day, or inconvenient to her at all, you mustn’t think of going, you know.”

So early next morning, Milly and Nana and Olly went up to the farm, and came back with the answer that Mrs. Backhouse would be very pleased to see them at tea on Thursday, the 15th, and that John Backhouse would have cut the hay-field by the river by then, and they could have a romp in the hay afterwards.

Wednesday was a deeply interesting day to Olly.  He and his mother went over by themselves to Wanwick, and they bought something which the shopwoman at the toy-shop wrapped up in a neat little parcel, and which Olly carried home, looking as important as a little king.

“Milly,” he began at dinner, “wouldn’t you like to know about your presents?  But of course I shan’t tell you about mine.  Perhaps I’m not going to give you one at all.  Oh, mother,” in a loud whisper to Mrs. Norton, “did you put it away safe where she can’t see?”

“Oh, you silly boy,” said Milly, “you’ll tell me if you don’t take care.”

“No, I shan’t.  I wouldn’t tell you if you were to go on asking me all day.  It isn’t very big, you know, Milly, and ­and ­it isn’t pretty outside ­only ­”

“Be quiet, chatterbox,” said Mr. Norton putting his hand over Olly’s mouth, “you’ll tell in another minute, and then there’ll be no fun to-morrow.”

So Olly with great difficulty kept quiet, and began eating up his pudding very fast, as if that was the only way of keeping his little tongue out of mischief.

“Father,” he said after dinner, “do take Milly out for a walk, and mother shall take me.  Then I can’t tell, you know.”

So the two went out different ways, and Olly kept away from Milly all day, in great fear lest somehow or other his secret should fly out of him in spite of all his efforts to keep it in.  At night the children made nurse hurry them to bed, so that when mother came to tuck them up, as she generally did, she found the pair fast asleep, and nothing left to kiss but two curly heads buried in the pillows.

“Bless their hearts,” said nurse to Mrs. Norton, “they can think of nothing but to-morrow.  They’ll be sadly disappointed if it rains.”

But the stars came out, and the new moon shone softly all night on the great fir trees and the rosebuds and the little dancing beck in the Ravensnest garden; and when Milly awoke next morning the sun was shining, and Brownholme was towering up clear and high into the breezy blue sky, and the trees were throwing cool shadows on the dewy lawn around the house.

“Oh dear!” said Milly, jumping up, her face flushing with joy “it’s my birthday, and it’s fine.  Nana, bring me my things, please. ­But where’s Olly?”

Where indeed was Olly?  There was his little bed, but there was a nightdress rolled up in it, and not a wisp of his brown curls was to be seen anywhere.

“Why, Miss Milly, are you woke up at last?  I hardly thought you’d have slept so late this morning.  Many happy returns of the day to you,” said nurse, giving her a hearty hug.

“Thank you, dear nurse.  Oh, it is so nice having birthdays.  But where can Olly be?”

“Don’t you trouble your head about him,” said nurse mysteriously, and not another word could Milly get out of her.  She had just slipped on her white cotton frock when mother opened the door.

“Well, birthday-girl!  The top of the morning to you, and many, many happy returns of the day.”

Whereupon Milly and mother went through a great deal of kissing which need not be described, and then mother helped her brush her hair, and put on her ribbon and tie her sash, so that in another minute or two she was quite ready to go down.

“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.

But first Milly had drawn mother into a corner where no one could see, and there, with a couple of tears in her two blue eyes, she had whispered in a great hurry, so that Mrs. Norton could scarcely hear, “I don’t want to have everything just as I like, to-day, mother.  Can’t I do what somebody else likes?  I’d rather.”

Which means that Milly was a good deal excited, and her heart very full, and that she was thinking of how, a year before, her birthday had been rather spoilt toward the end of it by a little bit of crossness and self-will, that she remembered afterward with a pang for many a long day.  Since then, Milly had learnt a good deal more of that long, long lesson, which we go on learning, big people and little people, all our lives ­the lesson of self-forgetting ­of how love brings joy, and to be selfish is to be sad; and her birthday seemed to bring back to her all that she had been learning.

