paramount; and every other Dalesman is engaged in that
profession which is as old as Abel. And the talk of the men of the
land is of wethers and gimmers, of tup-hoggs, ewe tegs in wool,
and other things which are but fearsome names to you and me; and
always of the doings or misdoings, the intelligence or stupidity, of
their adjutants, the sheep-dogs.

Of all the Daleland, the country from the Black Water to
Grammoch Pike is the wildest. Above the tiny stone-built village
of Wastrel-- dale the Muir Pike nods its massive head. Westward,
the desolate Mere Marches, froni which the Sylvesters' great estate
derives its name, reach away in mAe on mile of sheep infested,
wind-swept moorland. On the far side of the Marches is that twin
dale where. flows the gentle Silver Lea. And it is there in the
paddocks at the back of the Dalesman's Daughter, that, in the late
summer months, the famous sheep-dog Trials of the North are
held. There that the battle for the Dale Cup, the world-known
Shepherds' Trophy, is fought out.

Past the little inn leads the turnpike road to the market-centre of
the district--Grammoch-town. At the bottom of the paddocks at
the back of the inn winds the Silver Lea. Just there a plank bridge
crosses the stream, and, beyond, the Murk Muir Pass. crawls up
the sheer side of the Scaur on to the Mere Marches.

At the head of the Pass, before it debouches. on to those lonely
sheep-walks which divide. the two dales, is that hollow,
shuddering with gloomy possibilities, aptly called the Devil's.
Bowl. In its centre the Lone Tarn, weirdly suggestive pool, lifts its
still face to the sky. It was beside that black, frozen water, across.