nished; confidence had not altogether returned; faith and
trust in the giants that stalked over the world, and who seemed to rule
it, were not as yet quite re-established: perhaps they never could, or
would be. To some natures recovery in such directions is impossible. The
fire has seared, the cicatrice remains--though to be hidden away, of
course. To show feelings--above all, to show you are hurt--to sing out,
in fact--is to exhibit a poor spirit, to fall short in proper doggedness.
Suffer in silence, if you can--that must be the rule; just as this dog,
with his keen, eager face, loves in silence--loves all the more deeply,
perchance, because he loves in silence, and because that silence is so
much more eloquent than words.

Did Murphy understand? According to Job Nutt, the shepherd, who was a
philosopher in his way, "of course he did--he know'd he did: his'n did;
for why not your'n?" In the face of such definite assertion there was no
room for doubt.

Nutt had had his lambing-pens, that year, down in the hollow where there
was "burra" from the winds. It was snowing when the hurdles and the straw
were carted out, and all hands had set to work building the sides of the
great square, with their thick, straw walls, their straw roofs, the snug
divisions into which the sides were divided, the whole sloping to the
south to catch what might be of the pale, wintry sun. Every one knew that
sheep lambed quicker and earlier when the snow fell. There had been no
time to lose therefore. The first lambs would be heard a fortnight before
Christmas. And, as a matter of fact, by mid January, Job Nutt's family
already numbered sixty-three. That was of course nothing. Why, one
January, his father had had one hundred and fifty-one lambs born between
a Saturday morning at light and Monday, no fewer than forty-two being
doubles--and snow falling all the time. Ay, and when he moved his
hurdles--that is, those that were straw-wattled--they were caked so hard
with snow that they stood upright of themselves. His father "had had to
work _some_ that day and them two night." And Job always grinned a merry
grin when he told the story.

But now, to-day, when the two who were always together dropped down from
the hill to pay a visit to this shepherd, it was the last week of
February, when the mornings are as brilliant and full of hope as any in
the year. The rooks were busy building in the great elms by the river;
the wattles just below the lambing