her?" 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."

"Yes, all that's very nice,