"I don't know about being a great man," he said, "but I want to find out really what it is I can do best, and then it will be my own fault if I don't do something good."
"Yes, my boy—that is exactly what I want you to feel," said Fergus's mother.
But Gratian was anxious to know what his four friends had to say about it.
"I don't think it's very kind of none of you to come to speak to me," he said aloud on his way home. "I know you're not far off—all of you. I'm sure I heard Gray-wings scolding outside last night."
A sound of faint laughter up above him seemed to answer.
"Oh there you are, Gray-wings, I thought as much," he said, buttoning up his jacket, for it was very cold. But he had hardly spoken before he heard, nearer than the laughter had been, a soft sigh.
"I never forget you—remember, Gratian, whenever you want me—whenever in sor—row."
"That's Green-wings," he said to himself. "But why should she talk of sorrow when I'm so happy—happier than ever in my life, I think. She is of rather too melancholy a nature."
He ran on—the door was latched—he hurried into the kitchen. There was no one there.
"Where can mother be?" he thought. He heard steps moving upstairs and turned to go there. Halfway up he met Madge, the servant, coming down. Her face looked anxious and distressed through all its rosiness.