Gratian followed her in silence. The pictures were mostly landscapes—some so very old and dark that one could scarcely distinguish what they were. And some of which the colours were brighter, the boy did not care for any better—they were not like any skies or trees he had ever seen or even imagined, and he felt disappointed.
Suddenly he gave a little cry.
"Oh, I like that—I do like that," he said, and he glanced up at the lady for approval.
She smiled again.
"Yes," she said, "it is a wonderful picture. Quite as much a picture of the wind as of the sea."
Gratian gazed at it with delight. The scene was on the coast, on what one might call a playfully stormy day. The waves came dancing in, their crests flashing in the sunshine, pursued and tossed by the wind; and up above, the little clouds were scudding along quite as busy and eager about their business, whatever it was, as the white-sailed fishing-boats below.
"Do you like it so very much?" she asked.
"Yes," the boy replied, "that's like what I fancied pictures were. I've never seen the sea, but I can feel it must be like that."
And after this he did not seem to care to see any others.