"_I_ say," said Golden-wings--"_I_ say he has been a very good boy. He is doing credit to his training, little though he suspects how long he has been under our charge." "He is awaking to that and to other things now," replied she whom the others called the Spirit of the Sea. "It is sad to think that some day our guardianship must come to an end." "Well, don't think of it, then. _I_ never think of disagreeable things," replied the bright voice. "But how can one help it? Think how tiny he was--the queer little red-faced solemn-eyed baby, when we first sang our lullabies to him, and how we looked forward to the time when he should hear more in our voices than any one but a godchild of ours _can_ hear. And now----" "Now that time has come, and we must take care what we say--he may be awake at this very moment. But listen, sister--I think we must do something--you and I. Our sterner sisters are all very well in their places, but all work and no play is not _my_ idea of education. Now listen to my plan;" but here the murmuring grew so soft and vague that Gratian could no longer distinguish the syllables. He tried to strain his ears, but it was useless, and he grew sleepy through the trying to keep awake. The last sound he was conscious of was a flapping of wings and a murmured "Good-night, Gratian. Good-night, little godson--good-ni--ight," and then he fell asleep and slept till morning. He would have forgotten it all perhaps, or remembered it only with the indistinctness of a dream that is past, had it not been for something unusual in the look of the little heap of clothes which lay on the chair beside his bed. They were so _very_ neatly folded--though Gratian prided himself rather on his own neat folding--and the shirt was so snow-white and smooth that the boy thought at first his mother had laid out a fresh one while he was asleep. But no--yesterday was Sunday. Mrs. Conyfer would have thought another clean one on Monday very extravagant--besides, not even from her linen drawers, scented with lavender, could have come that delicious fragrance! Gratian snuffed and sniffed with ever-increasing satisfaction, as the words he had overheard in the night returned to his memory. And his stockings--they too were scented! What it was like I could not tell you, unless it be true, as old travellers say, that miles and miles away from the far-famed Spice Islands their fragrance may be perceived, wafted out to sea by the breeze. That, I think, may give you a faint idea of the perfume left by the South-wind on her godson's garments. "So it's true--I wasn't dreaming," thought the boy. "I wonder what the plot was that I couldn't hear about. I shall know before long, I daresay." At breakfast he noticed his mother looking at him curiously. "What is it, mother?" he said; "is my hair not neat?" "No, child. On the contrary, I was thinking how very tidy you look this morning. Your collar is so smooth and clean. Can it be the one you wore yesterday?"