"And I am most _your_ child, am I not, dear Green-wings?" asked Gratian. "I knew you the first, and I think I love you the most." "My darling, good-night," whispered Green-wings, and with a soft flutter she was gone. There was no mother waiting at the open door for Gratian's return that evening. "It is too cold for standing outside now," he said to himself as he went in, adding aloud, "Here I am, mother. Did you think I was late?" Mrs. Conyfer was sitting by the fire. Her knitting lay on her knee, but her hands were idle. She looked up as Gratian came in. "I am glad you have come, dear," she said; but her voice sounded tired, and when he was close to her he saw that her face seemed tired also. [Illustration: "Are you not well, mother?" he said gently.] "Are you not well, mother?" he said gently. Mrs. Conyfer looked a little surprised but pleased too. It was new to her either to think of how she was or to be asked about it. For though her husband was kind and good, he was plain and even a little rough, as are the moorland people in general. Gratian had never been rough, but he had not had the habit of much noticing those about him. Since he had been so often with Fergus and the lady he had learnt to be more observant of others, especially of his mother, and more tender in his manner. "Are you not well, mother dear?" he repeated. "I'm only a bit tired, my boy," she said. "I'm getting old, I suppose, and I've worked pretty hard in my way--not to say as if I'd been a poor man's wife of course, but a farmer's wife has a deal on her mind." "And you do everything so well, mother," said Gratian admiringly. "I'm getting old enough now to see how different things are here from what they are in many houses. Fergus does so like to hear about the dairy and the cocks and hens, and about the girdle cakes and all the nice things you make." "He's really a nice little gentleman!" said Mrs. Conyfer, well pleased, "I _am_ glad to hear he's getting so much better. I'm sure his mother deserves he should--such a sweet lady as she is." For now and then on a Sunday the two boys' mothers had spoken to each other. "Yes, he's _much_ better," said Gratian. "To-day he walked six times up and down the terrace with only my arm." "They weren't afraid to let him out, and it so cold to-day?" said Mrs. Conyfer. "It wasn't so very cold--you usedn't to mind the cold, mother," said the boy. "Maybe not so much as now," she replied. "I think I'm getting rheumatic like my father and mother before me, for I can't move about so quick, and then one feels the cold more." "What makes people have rheumatics?" asked Gratian.