Part 8 (2/2)

By this time things had settled themselves down into a regular plan. The oriel room was now Ferdy's ”drawing-room”--or drawing-room and dining-room in one, as he said himself. It was his day room, and every night and morning his father or Thomas, the footman, carried him most carefully and gently from and to the invalid couch in his favourite window to bed, or _from_ bed in his own little room.

This was a delightful change. Ferdy declared he felt ”almost quite well again” when the day came on which he was allowed ”to go to bed properly,” and be attired nicely the next morning in a little dressing-gown made to look as like a sailor suit as possible.

His general health was good, thanks to the excellent care that was taken of him, and thanks too to his own cheerful character. There were times, of course, when he _did_ find it difficult to be bright--lovely summer afternoons when a sharp pang pierced his little heart at the sight of the school children racing home in their careless healthfulness, or fresh sweet mornings when he longed with a sort of thirstiness to be able to go for a walk in the woods with Christine and Miss Lilly. But these sad feelings did not last long, though the days went on, and still the doctor shook his head at the idea even of his being carried down to the lawn and laid there, as Ferdy had begun to hope might be allowed.

The oriel window was his greatest comfort. It really was a delightful window. On one side or other there was sure to be _something_ to look at, and Ferdy was quick to find interest in everything. He loved to see the school children, some of whom were already known to him, some whom he learnt to know by sight from watching them pa.s.s.

But one boyish figure he missed. All this time Jesse Piggot had never been seen. Miss Lilly had looked out for him, as Ferdy had asked her to do, but in vain. And it was not till within a day or two of a month since the accident that she heard from some of the Draymoor people that the boy had been taken off ”on a job” by one of his rough cousins at the colliery village.

”And no good will it do him neither,” added the woman. ”That's a lad as needs putting up to no manner o' mischief, as my master says.”

”Wasn't it a pity to take him away from Farmer Meare's?” Miss Lilly added.

”They hadn't really room for him there,” said the woman. ”But Farmer Meare is a good man. He says he'll take the poor lad back again after a bit when there'll be more work that he can do.”

Miss Lilly told this over to the children the next day. Ferdy looked up with interest in his eyes.

”I hope he will come back again soon,” he said. ”You know, Miss Lilly, I never finished talking about him to you. I was thinking of him again a lot yesterday; it was the birds, they _were_ chattering so when I was alone in the afternoon. I was half asleep, I think, and hearing them reminded me in a dreamy way of birds' nests and eggs, and then, through that, of Jesse Piggot and what the fairy story put in my head about him.”

”What was it?” asked Miss Lilly.

”It's rather difficult to explain,” Ferdy replied. ”I was thinking, you see, that if I never get well and strong again I wouldn't seem any use to anybody. It _does_ seem as if some people were no use. And Jesse Piggot seems always in everybody's way, as if there was no place for him, though quite different from me, of course, for everybody's so kind to me. And then I thought of the stones, and how they all fitted in, and I wondered what I could get to do, and I thought perhaps I might help Jesse some way.”

Miss Lilly looked at Ferdy. There was a very kind light in her eyes.

”Yes, Ferdy dear,” she said. ”I think I understand. When Jesse comes back we must talk more about it, and perhaps we shall find out some way of fitting him into his place. Stop dear, I think I had better look at your knitting; you are getting it a little too tight on the needles.”

Ferdy handed it to her with a little sigh. He did not care very much for knitting, and he had also a feeling that it was girls' work. But it had been very difficult to find any occupation for him, as he could not go on making moss baskets always, and knitting seemed the best thing for the moment. He was now making a sofa blanket for his mother, in stripes of different colours, and Miss Lilly and Christine were helping him with it, as it would otherwise have been too long a piece of work.

”I'm rather tired of knitting,” he said, ”now that I know how to do it.

I liked it better at first, but there's no planning about it now.”

”We must think of a change of work for you before long,” said Miss Lilly, as she quickly finished a row so as to get the st.i.tches rather looser again. ”Don't do any more this morning, Ferdy. Lie still and talk. Tell me about the birds chattering.”

”They are so sweet and funny,” said Ferdy. ”Sometimes I fancy I'm getting to know their different voices. And there's one that stands just at the corner of the window-sill outside, that I really think I could draw. I know the look of him so well. Or I'll tell you what,” he went on. ”I could _figure_ him, I'm sure I could, better than draw him.”

”_Figure_ him! what do you mean?” said Chrissie. ”What funny words you say, Ferdy.”

”Do you mean modelling it?” asked Miss Lilly. ”Have you ever seen any modelling?”

”No,” said Ferdy, ”I don't understand.”

”I mean using some soft stuff, like clay or wax, and shaping it, partly with your fingers and partly with tools,” replied Miss Lilly. ”I don't know much about it, but I remember one of my brothers doing something of the kind.”

Ferdy reflected.

”It does sound rather fun,” he said, ”but I didn't mean that. I meant cutting--with a nice sharp knife and soft wood. I am sure I could figure things that way. I know what made me think of it. It was a story about the village boys in Switzerland, who cut out things in the winter evenings.”

<script>