"No, no. It will be all right. Don't trouble him about me unless he asks," and off he ran.
He went as quickly as he could find his way—it was not a very dark night—till he was fairly out on the moorland path. Then he stood still.
"White-wings, Green-wings—whichever of you hears me, come and help me. Dear Green-wings, you said you always would comfort me."
"So she would, surely," said a voice, firmer and colder than hers, but kindly too, "but at this moment it's more strength than comfort that you want. Hold out your arms, my boy, there—clasp me tight, don't start at my cold breath. That's right. Why, I can fly with you as if you were a snow-flake!"
And again Gratian felt the strange, whirling, rushing sensation, again he closed his eyes as if he were falling asleep, and knew no more till he found himself standing in the village street, a few doors from the doctor's house, and felt, rather than heard, a clear cold whisper of "Farewell, Gratian, for the present."
And the next morning the neighbours spoke of the sudden northern blast that had come rushing down from the moors in the night, and wondered it had not brought the snow with it, little thinking it had brought a little boy instead!
Dr. Spense was soon awakened, and long as the time always seems to an anxious watcher by a sick-bed, Farmer Conyfer could scarcely believe his ears when he heard the rattle of the dogcart wheels up the steep road, or his eyes when the doctor, followed by Gratian, came up the staircase.
"My boy, but you have done bravely!" said the father in amazement. "Doctor, I can't understand how he can have been so quick!"
The doctor turned kindly to Gratian.