"Bless you, she's always in a pathetic humour about some one or something," said Gray-wings.
"I don't mind you taking me home if you won't mock at me," said Gratian. "Are you really displeased with me? Have I done anything naughty without knowing it?"
Gray-wings's tone suddenly changed. Never had her voice sounded so gentle and yet earnest.
"No, my child. I only meant to warn you. It is my part both to correct and to warn—of the two I would rather, by far, warn. Don't get your little head turned—don't think there is nothing worth, nothing beautiful, except in the new things you may see and hear and learn. And never think yourself quite anything. That is always a mistake. What will seem new to you is only another way of putting the old—and the path to any real good is always the same—never think to get on faster from leaving it. You can't understand all this yet, but you will in time. Now put your arms out, darling—I am here beside you. Clasp them round my neck; never mind if it feels cold—there. I have you safe, and here goes——"
A whirl, a rapid upbearing, a rush of cold, fresh air, and a pleasant, dreamy feeling, as when one is rocked in a little boat at sea. Gratian closed his eyes—he was tired, poor little chap, for nothing is more tiring than new sights and feelings—and knew no more till he found himself lying on the heather, a few yards from the Farm gates.
He looked about him—it was quite night by now—he felt drowsy still, but no longer tired, and not cold—just pleasantly warm and comfortable.
"Gray-wings must have wrapped me up somehow," he said to himself. "She's very kind, really. But I must run in—what would mother think if she saw me lying here?"
And he jumped up and ran home.
The gate was open, the door of the house was open too, and just within the porch stood his mother.