"The moor, I think," said the boy, "our own moor, up, far up, behind our house. It must be looking just as I see it now, at this very minute; only the music is coming from some place—a church, I think, very far away. The wind is bringing it—the south wind, not the one from the sea. And you know that when the music is being played in the church there are lots of people all kneeling so that you can't see their faces, and I think some are crying softly."
"Yes," said Fergus, "that isn't so bad. I can see it too. You'll soon get into the way, Gratian," he went on, with his funny little patronising tone, "of making music-pictures if we practice it together. That's the best of music, you see. It makes itself and pictures too. Now pictures never make you music."
"But they give you feelings—like telling you stories—at least that one I like so much does. And I suppose there are many pictures like that—as beautiful as that?" he went on, as if asking the question from the lady, who had left the organ now and was standing by Fergus, listening to what they were saying.
"Yes," she said, "there are many pictures I should like you to see, and many places too. Places which make one wish one could paint them the moment one sees them. Perhaps it is pictures you are going to care most for, little Gratian? If so, they will be music and poetry and everything to you—they will be your voice."
"Poetry," repeated Fergus, "that's the other thing—the thing I couldn't remember the name of, Gratian."
Gratian looked rather puzzled.
"I don't know much about poetry," he said. "But I don't know about anything. I never saw pictures before. There are so many things to know about," he added with a little sigh.
"Don't be discouraged," said the lady smiling. "Everybody has to find out and to learn and to work hard."
"Has everybody a voice?" asked Gratian.