He stood at the table for a moment before his mother looked up; he was vaguely wondering to himself if he too would have a big book with a green ribbon-marker when he should be as old as his father and mother; did everybody? he felt half-inclined to ask his mother, but before he had decided if he should, she scattered his thoughts by glancing up at him quickly. She was quick and alert in everything she said and did, except perhaps in reading. "Good-night, Gratian. Get quickly to bed, my boy." "Good-night, mother, good-night, father," he said, as his mother kissed him, and his father laid his hand on the child's curly head with a kindly gesture which he only used on Sunday evenings. "Gratian is in one of his dreams again," said the mother, when the little figure had disappeared. "Ay," said her husband, "it's to be hoped he'll grow out of it, but he's young yet." Gratian had stopped a moment on his way across the red-tiled passage, at one end of which was the white stone staircase; he stopped at the front door which stood slightly ajar, and stepped out into the porch. It was autumn, but early autumn only. Something of the fragrance of a summer night was still about, but there was not the calm and restfulness of the summer; on the contrary, there was a stirring and a murmuring, and the clouds overhead were scudding hurriedly before the moon, as if she were scolding them and they in a hurry to escape, thought Gratian; for there was a certain fretfulness in her air--a disquiet and unsettledness which struck him. "Either she is angry and they are running away, or--perhaps that is it--she is sending them messages as fast as they can take them, like the rooks after they have been having a long talk together," he said to himself. Then as a figure came round the side of the house on its way to what was really the kitchen--though the big room which Gratian had just left went by the name--"Jonas," said the child aloud, "is there anything the matter up in the sky to-night?" The old shepherd stood still; he rested the empty milkpail he was carrying on the ground, and gazed up to where Gratian was pointing. "I cannot say," he answered, "but the summer is gone, little master. Up here the winter comes betimes, we must look for the storms and the tempests again before long." "But not yet, oh not just yet, Jonas; I can't think why they don't get tired of fighting and rushing about and tearing each other--the winds and the rain and the clouds and all of them up there. Listen, Jonas, what is that?" For a faint, low breath came round the end of the house like a long drawn sigh, yet with something of menace in its tone.