He needed no blowing to school that morning. The way seemed short, even though it was still drizzling—a cold, disagreeable, small rain, which had succeeded the downpour of the night before. But Gratian cared little for rain—what true child of the moors could?—he rather liked it than otherwise, especially when it came drifting over in great sheets, almost blinding for the moment, and then again dispersed as suddenly, so that standing on the high ground one could see on the slopes beneath when it was raining and when it stopped. It gave one a feeling of being "above the clouds" that Gratian liked. But this morning there was nothing of a weather panorama of that kind—just sheer, steady, sapping rain, with no wind to interfere.
"They are tired, I daresay," thought Gratian; "for they must have been hard at work last night, getting the clouds together for all this rain. I expect Golden-wings goes off altogether when it's so cold and dreary. I wonder where she is. I would like to see her home—it must be full of such beautiful colours and scents."
"And mine—wouldn't you like to see mine?" whistled a sudden cold breath in his ear. "Yes, I have made you jump. But I'm not going to bring the snow just yet—I've just come down for a moment, to see how much rain Green-wings has got together. She mustn't waste it, you see. I can't have her interfering with my reservoirs for the winter. I hold with a good old-fashioned winter—a snowy Christmas and plenty of picture exhibitions for my pet artist, Jack Frost. A good winter's the healthiest in the end for all concerned."
"Yes, I think so too," said Gratian. He wished to be civil to White-wings. It was interesting to have some one to talk to as he went along, and the North-wind in a mild mood seemed an agreeable companion, less snappish and jerky than her sister of the east.
"That's a sensible boy," said the snow-bringer condescendingly; "you've something of the old northern spirit about you here on the moorlands still, I fancy. Ah! if you could see the north—the real north—I don't fancy you would care much about the sleepy golden lands you were dreaming of just now."
"I'd like to see them," replied the child; "I don't say I'd like to live in them always. But the scents and the colours—they must be very beautiful. I seem to know all about them when Golden-wings kisses me."
"Humph," said the Spirit of the North. Both she and Gray-wings had a peculiar way of saying "humph" when Gratian praised either of the gentler sisters—"as for scents I don't say—scent is a stupid sort of thing. I don't understand anything about it. But colours—you're mistaken, I assure you, if you think the south can beat me in that. You've got your head full of the idea of snow—interminable ice-fields and all the rest of it. Why, my good boy, did you never hear of Arctic sunsets—not to speak of the Northern Lights? I could show you sunsets and sunrises such as you have never dreamt of—like rainbows painted on gold. Ah, it is a pity you cannot come with me!"
"And why can't I?" asked Gratian. "I'm not afraid of the cold."
The North-wind gave a whistle of good-natured contempt.