“Dear little woman,” said Mrs. Norton, putting back her tangled hair from her anxious little face, “go and be happy.  That’s what we all like to-day.  Besides, you’ll find plenty of ways of doing what other people like before the end of the day without my inventing any.  Run along now, and climb away.  Mind you don’t let Olly tumble into bogs, and mind you bring me a bunch of ferns for the dinner-table ­and there’ll be two things done at any rate.”

So away ran Milly; and all the morning she and Olly and father scrambled and climbed, and raced and chatted, on the green back of old Brownholme.  They went to say good-morning to John Backhouse’s cows in the “intake,” as he called his top field, and they just peeped over the wall at the fierce young bull he had bought at Penrith fair a few days before, and which looked as if, birthdays or no birthdays, he could have eaten Milly at two mouthfuls, and swallowed Olly down afterwards without knowing it.

Then they climbed and climbed after father, till, just as Olly was beginning to feel his legs to make sure they weren’t falling off, they were so tired and shaky ­there they were standing on the great pile of stones which marks the top of the mountain ­the very tip-top of all its green points and rocks and grassy stretches.  By this time the children knew the names of most of the mountains around, and of all the lakes.  They went through them now like a lesson with their father; and even Olly remembered a great many, and could chatter about Helvellyn, and Fairfield, and Langdale Pikes, as if he had trudged to the top of them all himself.

Then came the getting down again.  Father and Milly and Olly hand-in-hand, racing over the short fine grass, startling the little black-faced sheep, and racing down the steep bits, where Milly and Olly generally tumbled over in some sort of a heap at the bottom.  As for the flowers they gathered, there were so many I have no time to tell you about them ­wood-flowers and bog-flowers and grass-flowers, and ferns of all sizes to mix with them, from the great Osmunda, which grew along the Ravensnest Beck, down to the tiny little parsley fern.  It was all delightful ­the sights and the sounds, and the fresh mountain wind that blew them about on the top so that long afterward Milly used to look back to that walk on Brownholme when she was seven years old as one of the merriest times she ever spent.

Dinner was very welcome after all this scrambling; and after dinner came a quiet time in the garden, when father read aloud to mother and Aunt Emma, and the children kept still and listened to as much as they could understand, at least until they went to sleep, which they both did lying on a rug at Aunt Emma’s feet.  Milly couldn’t understand how this had happened at all, when she found herself waking up and rubbing her eyes, but I think it was natural enough after their long walk in the sun and wind.

At four o’clock nurse came for them, and when they had been put into clean frocks and pinafores, she took them up to the farm.  Milly and Olly felt that this was a very solemn occasion, and they walked up to the farmhouse door hand-in-hand, feeling as shy as if they had never been there before.  But at the door were Becky and Tiza waiting for them, as smart as new pins, with shining hair, and red ribbons under their little white collars; and the children no sooner caught sight of one another than all their shyness flew away, and they began to chatter as usual.

In the farmhouse kitchen were Bessie and Charlie, and such a comfortable tea spread out on a long table, covered with a red and black woollen table-cloth instead of a white one.  Becky and Tiza had filled two tumblers with meadow-sweet and blue campanula, which stood up grandly in the middle, and there were two home-made cakes at each end, and some of Sally’s brown eggs, and piles of tempting bread and butter.

Each of the children had their gift for Milly too:  Becky had plaited her a basket of rushes, a thing she had often tried to teach Milly how to make for herself, and Tiza pushed a bunch of wild raspberries into her hand, and ran away before Milly could say thank you; Bessie shyly produced a Christmas card that somebody had once sent to her; and even Charlie had managed to provide himself with a bunch of the wild yellow poppies which grew on the wall of the Ravensnest garden, and were a joy to all beholders.

Then Mrs. Backhouse put Milly at one end of the table, while she began to pour out tea at the other, and the feast began.  Certainly, Milly thought, it was much more exciting going out to tea at a farmhouse than having children to tea with you at home, just as you might anywhere, on any day in the year.  There were the big hens coming up to the door and poking in their long necks to take a look at them; there were the pigeons circling round and round in the yard; there was the sound of milking going on in the shed close by, and many other sights and sounds which were new and strange and delightful.

