hard to the coast, and then drops suddenly, leaving you among the fogs and mists of the sea."
"Rather a nice, exciting sort of wind though," remarked Jimbo, waiting for the rhyme.
"So, at last, you shall know from their lightest breath
To which heaven each wind belongs;
And shall master their meaning for life or death
By the shout of their splendid songs.
Yet the Wind of the West
Is a wind unblest;
It is lifted and kissed
By the spirits of mist;
It will clasp you and flee
To the wastes of the sea.
So, beware of the Wind of the West, my child,
Fly not with the Wind of the West!"
"A jolly wind," observed Jimbo again. "But that doesn't leave much over to fly with," he added sadly. "They all seem dangerous or cruel."
"Yes," she laughed, "and so they are till you can master them—then they're kind, only one that's really always safe and kind is the Wind of the South. It's a sweet, gentle wind, beloved of all that flies, and you can't possibly mistake it. You can tell it at once by the murmuring way it stirs the grasses and the tops of the trees. Its taste is soft and sweet in the mouth like wine, and there's always a faint perfume about it like gardens in summer. It is the joy of this wind that makes all flying things sing. With a South Wind you can go anywhere and no harm can come to you."
"Dear old South Wind," cried Jimbo, rubbing his hands with delight. "I hope it will blow soon."
"Its rhyme is very easy, too, though you will always be able to tell it without that," she added.
"For this is the favourite Wind of all,
Beloved of the stars and night;
In the rustle of leaves you shall hear it call
To the passionate joys of flight.
It will carry you forth in its wonderful hair
To the far-away courts of the sky,
And the breath of its lips is a murmuring prayer
For the safety of all who fly.
For the Wind of the South
Is like wine in the mouth,
With its whispering showers
And perfume of flowers,
When it falls like a sigh
From the heart of the sky."
"Oh!" interrupted Jimbo, rubbing his hands, "that is nice. That's my wind!"
"It will bear you aloft
With a pressure so soft
That you hardly shall guess
Whose the gentle caress."
"Hooray!" he cried again.
"It's the kindest of weathers
For our red feathers,
And blows open the way
To the Gardens of Play.
So, fly out with the Wind of the South, my child,
With the wonderful Wind of the South."
"Oh, I love the South Wind already," he shouted, clapping his hands again. "I hope it will blow very, very soon."
"It may be rising even now," answered the governess, leading him to the window. But, as they gazed at the summer landscape lying in the fading light of the sunset, all was still and resting. The air was hushed, the leaves motionless. There was no call just then to flight from among the tree-tops, and he went back into the room disappointed.
"But why can't we escape at once?" he asked again, after he had given his promise to remember all she had told him, and to be extra careful if he ever went out flying alone.
"Jimbo, dear, I've told you before, it's because your body isn't ready for you yet," she answered patiently. "There's hardly any circulation in it, and if you forced your way back now the shock might stop your heart beating altogether. Then you'd be really dead, and escape would be impossible."
The boy sat on the edge of the bed staring intently at her while she spoke. Something clutched at his heart. He felt his Older Self, with its greater knowledge, rising up out of the depths within him. The child struggled with the old soul for possession.
"Have you got any circulation?" he asked abruptly at length. "I mean, has your heart stopped beating?"
But the smile called up by his words froze on her lips. She crossed to the window and stood with her back to the fading light, avoiding his eyes.
"My case, Jimbo, is a little different from yours," she said presently. "The important thing is to make certain about your escape. Never mind about me."
"But escape without you is nothing," he said, the Older Self now wholly in possession. "I simply wouldn't go. I'd rather stay here—with you."
The governess made no reply, but she turned her back to the room and leaned out of the window. Jimbo fancied he heard a sob. He felt a great big heart swelling up within his little body, and he crossed over beside her. For some minutes they stood there in silence, watching the stars that were already shining faintly in the sky.
"Whatever happens," he said, nestling against her, "I shan't go from here without you. Remember that!"
He was going to say a lot more, but somehow or other, when she stooped over to kiss his head—he hardly came up to her shoulder—it all ran suddenly out of his mind, and the little child dropped back into possession again. The tide of his thoughts that seemed about to rise, fast and furious, sank away completely, leaving his mind a clean-washed slate without a single image; and presently, without any more words, the governess left him and went through the trap-door into the silence and mystery of the house below.
Several hours later, about the middle of the night, there came over him a most disagreeable sensation of nausea and dizziness. The ground rose and fell beneath his feet, the walls swam about sideways, and the ceiling slid off into the air. It only lasted a few minutes, however, and Jimbo knew from what she had told him that it was the Flying Sickness which always followed the first long flight.
But, about the same time, another little body, lying in a night-nursery bed, was being convulsed with a similar attack; and the sickness of the little prisoner in the Empty House had its parallel, strangely enough, in the half-tenanted body miles away in a different world.
CHAPTER XIII
PLEASURES OF FLIGHT
Since the night when Jimbo had nearly fallen into the yard and risked capture, Fright, the horrible owner of the house, had kept himself well out of the way, and had allowed himself to be neither seen nor heard.
But the boy was not foolish enough to fall into the other trap, and imagine, therefore, that He did not know what was going on. Jimbo felt quite sure that He was only waiting his chance; and the governess's avoidance of the subject tended to confirm this supposition.
"He's disappeared somewhere and taken the children with him," she declared when he questioned her. "And now you know almost as much as I do."
"But not quite!" he laughed mischievously.
"Enough, though," she replied. "We want all our energy for escape when it comes. Don't bother about anything else for the moment."
During the day, when he was alone, his thoughts and fancies often terrified him; but at night, when he was rushing through the heavens, the intense delight of flying