Where, indeed, was Olly going?  Just the moment before the little man had spied a lovely flower growing a little way off the path, in the middle of some bright yellow-green moss.  And without thinking of anything but getting it, off he rushed.  But oh! splish, splash, splish, down went Olly’s feet, up splashed the muddy water, and there was Olly stuck in a bog.

“Father, pull me out, pull me out!” cried the little boy in terror, as he felt his feet stuck fast.  But almost before he could speak there was father close beside him, standing on a round little hump of dry grass which was sticking up out of the bog, and with one grip he got hold of Olly under his arm, and then jump! on to another little hump of grass, jump! on to another, and there they were safe on the path again.

“Oh, you black boy!” cried father and mother and Milly all together.  Was there ever such a little object!  All his nice clean holland frock was splashed with black mud; and what had happened to his stockings?

“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 walking down the drive to meet them?  Such a pretty little elderly lady, with gray hair and a white cap.

“Dear Aunt Emma!” said Mrs. Norton, running up to her and taking both her hands and kissing her.

“Well, Lucy,” said the little lady, holding her hands and looking at her (Lucy was Mrs. Norton’s Christian name), “it is nice to see you all here.  And there’s dear little Milly, I remember her.  But where’s Olly?  I’ve never seen that small creature, you know.  Come, Olly, don’t be shy.  Little boys are never shy with Aunt Emma.”