As for Olly, he was very much taken up for a time with the red and black table-cloth, and could not be kept from peering underneath it from time to time, as if he suspected that the white table-cloth he was generally accustomed to had been hidden away underneath for a joke.  But when the time for cake came, Olly forgot the table-cloth altogether.  He had never seen a cake quite like the bun-loaf, which kind Mrs. Backhouse had made herself for the occasion, and of which she had given him a hunch, so in his usual inquisitive way he began to turn it over and over, as if by looking at it long enough he could find out how it was made and all about it.  Presently, when the others were all quietly enjoying their bun-loaf, Olly’s shrill little voice was heard saying ­while he put two separate fingers on two out of the few currants in his piece: 

“This currant says to that currant, ’I’m here, where are you?  You’re so far off I can’t see you nowhere.’”

“Olly, be quiet,” said Milly.

“Well, but, Milly, I can’t help it; it’s so funny.  There’s only three currants in my bit, and cookie puts such a lot in at home.  I’m pretending they’re little children wanting to play, only they can’t, they’re so far off.  There, I’ve etten one up.  Now there’s only two.  That’s you and me, Milly.  I’ll eat you up first ­krick!”

“Never mind about the currants, little master,” said Mrs. Backhouse, laughing at him.  “It’s nice and sweet any way, and you can eat as much of it as you like, which is more than you can of rich cakes.”

Olly thought there was something in this, and by the time he had got through his second bit of bun-loaf he had quite made up his mind that he would get Susan to make bun-loaves at home too.

They were just finishing tea when there was a great clatter outside, and by came the hay-cart with John Backhouse leading the horse, and two men walking beside it.

“We’re going to carry all the hay in yon lower field presently,” he shouted to his wife as he passed.  “Send the young ’uns down to see.”

Up they all started, and presently the whole party were racing down the hill to the riverfield, with Mrs. Backhouse and her baby walking soberly with nurse behind them.  Yes, there lay the hay piled up in large cocks on the fresh clean-swept carpet of bright green grass, and in the middle of the field stood the hay-cart with two horses harnessed, one man standing in it to press down and settle the hay as John Backhouse and two other men handed it up to him on pitchforks.  Olly went head over heels into the middle of one of the cocks, followed by Charlie, and would have liked to go head over heels into all the rest, but Mr. Norton, who had come into the field with mother and Aunt Emma, told him he must be content to play with two cocks in one of the far corners of the field without disturbing the others, which were all ready for carrying, and that if he and Charlie strewed the hay about they must tidy it up before John Backhouse wanted to put it on the cart.  So Olly and Charlie went off to their corner, and for a little while all the other children played there too.  Milly had invented a game called the “Babes in the Wood,” in which two children were the babes and pretended to die on the grass, and all the rest were the robins, and covered them up with hay instead of leaves.  She and Tiza made beautiful babes:  they put their handkerchiefs over their faces and lay as still as mice, till Olly had piled so much hay on the top of them that there was not a bit of them to be seen anywhere, while Bessie began to cry out as if she was suffocated before they had put two good armfuls over her.

Presently, however, Milly got tired; and she and Tiza walked off by themselves and sat down by the river to get cool.  The water in the river was quite low again now, and the children could watch the tiny minnows darting and flashing about by the bank, and even amuse themselves by fancying every now and then that they saw a trout shooting across the clear brown water.  Tiza had quite left off being shy now with Milly, and the two chattered away, Milly telling Tiza all about her school, and Jacky and Francis, and Spot and the garden at home; and Tiza telling Milly about her father’s new bull, how frightened she and Becky were of him, and how father meant to make the fence stronger for fear he should get out and toss people.

“What a happy little party,” said Aunt Emma to mother looking round the field; “there’s nothing like hay for children.”

By this time the hay-cart was quite full, and crack went John Backhouse’s whip, as he took hold of the first horse’s head and gave him a pull forward to start the cart on its way to the farm.

“Gee-up,” shouted John in his loud cheery voice, and the horse made a step forward, while the children round cried “Hurrah!” and waved their hands.  But suddenly there was a loud piteous cry which made John give the horse a sudden push back and drop his whip, and then, from where they sat, Milly and Tiza heard a sound of crying and screaming, while everybody in the field ran toward the hay-cart.  They ran too; what could have happened?

Just as they came up to the crowd of people round the cart, Milly saw her father with something in his arms.  And this something was Becky ­poor little Becky, with a great mark on her temple, and her eyes quite shut, and such a white face!

