"Hoad on; dinna close t' pen," a man called. "Here's Kit and t' lot
fra Swinset."

Three of four more shouted and Grace, who had followed Railton, thought
there was a note of triumph in their cries. Then dogs began to bark,
somebody opened a gate, and a flock of Herdwicks, leaping out with wet
fleeces shaking, and hoofs clicking on stone, ran across a shallow pool
where the beck had overflowed.

A few minutes afterwards, Kit came in. He looked tired, his face was
rather haggard, and his clothes were wet. Tom, the shepherd, followed and
sat down by the fire.

"It was nea an easy job, but we manished it," he said. "Swinset sheep is
thief sheep, but they're none a match for Kit's oad dog."

Kit stopped abruptly as he crossed the floor and his heart beat. "Ah!" he
said. "Miss Osborn?"

Grace smiled as she got up and gave him her hand. "Well done! Have you
brought them all? But of course you have!"

"They're in the pen," Kit answered, with some embarrassment.

Then Railton stood up, leaning awkwardly on his stick.

"I've misdoubted your new-fashioned plans, and ken that I was wrang.
There's nea ither lad in aw t' dale could ha' browt Herdwicks doon
Bleatarn ghyll last neet. Weel, t' oad ways for t' oad men, but I'se
niver deny again that the young and new are good."