little
valley below her she saw a flock of sheep grazing, while farther along
the ridge stood a sheep-wagon, a strange and rather disconcerting figure
striding up and down beside it.

Doubtless it was the shepherd, she understood. But a queer figure he
made in that place; and his actions were unusual, to say the least, in
one of his sedate and melancholy calling. He was a young man, garbed in
a long, black coat, tattered more or less about the skirts and open in
front, displaying his red shirt. His hair was long upon his collar, and
his head was bare.

As he walked up and down a short beat near his wagon, the shepherd held
in his hand a book, which he placed before his eyes with a flourish now,
and then with a flourish withdrew it, meantime gesticulating with his
empty hand in the most extravagant fashion. His dog, sharper of
perception than its master, lay aside from him a little way, its ears
pricked up, its sharp nose lifted, sniffing the scent of the stranger.
But it gave no alarm.

Agnes felt that the man must be harmless, whatever his peculiarities.
She rode forward, bent on asking him how far she had strayed from the
river. As she drew near, she heard him muttering and declaiming,
illustrating his arguments of protestation with clenched fist and
tossing head, his long hair lifting from his temples in the wind.

He greeted her respectfully, without sign of perturbation or surprise,
as one well accustomed to the society of people above the rank of
shepherd.

"My apparent eccentric behavior at the moment when you first saw me,
madam, or miss, perhaps, most likely I should say, indeed----"

Agnes nodded, smiling, to confirm his penetration.

"So, as I was saying, my behavior may have led you into doubt of my
balance, and the consequent question of your safety in my vicinity," he
continued.

"Nothing of the kind, I assure you," said she. "I thought you might be
a--a divinity student by your dress, or maybe a candidate for the legal
profession."

"Neither," he disclaimed. "I am a philosopher, and at the moment you
first beheld me I was engaged in a heated controversy with Epictetus,
whose _Discourses_ I hold in my hand. We are unable to agree on many
points, especially upon the point which he assumes that he has made in
the discussion of grief. He contends that when one is not blamable for
some calamity which bereaves him or strips him of his possessions, grief
is unmanly, regret inexcusable.

"'How?' sa