Four Winds Farm. Molesworth Mrs.

the short, sharp cutting slap of cold air on his face, and in spite of himself the boy moved more quickly.

      "Good-night, Jonas," he said rather grumpily, though he would not let himself shiver for fear he should again be told it showed he was sleepy, "I'm going. I'm not at all tired, but I'm going all the same. Only how you can say it's south wind – !"

      "I don't say so now. I said it was south – that soft feeling as if one could see the glow of the south in it. Like enough it's east by now; isn't this where all the winds meet? Well, I'm off too. Good-night, master."

      "And you'll tell me about all the colours another time, won't you, Jonas?" said Gratian in a mollified tone.

      "Or you'll tell me, maybe," said the old man. "Never fear – we'll have some good talks over it. Out on the moor some holiday, with nobody but the sheep and Watch to hear our fancies – that's the best time – isn't it?"

      And the old shepherd whistled to the dog and disappeared round the corner of the house.

      His mother met Gratian at the kitchen door.

      "I was coming out to look for you," she said. "Put away your books now. You'd do no more good at them to-night."

      "I wasn't sleepy, mother. I went to the door to wake myself up," he replied. But his tone was no longer fretful or cross.

      "Feeling you needed waking up was something very like being sleepy," she answered smiling. "And all the lessons you have to learn are not to be found in your books, Gratian."

      He did not at once understand, but he kept the words in his mind to think over.

      "Good-night, mother," and he lifted his soft round face for her kiss.

      "Good-night, my boy. Father has gone out to the stable to speak to one of the men. I'll say good-night to him for you. Pleasant dreams, and get up as early as you like if you want to work more."

      "Mother," said Gratian hesitatingly.

      "Well?"

      "Is it a good thing to be born where the four winds meet?"

      She laughed.

      "I can't say," she replied. "It's not done you any harm so far. But don't begin getting your head full of fancies, my boy. Off with you to bed, and get to sleep as fast as you can. Pleasant dreams."

      "But, mother," said the child as he went upstairs, "dreams are fancies."

      "Yes, but they don't waste our time. There's no harm in dreaming when we're asleep – we can't be doing aught else then."

      "Oh," said Gratian, "it's dreaming in the day that wastes time then."

      He was turning the corner of the stair as he said so, speaking more to himself than to his mother. Just then a little waft of air came right in his face. It was not the sharp touch that had made him start at the door, nor was it the soft warm breath which old Jonas said was the south wind. Rather did it remind Gratian of the kindly breeze and the sea-green glimmerings on the moor. He stood still for an instant. Again it fluttered by him, and he heard the words, "Not always, Gratian; not always."

      "What was I saying?" he asked himself. "Ah yes – that it is dreaming in the day that is a waste of time! And now she says 'Not always.' You are very puzzling people whoever you are," he went on; "you whose voices I hear in the chimney, and who seem to know all I am thinking whether I say it or not."

      And as he lifted his little face towards the corner whence the sudden draught had come, there fell on his ears the sound of rippling laughter – the merriest and yet softest laughter he had ever heard, and in which several voices seemed to mingle. So near it seemed at first that he could have fancied it came from the old granary on the other side of the wooden partition shutting off the staircase, but again, in an instant, it seemed to dance and flicker itself away, till nothing remained but a faint ringing echo, which might well be no more than the slight rattle of the glass in the old casement window.

      Then all was silent, and the boy went on to his own room, and was soon covered up and fast asleep in his little white bed.

      There were no voices in the chimney that night, or if there were Gratian did not hear them. But he had a curious dream.

      CHAPTER IV

      A RAINBOW DANCE

      "Purple and azure, white and green and golden,

      and they whirl

      Over each other with a thousand motions."

Prometheus Unbound.– Shelley

      He dreamt that he awoke, and found himself not in his comfortable bed in his own room, but in an equally comfortable but much more uncommon bed in a very different place. Out on the moor! He opened his eyes and stared about him in surprise; there were the stars, up overhead, all blinking and winking at him as if asking what business a little boy had out there among them all in the middle of the night. And when he did find out where he was, he felt still more surprised at being so warm and cozy. For he felt perfectly so, even though he had neither blankets nor sheets nor pillow, but instead of all these a complete nest of the softest moss all about him. He was lying on it, and it covered him over as perfectly as a bird is covered by its feathers.

      "Dear me," he said to himself, "this is very funny. How have I got here, and who has covered me up like this?"

      But still he did not feel so excessively surprised as if he had been awake; for in dreams, as everybody knows, any surprise one feels quickly disappears, and one is generally very ready to take things as they come. So he lay still, just quietly gazing about him. And gradually a murmur of approaching sound caught his ears. It was like soft voices and fluttering garments and breezes among trees, all mixed together, till as it came nearer the voices detached themselves from the other sounds, and he heard what they were saying.