-pens were already turning red. Spring
was coming: the colour of the sky, the voices of the larks, the bleat of
the lambs, all told the same story. Of course winter would return: it
always did. But, for the moment, there was a passing exhibition of
beauties in store, a reflection of things that should be. By the
afternoon the grey blinds would be down again. But that did not matter in
the least: this glimpse had been permitted, and in the brilliant sunlight
and the stillness the happiness of full confidence had welled up, and
seemed to fill the whole world.

Murphy certainly appeared to feel it. As he and his master sunk the hill,
he stretched himself out as he ran; he jumped into the air for joy. His
doings, in some mysterious way, frequently reflected the colour of the
day; and his spirits varied with those of his master. The sympathy of
dogs is no modern discovery, but as old as their comradeship with man;
and thus this one varied his ways according as times were good or bad, or
trials, mental or bodily, chanced to be the same. On this brilliant
morning man and dog had caught the light of the sun and the gladness
thereof, and the young dog played with his master's hand as he swung
along, and barked and jumped for very love of life.

He was often like this now when they were alone together, though, with
others, he would sometimes lapse again into uncertainty and hesitation.
Nevertheless, there was no longer doubt that he was on the right road:
happiness had in a large measure returned; confidence was following. The
man and the dog were drawing very close to one another, and in more ways
than one.

The pens were only tenanted now by some thirty ewes, still to lamb, and
by those "in hospital," as Job spoke of them. Four hundred tegs, ewes,
and lambs were in fold on the hill, on a clover stubble, or what remained
of it, being given crushed swedes and other things, for keep was scarce
so early in the year. The shepherd's boy and his dog were up there with
them: only Job and Scot were in the pens. Murphy knew this last, savage
though he was; and had duly delivered to him, on many a previous
occasion, that strange message of his that compelled the most savage to
let him pass free.

"Oh! he can come: I likes that dog o' your'n," called Job, ordering Scot
to his place beneath the bleached and weather-worn hut on wheels, in
which all the miscellaneous articles of a shepherd's craft lay stored. "I
be just about to find that