In another moment Fergus was settled on a couch in the library—a lofty room with rows and rows of books on every side, nearly up to the ceiling. It would have looked gloomy and dull but for the cheerful fire in one corner and the neat tea-table drawn up before it; as it was, the sort of solemn mystery about it was very pleasing to Gratian.
"Isn't it nice here?" said Fergus. "I'm so glad I came. And do you know it didn't hurt me a bit. The fresh air that came in seemed to blow the pain away."
"I think you really must be getting stronger," said his mother, with a smile of hopefulness on her face, as she busied herself with the tea-table; "you have brought us good luck, Gratian."
"I believe he has," said Fergus. "Mother, do you know what he has been telling me? He was born where the four winds meet—he must be a lucky child, mustn't he, mother?"
"I should say so, certainly," said the lady with a smile. "I wonder if it is as good as being born on a Sunday."
"Oh far better, mother," said Fergus; "there are lots of children born on Sundays, but I never heard of one before that was born at the winds' meeting-place."
"Gratian will be able to tell you stories, I daresay," said his mother—"stories which the winds tell him, perhaps—eh, Gratian?"
Gratian smiled.
"He has been telling me some pictures already," said Fergus; "oh, mother I'm so happy."