"I should like to talk about it to my godmothers," was almost his last thought. "I wonder if I shall still see them sometimes when I am far from Four Winds." And the next morning when he woke, he lay looking round his little room and thinking how much he liked it, and how happy he had been in it. He was beginning to realise that no good is all good, no light without shadow. But there seemed no shadow or drawback of any kind the next day when he went to the Big House to talk it all over with the lady and Fergus. Fergus was too delighted for words. "It is like a story in a book, isn't it, Gratian?" he said. "And if you turn out a great man, then the world will thank mother and me for having found you." Gratian blushed a little. "I don't know about being a _great_ man," he said, "but I want to find out really what it is I can do best, and then it will be my own fault if I don't do _something_ good." "Yes, my boy--that is exactly what I want you to feel," said Fergus's mother. But Gratian was anxious to know what his four friends had to say about it. "I don't think it's very kind of none of you to come to speak to me," he said aloud on his way home. "I know you're not far off--all of you. I'm sure I heard Gray-wings scolding outside last night." A sound of faint laughter up above him seemed to answer. "Oh there you are, Gray-wings, I thought as much," he said, buttoning up his jacket, for it was very cold. But he had hardly spoken before he heard, nearer than the laughter had been, a soft sigh. "I never forget you--remember, Gratian, whenever you want me--whenever in sor--row." "That's Green-wings," he said to himself. "But why should she talk of sorrow when I'm so happy--happier than ever in my life, I think. She _is_ of rather too melancholy a nature." He ran on--the door was latched--he hurried into the kitchen. There was no one there. "Where can mother be?" he thought. He heard steps moving upstairs and turned to go there. Halfway up he met Madge, the servant, coming down. Her face looked anxious and distressed through all its rosiness. "Oh the poor missis," she said. "She's had to go to bed. The pains in her ankles and knees got so bad--I'm afeared she's going to be really very ill." Gratian ran past her into his mother's room. "Don't be frightened," Mrs. Conyfer said at once. "It's only that my rheumatism is very bad to-day. I'll be better in the morning, dear. I must be well with you going away so soon." And when the farmer came in she met him with the same cheerful tone, though it was evident she was suffering severely. But Gratian sat by her bedside all the evening, doing all he could. He was grave and silent, for the thought was deep in his heart-- "I can't go away--I can't and I mustn't if mother is going to be really ill. Poor mother! I'm sure my godmothers wouldn't think I should." CHAPTER XII. LEARNING TO WAIT