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.