"I am never very merry, as you know. But I am a little sadder than usual to-night. I foresee—I foresee sorrows"—and her voice breathed out the words with such an exquisite plaintiveness that they sounded like the dying away notes of a dirge. "But keep up your heart, my darling, and trust us all—all four. We only wish your good, though we may show it in different ways. And wherever I am I can always be with you to comfort you, if it be but for a moment. No distance can separate us from our child."
"And I am most your child, am I not, dear Green-wings?" asked Gratian. "I knew you the first, and I think I love you the most."
"My darling, good-night," whispered Green-wings, and with a soft flutter she was gone.
There was no mother waiting at the open door for Gratian's return that evening.
"It is too cold for standing outside now," he said to himself as he went in, adding aloud, "Here I am, mother. Did you think I was late?"
Mrs. Conyfer was sitting by the fire. Her knitting lay on her knee, but her hands were idle. She looked up as Gratian came in.
"I am glad you have come, dear," she said; but her voice sounded tired, and when he was close to her he saw that her face seemed tired also.
"Are you not well, mother?" he said gently.