that he had been paying a visit to a married daughter under Naddle Fell,
and had volunteered to carry an injured sheep down to a valley farm,
whence it had strayed on his way home.

They stopped to talk while he rested a few minutes, under his burden,
propped against a rock. Lydia asked him after a sick grand-daughter. Her
question showed knowledge--no perfunctory kindness.

He shook his head sadly, and her grave, soft look, as she fell silent a
little, beside him, said more than words.

"Anything been done to your cottage?" she asked him presently.

"Noa--nowt."

"Nor to the other houses?"

"Naethin'."

Her brows frowned.

"Horrible!" she said under her breath. But they did not pursue the
subject. Instead the old man broke out in praise of the "won'erful 'cute"
sheep dog beside him, and in the story of the accident which had slightly
lamed the ewe he was carrying. Lydia's vivacious listening, her laugh,
her comments, expressed--unconsciously--with just a touch of Cumbria
dialect, showed them natural comrades. Some deeply human gift, some
spontaneity in the girl, answered to the racy simplicity of the old man.

"Tell me once more"--she said, as she rose from her seat upon a fallen