"I hope so," Fergus replied. "Mother says I mustn't expect ever to be quite strong. But they say I'm getting better. That's why mother brought me here. Do you know I can eat ever so much more than when I came? If I can get well enough to play—even on a piano—I wouldn't mind so much. I could make up all sorts of things for myself then—I could make pictures even of the moorland and Four Winds Farm, I think, Gratian."
"I'll try to tell you them—I'll try to make some of my fancies into stories and pictures," said Gratian; "then afterwards, when you get well and can play, you can make them into music."
Just then the door opened, and Fergus's mother came in.
"Tea is ready," she said, "and Andrew is going to carry you into the library, Fergus."
She looked at the boy a little anxiously as she spoke, and Gratian saw that a slight shadow of pain or fear crept over Fergus's face.
"Mother," he said, "would it perhaps be better to stay here after all? You could show Gratian the pictures."
The lady looked very disappointed.
"The tea is so nicely set out," she said, "and you know you can't hear the organ well from here. And Andrew doesn't hurt you—he is very careful."
Gratian looked on, anxious too. He understood that it must be good for Fergus to go into another room, otherwise his mother would not wish it. Fergus caught sight of the eagerness on Gratian's face, and it carried the day.