After a good deal of sponging and rubbing, and careful drying by the kitchen fire, Katie came very nearly right again, and then Mrs. Norton tried whether some lessons would drive the rain out of the children's heads. But the lessons did not go well. It was all Milly could do to help crying every time she got a figure wrong in her sum, and Olly took about ten minutes to read two lines of his reading-book. Olly had just begun his sums, and Milly was standing up to say some poetry to her mother, looking a woebegone little figure, with pale cheeks and heavy eyes, when suddenly there was a noise of wheels outside, and both the children turned to look out of the window. "A carriage! a carriage!" shouted Olly, jumping down, and running to the window. There, indeed, was one of the shut-up "cars," as the Westmoreland people call them, coming up the Ravensnest drive. "It's Aunt Emma," said Mrs. Norton, starting up, "how good of her to come over on such a day. Run, children, and open the front door." Down flew Milly and Olly, tumbling over one another in their hurry; but father had already thrown the door open, and who should they see stepping down the carriage-steps but Aunt Emma herself, with her soft gray hair shining under her veil, and her dear kind face as gentle and cheery as ever. "Aunt Emma! Aunt Emma!" shouted Olly, dancing up to her, and throwing his arms round her, "_are_ you come to tell us about old Mother Quiverquake?" "You gipsy, don't strangle me! Well, Lucy dear, here I am. Will you have me to dinner? I thought we'd all be company for each other this bad day. Why, Milly, what have you been doing to your cheeks?" "She's been crying," said Olly, in spite of Milly's pulling him by the sleeve to be quiet, "because I stickened her doll." "Well, and quite right too. Dolls weren't made to be stickied. But now, who's going to carry my bag upstairs? Take it gently, Milly, it's got my cap inside, and if you crumple my cap I shall have to sit with my head in a bandbox at dinner. Old ladies are _never_ seen without their caps you know. The most dreadful things would happen if they were! Olly, you may put my umbrella away. There now, I'll go to mother's room and take off my things." CHAPTER VII A STORY-TELLING GAME When Aunt Emma was safely settled, cap and all, in one of the drawing-room arm-chairs, it seemed to the children as if the rain and the gray sky did not matter nearly so much as they had done half an hour before. In the first place, her coming made something new and interesting to think about; and in the second place, they felt quite sure that Aunt Emma hadn't brought her little black bag into the drawing-room with her for nothing. If only her cap had been in it, why of course she would have left it in mother's bedroom. But here it was in her lap, with her two hands folded tight over it, as if it contained something precious! How very puzzling and interesting!