"I shall not be able to write much to you, my child," she said. "The doctor says my hands and joints will be stiff for a good while, but that I must try not to fret, and to keep an easy mind. I will try--but it won't be easy for me that's always been so stirring. And I shall miss you at first, of course. But if you're well and happy--and it would have been sad and dull for you here with me so different." Just then the farmer's voice came sounding up the stairs. "Gratian," it said, "come down here." The boy obeyed. But first he stooped and kissed the pale face on the pillow. "Dear mother," he said. His father was standing by the kitchen fire when he went in, and the lady was seated in one of the big old arm-chairs. She looked at him with fresh love and interest in her sweet blue eyes. "Dear Gratian," she said, "Fergus is fretting for you sadly. Your father has been telling me what a clever sick-nurse you are. And indeed I was sure of it from your way with Fergus. I am so very, very glad your dear mother is better." "She will miss him a good deal at first, I'm afraid," said the farmer, "but I must do my best. It's about your going, my boy--the lady has already put it off some days for your sake. It's very good of you, ma'am--_very_ good. I'll get him ready as well as I can. You'll excuse it if his things are not just in such shipshape order as his mother would have had them." "Of course, of course," she replied. "Then the day after to-morrow. I _daren't_ wait longer--the doctor says Fergus must not risk more cold as yet." Gratian had listened in silence. But now he turned, first to his father and then to the lady, and spoke. "Father, dear lady," he began, "don't be vexed with me--oh don't. But I can't go now. I've thought about it all these days--I'm--I'm _dreadfully_ sorry," and here his voice faltered. "I wanted to learn and to understand. But it wouldn't be right. I know it wouldn't. Mother would not get well so quick without me, perhaps she'd never get well at all. And no learning or seeing things would do me really good if I knew I wasn't doing right. Father--tell me that you think I'm right." The lady and the farmer looked at each other; there were tears in the lady's eyes. "Is he right?" asked Gratian's father. She bent her head. "I'm afraid he is," she said, "but it is only fair to let him quite understand. It isn't merely putting it off for a while, Gratian," she went on; "I am afraid it may be for altogether. We are not likely to come back to this part of the country again, and my husband, though kind, is a little peculiar. He has a nephew whom he will send for as a companion to Fergus if you don't come. We should like you better, but it is our duty to do something for Jack, and Fergus needs a companion, so it seems only natural to take him instead of sending him away to school." "Of course," said the farmer, looking at his son.