"I will go," he said; "here, Andrew."
A man-servant, with a good-humoured face and a strong pair of arms, came forward and lifted the child carefully.
"You walk beside me, Gratian, and hold my hand. If it hurts much I will pinch you a little, but don't let mother know," he said in a whisper; and thus the little procession moved out of the room right across the hall and down another corridor.
"There must be a window open," said Fergus; "don't you feel the air blowing in? Oh don't shut it, mother," as the lady started forward, "it's such nice soft air—scented as if they were making hay. Oh, it's delicious."
His mother seemed a little surprised.
"There is no window open, dear," she said. "It must be that you feel the change from the warm room to the hall. Perhaps I should have covered you up."
"Oh no, no," repeated Fergus. "I'm not the least cold. It's not a cold wind at all. Gratian, don't you feel it?"
"Yes," said Gratian, holding Fergus's hand firmly. But his eyes had a curious look in them, as if he were smiling inwardly to himself.
"Golden-wings, you darling," he murmured, "I know you're there—thank you so much for blowing away his pain."