"I've got mud-stockings on," shouted Olly, capering about, and pointing
to his legs which were caked with mud up to his knees.

"You're a nice respectable boy to take out to dinner," said Mrs. Norton.
"I think we'll leave you on the mountain to have dinner with the sheep."

"Oh no, father," pleaded Milly, taking Olly fast by the hand. "We can
wash him at Aunt Emma's, you know."

"Don't go too close to him, Milly!" exclaimed Mrs. Norton, "or you'll
get as black as he is. We shall have to put him under the pump at Aunt
Emma's, that's quite certain. But there's nothing to wash him with here,
so he must just go as he is for a bit. Now, Olly, run along and your
feet will soon dry. Father's going first, you go next, just where he
goes, I'm coming after you, and Milly shall go last. Perhaps in that way
we shall get you down safe."

"Oh, but, mother, look at my flower," said Olly, holding it up
triumphantly. "Isn't it a beauty?"

"Shall I tell you what it's called, Olly? It's called a butterwort, and
it always grows in boggy places; I wouldn't advise you to go after one
again without asking father first."

It was a very different thing going down the mountain from climbing up
it. It seemed only a few minutes before they had got almost to the
bottom, and there was a gate leading into a road, and a little village
of white houses in front of them. They walked up the road a little way,
and then father opened a big gate and let them into a beautiful garden
full of rhododendrons like the Ravensnest garden. And who was this