sheep stood in a compact flock, with heads towards the panting dogs. They
were Herdwicks, a small, hardy breed that best withstands the rain and
snow that sweep the high fells in the lambing season. When he had lighted
his pipe, Kit thoughtfully looked about.

On one side the barren moor, getting dim in the distance, rolled back to
the edge of the low country. Here and there patches of melting sleet
gleamed a livid white among the withered ling, and storm-torn hummocks of
peaty soil shone dark chocolate-brown. These were the only touches of
color in the dreary landscape, except for the streak of pale-yellow sky
that glimmered above a long black ridge. On the other side, a line of
rugged fells with summits lost in snow clouds, rose dark and forbidding.
It was very cold and a biting wind swept the heath.

Kit was tired, for he had been on the moor since morning and had not
eaten much. It was an awkward matter to find the sheep, and then the men
and dogs had some difficulty to keep the ewes moving, because the
Herdwick never willingly leaves the neighborhood where it was born and
will, if possible, return. The lambs, now grown large and fat, gave less
trouble, and when they sometimes stopped irresolutely while the ewes
tried to break away Kit understood their hesitation. Two instincts were
at work: it was natural to follow their dams, but Mireside was their
native heath and they knew they were going to be taken home.

Now they had gone some distance, Kit had to make a choice. One could
reach Mireside by a rough moor-land road, but it went round the hills and
there was a shorter way across the range. If he went round, he might
arrive late for the reckoning and some of the lambs would get footsore
and stop. On the other hand, he knew the fells and shrank from trying to
find his way among the crags in the dark. It was, however, important that