"Us should he startin', Maggie," he said, and going to the door.
"Bob! Owd Bob, lad! Ar't coomin' along?" he called.

The gray dog came springing up like an antelope, and the three
started off for school together.

Mrs. Moore stood in the doorway, holding Andrew by the hand,
and watched the departing trio.

"'Tis a pretty pair, Master, surely," she said softly to her husband,
who came up at the moment.

"Ay, he'll be a fine lad if his feyther'll let him," the tall man
answered.

"Tis a shame Mr. M'Adam should lead him such a life," the
woman continued indignantly. She laid a hand on her husband's
arm, and looked up at him coaxingly.

"Could yo' not say summat to un, Master, think 'ee? Happen he'd
'tend to you," she pleaded. For Mrs. Moore imagined that there
could be no one but would gladly heed what James Moore, Master
of Kenmuir, might say to him. "He's not a bad un at bottom, I do
believe," she continued. "He never took on so till his missus died.
Eh, but he was main fond o' her."

Her husband shook his head "Nay, mother," he said "'Twould nob'
but mak' it worse for t' lad. M'Adam'd listen to no one, let alone
me." And, indeed, he was right; for the tenant of the Grange made
no secret of his animosity for his straight-going, straight-speaking