"Oh, in the library," he said eagerly. "I haven't been there for two days, mother. And then Gratian can see the pictures—you told me he liked pictures?—and best of all, you can play the organ to us, little mother."
"Then you feel better to-day, my boy?" she said, stooping to kiss the white forehead as she was leaving the room. "Some days I can't get him to like to move about at all," she added to Gratian.
"Yes, I do feel better," he said. "I don't mind it hurting me when I don't feel that horrible way as if I didn't care for anything. Have you ever been ill, Gratian? Do you know how it feels?"
Gratian considered.
"I once had a sore throat," he said, "but I didn't mind very much. It was winter, and I had a fire in my room, and I liked to see the flames going dancing up the chimney."
"Yes," said Fergus, "I know how you mean. I'm sure we must have the same thinkings about things, Gratian. Do you like music too, as much as pictures? Mother says people who like pictures very much, often like music too, and—and—there's something else that those kind of people like too, but I forget what."
"Flowers," suggested Gratian; "flowers and trees, perhaps."
"No," said Fergus, looking a little puzzled, "these would count in with pictures, don't you think? I'll ask mother—she said it so nicely. Don't you like when anybody says a thing so that it seems to fit in with other things?"
"Yes," said Gratian, "I think I do. But I think things to myself, mostly—I've not got anybody much to talk to, except sometimes Jonas. He's got very nice thoughts, only he'd never say them except to Watch and me."