"Is that you, Gratian?" she said, as she heard his step.
"Yes, mother," he replied; and as he came into the light he looked up at her. She was much, much older-looking than Fergus's mother, for she had not married young, and Gratian was the youngest of several, the others of whom had died. But as he glanced at her sunburnt face, and saw the love shining out of her eyes, tired and rather worn by daily work as she was, she somehow reminded him of the graceful lady with the sweet blue eyes.
"I understand some of what Gray-wings said," he thought. "It's the same in mother's face and in hers when she looks at Fergus."
And he held up his mouth for a kiss.
"Have you been happy at the Big House?" Mrs. Conyfer asked. "Were they kind to you? She seems a kind lady, if one can trust to pretty looks."
"Oh! she's very kind," answered Gratian eagerly; "and so's Fergus. He's her boy, mother—he can't walk, nor scarcely stand. But he's getting better—the air here will make him better."
"It's to be hoped so, I'm sure," said the farmer's wife, with great sympathy in her tone. "It must be a terrible grief—the poor child—I couldn't find it in my heart to refuse to let you go when Mr. Cornelius told me of his affliction. But you were happy, and they were good to you?"
"Oh, mother! yes—happier than ever I was in my life."
Mrs. Conyfer smiled and yet sighed a little. She knew her child was not altogether like his compeers of the moor country—she was proud of it, and yet sometimes afraid with a vague misgiving.
"Come in and warm yourself—it's a cold evening. There's some hot girdle cakes and a cup of Fernflower's milk for your supper—though maybe you had so many fine things to eat at the Big House that you won't be hungry."