He had run a good way, when something white, or light-coloured, fluttering on the ground some little way before him, caught his eye. And as he drew nearer he saw that it was a book, or papers of some kind, hooked on to a low-growing furze bush. Suddenly the words of the mysterious figure of the night before returned to his mind--"Look for the furze bush on the right of the path where it turns for the last time," she had said. Gratian stopped short. Yes--there in front of him was the landmark--the path turned here for the last time, as she had said. He looked about him in astonishment. "This was where my books were last night, then," he said to himself. "I had no idea I had come so far! Why, I was home in half a second--it is very strange--I could fancy it was a dream, or else that last night and the rainbow dance _wasn't_ a dream." He ran on to where the white thing was still fluttering appealingly, as if begging him to detach it. Poor white thing! It was or had been an exercise-book. At first Gratian fancied it must be one of his copy-books, left behind by mistake after his fairy friend had given him back the rest of his books. But as soon as he took it in his hands and saw the neat, clear characters, he knew it was not his, and he did not need to look at the signature, "Anthony Ferris," to guess that it belonged to the miller's son--for Tony was a clever boy, almost at the head of the school, and famed for his very good writing. "Ah ha," thought Gratian triumphantly, "I have you now, Master Tony." He had recognised the book as containing Tony's dictation lessons, for here and there were the wrongly spelt words--not many of them, for Tony was a good speller too--marked by the schoolmaster. "Tony must have meant to take the book home to copy it out clear, and correct the wrong spelling," thought Gratian. And he remembered hearing the teacher telling Tony's class that on the neatness with which this was done would depend several important good marks. "He'll not be head of his class, now he's lost this book. Serve him right for the trick he played me," said Gratian to himself, as he rolled up the tattered book and slipped it into his satchel. "It's not so badly torn but what he could have copied it out all right, but it would have been torn to pieces by this evening, now that the wind's getting up. So it isn't my fault but his own--nasty spiteful fellow. Where would all _my_ poor books have been by now, thanks to him?" The wind was getting up indeed--and a cold biting wind too. For just as Gratian was thus thinking, there came down such a gust as he had but seldom felt the force of. For an instant he staggered and all but fell, so unprepared had he been for the sudden buffet. It took all his strength and agility to keep his feet during the short remainder of the moorland path, so sharp and violent were the blasts. And it was with face and hands tingling and smarting painfully that he entered the schoolroom. CHAPTER V. GOOD FOR EVIL