"We tried to keep it a secret till it was quite sure," said the boy. "There was some difficulty about it, but it is all settled now. Father has taken the Big House from our cousin, and we are to live at it half the year. We are all there--my sisters--and my big brother comes sometimes--and mother of course. All except Jack. Jack has gone to sea. He was very nice, but he hated lessons--he only wanted to go to sea. So we want you now, Gratian--my own Gratian. I have a tutor, and you are to learn with me all the summer and to go away with us in the winter now your mother is well, so that you will find out what you want to be. It is for me we have come here. I must always be lame, Gratian. The doctors can't cure me," and the bright voice faltered. "But I shall get strong all the same if I live here in this beautiful air. And I shall be very happy, for I can learn to play on the organ--and that makes up for all." And all came about as Fergus said. The summer and the autumn that followed, Gratian studied with his friend's tutor. And the winter after, greatly to his mother's joy, he went away as had been planned before. But not for ever of course. No great length of time passed without his returning to his birthplace. "I should die," he said sometimes, "if I could not from time to time stand at the old porch and feel the breath of the four winds about me." This is only the story of the very opening of the life of a boy who lived to make his mark among men. How he did so, how he found his voice, it is not for me to tell. But he had early learnt to choose the right, and so we know he prospered. Besides--was he not the godchild of the Four Winds of Heaven? THE END. Mr. A. C. SWINBURNE, in _The Nineteenth Century_, writes:-- "It seems to me not at all easier to draw a lifelike child than to draw a lifelike man or woman: Shakespeare and Webster were the only two men of their age who could do it with perfect delicacy and success: at least, if there was another who could, I must crave pardon of his happy memory for my forgetfulness or ignorance of his name. Our own age is more fortunate, on this single score at least, having a larger and far nobler proportion of female writers; among whom, since the death of George Eliot, there is none left whose touch is so exquisite and masterly, whose love is so thoroughly according to knowledge, whose bright and sweet invention is so fruitful, so truthful, or so delightful as Mrs. Molesworth's. Any chapter of _The Cuckoo Clock_ or the enchanting _Adventures of Herr Baby_ is worth a shoal of the very best novels dealing with the characters and fortunes of mere adults." MRS. MOLESWORTH'S STORY BOOKS FOR CHILDREN. With Illustrations by WALTER CRANE. _In Crown 8vo. Price 4s. 6d. each._ FOUR WINDS FARM. "US:" An Old-Fashioned Story. CHRISTMAS TREE LAND. TWO LITTLE WAIFS. * * * * *