l the while, and with vigour, using his brief
authority which no one--not even his master--attempted to dispute.
While this was going on two farm-boys from the rearmost boat had run up
the hill, and by and by returned, each cracking a whip and leading a
pair of horses harnessed to a lumbering hay-wagon. All scrambled on
board, romping and calling to Tilda and Arthur Miles to follow their
example; and so, leaving the shepherd to follow with his collected
flock, the procession started, the horses plunging at the first steep
rise from the beach.

Half-a-dozen children had collected on the beach and ran with them,
cheering, up the hill, and before the cottage doorways three or four
women, wives and widows, stood to watch the procession go by.
These (someone told Tilda) were all the inhabitants left, their men-folk
having sailed away west and north a month ago for the fishery.

"Wish 'ee well, Farmer Tossell!" cried one or two. "Sheep all right, I
hope?"

"Right as the bank, my dears!" called back the old patriarch, waving a
whip he had caught from one of the farm-boys. "The same to you, an'
many of 'em!"

They mounted the hill at a run, and when the horses dropped to a walk
Farmer Tossell explained to Arthur Miles, who had been thrust forward
into a seat--or rather perch--beside him, that this bringing home of the
sheep from Holmness was a great annual event, and that he was lucky, in
a way, to have dropped in for it.

"The whole family turns out--all but the Old Woman an' Dorcas. Dorcas
is my eldest. They're t'home gettin' the supper. A brave supper
you'll see, an' the preacher along with it. I dunno if you 're saved.
. . . No? P'r'aps not, at your age. I was never one for hurryin' the
children; bruisin' the tender flax, as you might say. . . But you
mustn't be upset if he _alloods_ to you. . . . A very powerful man, when
you're used to 'en. So you've a message for Miss Sally? Know her?"

The boy had to confess that he did not.

"Curious!" the farmer commented. "She's one of the old sort, is Miss
Sally. But you can't get over to Culvercoombe to-night: to-morrow
we'll see. . . . What's your name, by the way?"

"Arthur Miles."

"And your sister's?"

"She's called Tilda; but she--she isn't really--"

Farmer Tossell was not listening.

"You'll have to sleep with us to-night. Oh," he went on,
misinterpreting the boy's glance behind him (he was really seeking for
Tilda, to explain), "there's alway