“Oh, mother! mother!” cried Milly, rushing up to her, “tell me, mother, what is the matter with Becky?”

But Mrs. Norton had no time to attend to her.  She was running to meet Mrs. Backhouse, who had come hurrying up from another part of the field with the baby in her arms.

“She was under the cart when it moved on,” said Mrs. Norton, taking the baby from her.  “We none of us know how it happened.  She must have been trying to hand up some hay at the last moment and tumbled under.  I don’t think her head is much hurt.”

On ran Mrs. Backhouse, and Milly and her mother followed.

“Better let me carry her up now without moving her,” said Mr. Norton, as Mrs. Backhouse tried to take the little bundle from him.  “She has fainted, I think.  We must get some water at the stream.”  So on he went, with the pale frightened mother, while the others followed.  Aunt Emma had got Tiza and Milly by the hand, and was trying to comfort them.

“We hope she is not much hurt, darlings; the wheel did not go over her, thank God.  It was just upon her when her father backed the horse.  But it must have crushed her I’m afraid, and there was something hanging under the cart which gave her that knock on the temple.  Look, there is one of the men starting off for the doctor.”

Whereupon Tiza, who had kept quiet till then, burst into a loud fit of crying, and threw herself down on the grass.

“Nurse,” called Aunt Emma, “stay here with these two poor little ones while I go and see if I can be of any use.”

So nurse came and sat beside them, and Milly crept up to her for comfort.  But poor little Tiza lay with her face buried in the grass and nothing they could say to her seemed to reach her little deaf ears.

Meanwhile, Aunt Emma hurried after the others, and presently caught them up at a stream where Mr. Norton had stopped to bathe Becky’s head and face.  The cold water had just revived her when Aunt Emma came up, and for one moment she opened her heavy blue eyes and looked at her mother, who was bending over her, and then they shut again.  But her little hand went feebly searching for her mother, who caught it up and kissed it.

“Oh, Miss Emma, Miss Emma,” she said, pointing to the child, “I’m afeard but she’s badly hurt.”

“I hope not, with all my heart,” said Aunt Emma, gently taking her arm.  “But the doctor will soon be here; we must get her home before he comes.”

So on they went again, Mr. Norton still carrying Becky, and Mr. Backhouse helping his wife along.  Mrs. Norton had got the baby safe in her motherly arms, and so they all toiled up the hill to the farmhouse.  What a difference from the merry party that ran down the hill only an hour before!

They laid Becky down on her mother’s bed, and then Aunt Emma, finding that Mrs. Norton wished to stay till the doctor came, went back to the children.  She found a sad little group sitting in the hay-field; Milly in nurse’s lap crying quietly every now and then; Tiza still sobbing on the grass, and Olly who had just crept down from the farmhouse, where he and Charlie had seen Becky carried in, talking to nurse in eager whispers, as if he daren’t talk out loud.

“Oh, Aunt Emma,” cried Milly, when she opened the gate, “is she better?”

“A little, I think, Milly, but the doctor will soon be here, and then we shall know all about it.  Tiza, you poor little woman, Mrs. Wheeler says you must sleep with them to-night.  Your mother will want the house very quiet, and to-morrow, you know, you can go and see Becky if the doctor says you may.”

At this Tiza began to cry again more piteously than ever.  It seemed so dreary and terrible to her to be shut out from home without Becky.  But Aunt Emma sat down on the grass beside her, and lifted her up and talked to her; with anybody else Tiza would have kicked and struggled, for she was a curious, passionate child, and her grief was always wild and angry, but nobody could struggle with Aunt Emma, and at last she let herself be comforted a little by the tender voice and soft caressing hand.  She stopped crying, and then they all took her up to the Wheelers’s cottage, where Mrs. Wheeler, a kind motherly body, took her in, and promised that she should know everything there was to be known about Becky.

“Aunt Emma,” said Milly, presently, when they were all sitting in the conservatory which ran round the house, waiting for Mr. Norton to bring them news from the farm, “how did Becky tumble under the cart?”

“She was lifting up some hay, I think, which had fallen off, and one of the men was stooping down to take it on his fork, and then she must have slipped and fallen right under the cart, just as John Backhouse told the horse to go on.”

