"His mind had begun to open before he ever saw me, Mr. Cornelius," said Fergus's mother with a smile. "It is like a flower--it asks nothing but to be allowed to grow. He is a very uncommon child--one could imagine that some specially happy influences surrounded him. He seems to take in and to feel interest in so many different things. I wonder what he will grow up." "Ah yes, ma'am," said the schoolmaster with a sigh. "It is a pity to think of his being no more than his father before him. But yet, what can one do?" "One would like at least to find out what he _might_ be," she said thoughtfully. "He will be a _good_ man, whether he ever leaves the moors or not--of that I feel sure. And if it is his duty to stay in this quiet corner of the world, I suppose we must not regret it." "I suppose not. I _try_ to think so," said the schoolmaster. But from something in his tone the lady suspected that he was looking back rather sadly on dreams, long ago past, of his own future--dreams which had never come to pass, and left him but the village schoolmaster. And her sympathy with this half-understood disappointment made her think still more of Gratian. "Cornelius would live again in this child if he should turn out one of the great few," she thought to herself. It was one of the afternoons Gratian now always spent with Fergus. She could leave her lame boy with perfect comfort in his friend's care, sure that he would be both safe and happy. As she made her way up the pine avenue and drew near to the house, she heard bright voices welcoming her. "Mother dear," Fergus called out, "I have walked twelve times along the south terrace--six times up and six times down--with Gratian's arm. It is so sheltered there--just a nice little soft breeze. Do you know, Gratian, I so often notice that breeze when you are here? It is as if it came with you." "But it is getting colder now, my boy," she answered. "You must come in. I have been to see Mr. Cornelius, Gratian. I am so glad to hear that he is pleased with your lessons. I would not like him to think that being with us distracted your attention." "I'm sure it doesn't, ma'am," said Gratian simply. "So often the things you tell me about or read to us, or that I hear about somehow when I am here, seem to come in just at the right minute, and to make my lessons easier. I have never found lessons so nice as this winter." "I don't like lessons," said Fergus. "I never shall like them." "You will have to look upon them as necessary evils then," said his mother. "I usedn't to like them," said Gratian. "_Now_ I often think I'd like to go on till I'm quite big." "Well, so you can, can't you?" said Fergus. "No," Gratian replied; "boys like me have to stop when they're big enough to help their fathers at home, and I've no big brother like Tony. I'll have to stop going to school before very long. I used to think I'd be very glad. Now I'd be sorry even if I was to be a shepherd." "How do you mean?" asked the lady.