Gratian looked up at her with his soft brown eyes. "I used to think being a shepherd and lying out on the heather all day--alone with the sheep and Watch, like old Jonas--would be the best life of any. But now I want to know things. I think one can fancy better when one knows more. And I'd like to do more than fancy." "What would you like to do?" asked Fergus's mother. "Would you like to learn to _make_ music as well as to play it? That is what Fergus wants to do." Gratian shook his head. "I don't know," he replied. "I don't know _yet_. And isn't it best not to plan about it, because I know father will need me on the farm?" "Perhaps it is best," she said. But she answered as if thinking of something else at the same time. And then Andrew came out to help Fergus up the steps into the house, where tea was waiting for them in the library. Fergus's mother was rather tired. She had walked some distance to see a poor woman who was ill that afternoon. "Don't ask me to play much to-day, my dear boys," she said. "I never like to play much when I am tired; it doesn't seem fair to the music." "Then you sha'n't play at all, mother darling," said Fergus. "Gratian, I'll tell you what; you shall tell mother and me a story. That will rest her nicely." Gratian looked up hesitatingly. "He tells such nice stories," Fergus went on. "Does he often tell them?" asked the lady. "Yes, when we are alone," said Fergus. "The music makes me think of them very often," said Gratian. "It makes Fergus see pictures, and it makes me think stories. Sometimes I can see pictures too, but I think I like stories best." "He made a beauty the other day, about a Princess whose eyes were forget-me-nots, so that whoever had once seen her could never forget her again; and if they were good people it made them very happy, but if they were naughty people it made them very unhappy--only it did them all good somehow in the end. Gratian made it come right." "That sounds very pretty," said the lady. "Did that come out of my music?" "No," said the boy, "that story came mostly out of your eyes. I called you the lady with the forget-me-not eyes the first Sunday in church." He spoke so simply that the lady could not help smiling. "My eyes thank you for your pretty thoughts of them," she said. "Will you tell that story again?" "No," Fergus interrupted. "I want a new one. You were to have one ready for to-day, Gratian." "I have only a very little one, but I will tell it, if you like," said Gratian. "It isn't exactly like a story. There isn't anything wonderful in it like in the one about the Princess, or the one about the underground fairies." "No, that _was_ a beauty," said Fergus. "But never mind if this one isn't quite so nice," he added, condescendingly. So Gratian began.