"I never thought about such things. What a funny boy you are, Gratian,"

said Dolly, as she ran off joyfully, with Tony's tattered book in her hand.

It did not take Gratian long to make his way home--the feeling of having done right "adds feather to the heel." But as he sped along the moorland path he could not help wondering to himself if his soft-voiced friend of the night before were anywhere near.

"I think she must be pleased with me," he thought. "It feels like her kissing me," as just then the evening breeze again met him as he ran.

"Is it you Golden-wings, or you, Spirit of the Waves?" he said, for he had learnt in his dream to think of them thus. And a little soft laughter in the air about him told him he was not far wrong. "Perhaps it is both together," he thought. "I think they are pleased. It is nicer than when that sharp East-wind comes snapping at one--though after all, East-wind, I think perhaps I should thank you for having stung me as you did this morning--I rather think I deserved it."

Whiz, rush, dash--came a sharp blast as he spoke. Gratian started, and for half a moment felt almost angry.

"I didn't deserve it just now, though," he said. But a ripple of laughter above him made his vexation fade away.

"You silly boy," came a whisper close to his ear. "Can't you take a joke?"

"Yes, that I can, as well as any one;" and no sooner were the words out of his mouth than again, with the whir and the swoop now becoming familiar to him, he was once more raised from the ground, and really, before he knew where he was, he found himself at the gate of the farm-house.

His mother was just coming out to the door.

"Dear me, child," she said, "how suddenly you have come! I have been out several times to the gate to look for you, but though it is not yet dark I didn't see you."

"I did come very quickly, mother dear," said Gratian, and for a moment he thought of telling her about his strange new friends. But somehow, when he was on the point of doing so, the words would not come, and his feelings grew misty and confused as when one tries to recollect a dream that one knows was in one's memory but a moment before. And he felt that the voices of the winds were as little to be told as are the songs of the birds to those who have not heard them for themselves. So he just looked up in his mother's face with a smile, and she stooped and kissed him--which she did not very often do. For the moorland people are not soft and caressing in their ways, but rather sharp and rugged, though their hearts are true.

"I wonder where you come from, sometimes, Gratian," said his mother half-laughing. "You don't seem like the other children about."

"But mother, I'm getting over dreaming at my lessons. I am indeed," said the child brightly. "I think when you ask the master about me the next time, he'll tell you he's pleased with me."

"That's my good boy," said she well pleased.

So the day ended well for the child of the Four Winds.

CHAPTER VI.

ORGAN TONES

"Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory."

Sh.e.l.lEY

As Gratian was running into school the next morning he felt some one tugging at his coat, and looking round, there was Tony, his round face redder than usual, his eyes bright and yet shy.

"She give it me, Gratian--Doll did--and--and--I've to thank you. I was awful glad--I was that."

"Have you got it done? Will it be all right for the prize and all that?"

asked Gratian.

Tony nodded.

"I think so. I sat up late last night writing, and I think I'll get it done to-night. It was awful good of you, Gratian," Tony went on, growing more at his ease, "for I won't go for to say that it wasn't a mean trick about the stones. But I meant to go back and get the books and keep them safe for you till the next morning. You did look so funny tramping along with the bag of stones," and Tony's face screwed itself up as if he wanted to laugh but dared not.

"It didn't _feel_ funny," said Gratian. "It felt very horrid. Indeed it makes me get cross to think of it even now--don't say any more about it, Tony."

For it did seem to him as if, after all, the miller's boy was getting off rather easily! And it felt a little hard that all the good things should be falling to Tony's share, when he had been so unkind to another.

"I want to forget it," he went on; "if the master knew about it, he'd not let you off without a good scolding. But I'm not going to stand here shivering--I tell you I don't want to say any more about it, Tony."

"Shivering," repeated Tony, "why it's a wonderful mild morning for November. Father was just saying so"--and to tell the truth Gratian himself had thought it so as he ran across the moor. "But, Gratian, you needn't be so mad with me now--I know it was a mean trick, and just to show you that I know it, I promise you the master _shall_ know all about it," and Tony held his head higher as he said the words. "There's only one thing, Gratian. I do wish you'd tell me where you found my book, and how you knew where I'd hidden yours? I've been thinking and thinking about it, and I can't make it out. Folks do say as there's still queer customers to be met on the moor after nightfall. I wonder if you got the fairies to help you, Gratian?" added Tony laughing.

Gratian laughed too.

"No, Tony, it wasn't the fairies," he said, his good-humour returning.

And it was quite restored by a sweet soft whisper at that moment breathed into his ear--"no, not the fairies--but who it was is our secret--eh, Gratian?" And Gratian laughed again softly in return.

