"I am so thankful to be better—so very thankful to be better before you go, Gratian," said the poor woman.
"Oh yes, dear mother, we cannot be thankful enough," the boy replied. "I will never forget that night—the night you were so very ill," he said with a shiver at the thought of it.
"I shall not be able to write much to you, my child," she said. "The doctor says my hands and joints will be stiff for a good while, but that I must try not to fret, and to keep an easy mind. I will try—but it won't be easy for me that's always been so stirring. And I shall miss you at first, of course. But if you're well and happy—and it would have been sad and dull for you here with me so different."
Just then the farmer's voice came sounding up the stairs.
"Gratian," it said, "come down here."
The boy obeyed. But first he stooped and kissed the pale face on the pillow.
"Dear mother," he said.
His father was standing by the kitchen fire when he went in, and the lady was seated in one of the big old arm-chairs. She looked at him with fresh love and interest in her sweet blue eyes.
"Dear Gratian," she said, "Fergus is fretting for you sadly. Your father has been telling me what a clever sick-nurse you are. And indeed I was sure of it from your way with Fergus. I am so very, very glad your dear mother is better."