"Mother," said Gratian hesitatingly.
"Well?"
"Is it a good thing to be born where the four winds meet?"
She laughed.
"I can't say," she replied. "It's not done you any harm so far. But don't begin getting your head full of fancies, my boy. Off with you to bed, and get to sleep as fast as you can. Pleasant dreams."
"But, mother," said the child as he went upstairs, "dreams are fancies."
"Yes, but they don't waste our time. There's no harm in dreaming when we're asleep—we can't be doing aught else then."
"Oh," said Gratian, "it's dreaming in the day that wastes time then."
He was turning the corner of the stair as he said so, speaking more to himself than to his mother. Just then a little waft of air came right in his face. It was not the sharp touch that had made him start at the door, nor was it the soft warm breath which old Jonas said was the south wind. Rather did it remind Gratian of the kindly breeze and the sea-green glimmerings on the moor. He stood still for an instant. Again it fluttered by him, and he heard the words, "Not always, Gratian; not always."
"What was I saying?" he asked himself. "Ah yes—that it is dreaming in the day that is a waste of time! And now she says 'Not always.' You are very puzzling people whoever you are," he went on; "you whose voices I hear in the chimney, and who seem to know all I am thinking whether I say it or not."