"Jonas," he said, "did you see a sort of light down there—across the grass there in front, a sort of golden-looking flash? ah, there it is again," and just at the same moment a soft, almost warm waft of air seemed to float across his face, and Gratian fancied he heard the words, "good boy, good boy."
"'Tis a breath of south wind getting up," said old Jonas quietly. "I've often thought to myself that there's colours in the winds, Master Gratian, though folk would laugh at me for an old silly if I said so."
"Colours," repeated Gratian, "do you mean many colours? I wasn't saying anything about the wind though, Jonas—did you feel it too? It was over there—look, Jonas—it seemed to come from behind the big bush."
"Due south, due south," said Jonas. "And golden yellow is my fancy for the south."
"And what for the north, and for the——" began Gratian eagerly, but his mother's voice interrupted him.
"Bedtime, Gratian," she called, "come and put away your books. You've done enough lessons for to-night."
Gratian gave himself a little shake of impatience.
"How tiresome," he said. "I am quite awake now. I want you to go on telling me about the winds, Jonas, and I want to do a lot more lessons. I can't go to bed yet," but even while the words were on his lips, he started and shivered. "Jonas, it can't be south wind. It's as cold as anything."
For a sharp keen gust had suddenly come round the corner, rasping the child's unprotected face almost "like a knife" as people sometimes say, and Watch, who had been rubbing his nose against Gratian, gave a snort of disgust.
"You see Watch feels it too," said the boy. But Jonas only turned a little and looked about him calmly.