Part 16 (1/2)

”I am so glad,” said Fergus with a sigh of relief. ”How beautiful it must have been to feel the sea-wind again, and see the waves dancing in the suns.h.i.+ne! Do you know, Gratian, I was just a little afraid at the end that you were going to say that Quiver had grown so good that he went 'up, up, up,' straight into heaven. I shouldn't have liked that--at least not till he had lived happily by the sea first. And then,” Fergus began to get a little confused, ”I don't know about that. _Do_ gulls go to heaven, mother? You don't mind my thinking dogs do.”

The lady smiled. She had not said anything yet; she seemed to be thinking seriously. But now she drew Gratian to her and kissed his forehead.

”Thank you, dear boy,” she said. ”I am so glad to have heard one of your stories.”

CHAPTER XI.

DRAWN TWO WAYS

”When Love wants this, and Pain wants that, And all our hearts want t.i.t for Tat.”

MATTHEW BROWNE

Gratian almost danced along the moor path on his way home that evening; he felt so happy. Never had he loved Fergus and his mother so much--he could not now understand how he had ever lived without them, and like a child he did not think of how he ever _could_ do so. He let the future take care of itself.

It was cold of course. He rather fancied that White-wings was not far off, and once or twice he stood still to listen. It was some little time now since he had heard anything of his friends. But at first nothing met his ear, and he ran on.

Suddenly a breath--a waft rather of soft air blew over his face. It was not White-wings, and most certainly not Gray-wings. Gratian looked up in surprise--he could hardly expect the soft western sister on such a cold night.

”Yes, it is I,” she said; ”you can hardly believe it, can you? I am only pa.s.sing by--no one else will know I have been here. I don't generally come when you are in such merry spirits--I don't feel that you need me then. But as I was not so very far off, I thought I'd give you a kiss on my way. So you told them the sea-gull's story--I am glad they liked it.”

”Yes,” said Gratian, ”they did, indeed. But, Green-wings, I'm glad you've come, for I wanted to ask you, if they ask me if I made it all up myself, what can I say? I'm so afraid of telling what isn't true; but you know I couldn't explain about you and the others. I couldn't if I tried.”

”You are not meant to do so,” replied she quickly. ”What have you said when Fergus has asked you about other stories?”

”I have said I couldn't explain how I knew them--that sometimes they were a sort of dream. I didn't want to say I had made them all myself, though I have _partly_ made them--you know I have, Green-wings.”

”Certainly--it was not I for instance, who told you the very remarkable fact of natural history that you related at the end of the story?” said Green-wings with her soft laugh. ”You may quite take the credit of that.

But I won't laugh at you, dear. It is true that they are your stories, and yet a sort of dream. No one but you could hear them--no one would say that the whispers of the wind talking language to you, are anything but the reflection of your own pretty fancies. It will be all right--you will see. But I must go,” and she gave a little sigh.

”Green-wings, darling, you seem a little sad to-night,” said Gratian.

”Why is it? Is it that the winter has come?”

”I am never very merry, as you know. But I am a little sadder than usual to-night. I foresee--I foresee sorrows”--and her voice breathed out the words with such an exquisite plaintiveness that they sounded like the dying away notes of a dirge. ”But keep up your heart, my darling, and trust us all--all four. We only wish your good, though we may show it in different ways. And wherever I am I can always be with you to comfort you, if it be but for a moment. No distance can separate us from our child.”

”And I am most _your_ child, am I not, dear Green-wings?” asked Gratian.

”I knew you the first, and I think I love you the most.”

”My darling, good-night,” whispered Green-wings, and with a soft flutter she was gone.

There was no mother waiting at the open door for Gratian's return that evening.

”It is too cold for standing outside now,” he said to himself as he went in, adding aloud, ”Here I am, mother. Did you think I was late?”

Mrs. Conyfer was sitting by the fire. Her knitting lay on her knee, but her hands were idle. She looked up as Gratian came in.

”I am glad you have come, dear,” she said; but her voice sounded tired, and when he was close to her he saw that her face seemed tired also.