“Oh, if the wheel had gone over!” said Milly, shuddering.  “Isn’t it a sad birthday, Aunt Emma, and we were so happy a little while ago?  And then I can’t understand.  I don’t know why it happens like this.”

“Like what, Milly?”

“Why, Aunt Emma, always in stories, you know, it’s the bad people get hurt and die.  And now it’s poor little Becky that’s hurt.  And she’s such a dear little girl, and helps her mother so.  I don’t think she ought to have been hurt.”

“We don’t know anything about ‘oughts,’ Milly, darling, you and I. God knows, we trust, and that helps many people who love God to be patient when they are in trouble or pain.  But think if it had been poor mischievous little Tiza who had been hurt, how she would have fretted.  And now very likely Becky will bear it beautifully, and so, without knowing it, she will be teaching Tiza to be patient, and it will do Tiza good to have to help Becky and take care of her for a bit, instead of letting Becky always look after her and get her out of scrapes.”

“Oh, and Aunt Emma, can’t we all take care of Becky?  What can Olly and I do?” said Milly, imploringly.

“I can go and sing all my songs to Becky,” said Olly, looking up brightly.

“By-and-by, perhaps,” said Aunt Emma, smiling and patting his head.  “But hark! isn’t that father’s step?”

It had grown so dark that they could hardly see who it was opening the gate.

“Oh yes, it is,” cried Milly.  “It’s father and mother.”  Away they ran to meet them, and Mrs. Norton took Milly’s little pale face in both her hands and kissed it.

“She’s not very badly hurt, darling.  The doctor says she must lie quite quiet for two or three weeks, and then he hopes she’ll be all right.  The wheel gave her a squeeze, which jarred her poor little back and head very much, but it didn’t break anything, and if she lies very quite the doctor thinks she’ll get quite well again.”  “Oh mother! and does Tiza know?”

“Yes, we have just been to tell her.  Mrs. Wheeler had put her to bed, but she went up to give her our message, and she said poor little Tiza began to cry again, and wanted us to tell her mother she would be so quiet if only they would let her come back to Becky.”

“Will they, mother?”

“In a few days, perhaps.  But she is not to see anybody but Mrs. Backhouse for a little while.”

“Oh dear!” sighed Milly, while the tears came into her eyes again.  “We shall be going away so soon, and we can’t say good-bye.  Isn’t it sad, mother, just happening last thing? and we’ve been so happy all the time.”

“Yes, Milly,” said Mr. Norton, lifting her on to his knee.  “This is the first really sad thing that ever happened to you in your little life I think.  Mother, and I, and Aunt Emma, tell you stories about sad things, but that’s very different, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Milly, thinking.  “Father, are there as many sad things really as there are in stories? ­you know what I mean.”

“There are a great many sad things and sad people in the world, Milly.  We don’t have monsters plaguing us like King Hrothgar, but every day there is trouble and grief going on somewhere, and we happy and strong people must care for the sad ones if we want to do our duty and help to straighten the world a little.”

“Father,” whispered Milly, softly, “will you tell us how ­Olly and me?  We would if we knew how.”

“Well, Milly, suppose you begin with Becky, and poor Tiza too, indeed.  I wonder whether a pair of little people could make a scrap-book for Becky to look at when she is getting better?”

“Oh yes, yes!” said Milly, joyfully, “I’ve got ever so many pictures in mother’s writing-book, she let me cut out of her ‘Graphics,’ and Olly can help paste; can’t you, Olly?”

“Olly generally pastes his face more than anything else,” said Mr. Norton, giving a sly pull at his brown curls.  “If I’m not very much mistaken, there is a little fairy pasting up your eyes, old man.”

“I’m not sleepy, not a bit,” said Olly, sitting bolt upright and blinking very fast.

“I think you’re not sleepy, but just asleep,” said Mr. Norton, catching him up in his arms, and carrying him to his mother to say good-night.

Milly went very soberly and quietly up to bed, and for some little time she lay awake, her little heart feeling very sore and heavy about the “sad things” in the world.  Then with her thoughts full of Becky she fell asleep.

So ended Milly’s birthday, a happy day and a sorrowful day, all in one.  When Milly grew older there was no birthday just before or after it she remembered half so clearly as that on which she was seven years old.