He laughed to himself when he felt the gentle, steady way in which they were blown along--never had the long walk to the Farm seemed so short to Mrs. Conyfer. "Dear me," she said, when they were within a few yards of the gate, "I couldn't have believed we were home! It makes a difference when the wind is with us, I suppose." Gratian pulled her back a moment, as she was going in. "Mother," he said, "what was it the master wanted to say to you? Won't you tell me?" "I must speak first to father," she replied; "it's something which we must have his leave for first." Gratian could not ask any more, and nothing more was said to him till the next morning when he was starting for school. Then his mother came to the door with him. "I've a message for the master," she said. "Listen, Gratian. You must tell him from me that father and I have no objection to his doing as he likes about what he spoke to me of yesterday. He said he'd like to tell you about it himself--so I won't tell you any more. Maybe you'll not care about it when you hear it." "Ah--I don't think that," said the boy, as he ran off. He needed no blowing to school that morning. The way seemed short, even though it was still drizzling--a cold, disagreeable, small rain, which had succeeded the downpour of the night before. But Gratian cared little for rain--what true child of the moors could?--he rather liked it than otherwise, especially when it came drifting over in great sheets, almost blinding for the moment, and then again dispersed as suddenly, so that standing on the high ground one could see on the slopes beneath when it was raining and when it stopped. It gave one a feeling of being "above the clouds" that Gratian liked. But this morning there was nothing of a weather panorama of that kind--just sheer, steady, sapping rain, with no wind to interfere. "They are tired, I daresay," thought Gratian; "for they must have been hard at work last night, getting the clouds together for all this rain. I expect Golden-wings goes off altogether when it's so cold and dreary. I wonder where she is. I would like to see her home--it must be full of such beautiful colours and scents." "And mine--wouldn't you like to see mine?" whistled a sudden cold breath in his ear. "Yes, I have made you jump. But I'm not going to bring the snow just yet--I've just come down for a moment, to see how much rain Green-wings has got together. She mustn't waste it, you see. I can't have her interfering with my reservoirs for the winter. I hold with a good old-fashioned winter--a snowy Christmas and plenty of picture exhibitions for my pet artist, Jack Frost. A good winter's the healthiest in the end for all concerned." "Yes, I think so too," said Gratian. He wished to be civil to White-wings. It was interesting to have some one to talk to as he went along, and the North-wind in a mild mood seemed an agreeable companion, less snappish and jerky than her sister of the east.