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.