Part 68 (1/2)

She too stopped to look at him, and at his dog. The mere neighbourhood of a living being brought a kind of comfort.

”It's going to snow--” she said, as she stood beside him, surprised by the sound of her own voice amid the roar of the wind.

”Aye--it's onding o' snaw--” said the shepherd, his shrewd blue eyes travelling over her face and form. ”An' it'll mappen be a rough night.”

”Are you taking your sheep into shelter?”

He pointed to a half-ruined fold, with three sycamores beside it, a stone's throw away. The gate of it was open, and the dog was gradually chasing the sheep within it.

”I doan't like leavin' 'em on t' fells this bitter weather. I'm afraid for t' ewes. It's too cauld for 'em. They'll be for droppin' their lambs too soon if this wind goes on. It juist taks t' strength out on 'em, doos the wind.”

”Do you think it's going to snow a great deal?”

The old man looked round at the clouds and the mountains; at the powdering of snow that had already whitened the heights.

”It'll be more'n a bit!” he said cautiously. ”I dessay we'll have to be gettin' men to open t' roads to-morrow.”

”Does it often block the roads?”

”Aye, yance or twice i' t' winter. An' ye can't let 'em bide. What's ter happen ter foak as want the doctor?”

”Did you ever know people lost on these hills?” asked the girl, looking into the blackness ahead of them. Her shrill, slight voice rang out in sharp contrast to the broad gutturals of his Westmoreland speech.

”Aye, missy--I've known two men lost on t' fells sin I wor a lad.”

”Were they shepherds, like you?”

”Noa, missy--they wor tramps. Theer's mony a fellow cooms by this way i'

th' bad weather to Pen'rth, rather than face Shap fells. They say it's betther walkin'. But when it's varra bad, we doan't let 'em go on--noa, it's not safe. Theer was a mon lost on t' fells nine year ago coom February. He wor an owd mon, and blind o' yan eye. He'd lost the toother, dippin' sheep.”

”How could he do that?” Hester asked indifferently, still staring ahead into the advancing storm, and trembling with cold from head to foot.

”Why, sum o' the dippin' stuff got into yan eye, and blinded him. It was my son, gooin afther th' lambs i' the snaw, as found him. He heard summat--a voice like a lile child cryin'--an he scratted aboot, an dragged th' owd man out. He worn't deed then, but he died next mornin'.

An t' doctor said as he'd fair broken his heart i' th' storm--not in a figure o' speach yo unnerstan--but juist th' plain truth.”

The old man rose. The sheep had all been folded. He called to his dog, and went to shut the gate. Then, still curiously eyeing Hester, he came back, followed by his dog, to the place where she stood, listlessly watching.

”Doan't yo go too far on t' fells, missy. It's coomin' on to snaw, an it'll snaw aw neet. Lor bless yer, it's wild here i' winter. An when t'

clouds coom down like yon--” he pointed up the valley--”even them as knaws t' fells from a chilt may go wrang.”

”Where does this path lead?” said Hester, absently.

”It goes oop to Marly Head, and joins on to th' owd road--t' Roman road, foak calls it--along top o' t' fells. An' if yo follers that far enoof you may coom to Ullswatter an' Pen'rth.”

”Thank you. Good afternoon,” said Hester, moving on.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”The old shepherd looked after her doubtfully”]