"Who was it then?" persisted Tony. But just then the school-bell rang, and there was no time for more talking.

Tony was kept very busy for the next day or two with his writing-out, which took him longer than he expected. Gratian too was working hard to make up for lost time, but he felt happy. He saw that the master was pleased, and that his companions were beginning to look up to him as they had never done before. But he missed his new friends. The weather was very still--for some days he had heard scarcely a rustle among the trees and bushes, and though he had lain awake at night, no murmuring voices in the chimney had reached his ears.

"Have they gone away already? Was it all a dream?" the child asked himself sadly.

Sunday came round again, and Gratian set off to church with his father and mother. Going to church was one of his pleasures--of late especially, for the owner of the Big House, though seldom there himself, was generous and rich, and he had spent money in restoring the church and giving a beautiful organ. And on Sunday mornings an organist came from a distance to play on it, but in the afternoon its great voice was silent, for no one in the village--not even the schoolmaster, who was supposed to know most things--knew how to play on it. For this reason Gratian never cared to go to church the second time--he would much rather have stayed out on the moor with Jonas and Watch, and sometimes, in the fine summer weather, when the walk was hot and tiring even for big people, his mother had allowed him to do so. But now, with winter at hand, it was not fit for sauntering about or lying on the heather, especially with Sunday clothes on, so the child knew it was no use asking to stay at home.

This Sunday afternoon brought a very welcome surprise. Scarcely was the boy settled in his corner beside his mother, before the rich deep tones fell on his ear. He started and looked about him, not sure if his fancy were not playing him false. But no--clearer and stronger grew the music--there was no mistake, and Gratian gave himself up to the pleasure of listening. And never had it been to him more beautiful. New fancies mingled with his enjoyment of it, for it seemed to him that he could distinguish in it the voices of his friends--the loving, plaintive breath of the west, telling of the lapping of the waves on some lonely sh.o.r.e; the sterner, deeper tones of the strong spirit of the north; even the sharply thrilling blast of the ever-restless east wind seemed to flash here and there like lightning darts, cutting through and yet melting again into the harmony. And then from time to time the sweet, rich glowing song of praise from the lips of Golden-wings, the joyful.

"Yes, they are all there," said Gratian to himself in an ecstasy of completest pleasure. "I hear them all. That is perhaps why they have not come to me lately--it was to be a surprise! But I have found you out, you see. Ah, if I could play on the organ you could never hide yourselves from me for long, my friends. Perhaps the organ is one of their real homes. I wonder if it can be."

And his face looked so bright and yet absorbed that his mother could not help smiling at him, as they sat waiting for a moment after the last notes had died away.

"Are you so pleased to have music in the afternoon too?" she said. "It is thanks to the stranger lady--the squire's cousin, who has come to the Big House. There--you can see her. She is just closing the organ."

Gratian stood up on his tiptoes and bent forward as far as he could. He caught but one glimpse of the fair face, but it was enough. It was the same--the lady with the forget-me-not eyes; and his own eyes beamed with fresh delight.

"They must be friends of hers too," was the first thought that darted through his brain; "she must know them, else she couldn't make their voices come like that. Oh dear, if I could but go to the Big House, perhaps she would tell me about how she knows them."

But even to think of the possibility was very nice. Gratian mused on it, turning it over and over in his mind, as was his wont, all the way home.

And that evening, while he sat in his corner reading over the verses which the master always liked his scholars to say on the Monday morning--his father and mother with their big Sunday books open on the table before them as usual--a strange feeling came over him that he was again in the church, again listening to the organ; and so absorbing grew the feeling that, fearful of its vanishing, he closed his eyes and leaned his curly head on the wooden rail of the old chair and listened.

Yes, clearer and fuller grew the tones--he was curled up in a corner of the chancel by this time, in his dream--and gradually in front, as it were, of the background of sound, grew out the voices he had learnt to know so well. They all seemed to be singing together at first, but by degrees the singing turned into soft speaking, the sound of the organ had faded into silence, and opening his eyes, by a faint ray of moonlight creeping in through the window, he saw he was in his own bed in his own room.

How had he come there? Had his mother carried him up and undressed him without awaking him as she had sometimes done when he was a very tiny boy?

"No--she couldn't. I'm too big and heavy," he thought sleepily. "But hush! the voices again."

"Yes, I carried him up. He was so sleepy--he never knew--n.o.body knew.

The mother looked round and thought he had gone off himself. And Golden-wings undressed him. He will notice the scent on his little shirt when he puts it on in the morning."

"Humph!" replied a second voice, in a rather surly tone, "you are spoiling the child, you and our sister of the south. Snow-wings and I must take him in hand a while--a whi--ile."