The Master nodded.

"It is, sir. They're all mad I should, but I mun cross 'em. They say
he's reached his prime--and so he has o' his body, but not o' his
brain. And a sheep-dog--unlike other dogs--is not at his best till his
brain is at its best--and that takes a while developin', same as in a
mon, I reck'n."

"Well, well," said the parson, pulling out a favorite phrase,
"waiting's winning--waiting's winning."

David slipped up into his room and into bed unseen, he hoped.
Alone with the darkness, he allowed himself the rare relief of
tears; and at length fell asleep. He awoke to find his father
standing at his bedside. The little man held a feeble dip-candle in
his hand, which lit his sallow face in crude black and white. In the
doorway, dimly outlined, was the great figure of Red Wull.

"Whaur ha' ye been the day?" the little man asked. Then, looking
down on the white stained face beneath him, he added hurriedly:
"If ye like to lie, I'll believe ye."

David was out of bed and standing up in his night-shirt. He
looked at his father contemptuously.

"I ha' bin at Kenmuir. I'll not lie for yo' ur your likes," he said
proudly.

The little man shrugged his shoulders.