little man, all dishevelled, and with the perspiration standing on
his face, came hurrying out of the cow-shed and danced up to the Master.

"It's robbed I am--robbed, I tell ye!" he cried recklessly. "Ma wee
Wull's bin stolen while I was ben your hoose, James Moore!"

"Yo' munna say that, ma mon. No robbin' at Kenmuir," the Master answered
sternly.

"Then where is he? It's for you to say."

"I've ma own idee, I 'aye," Sam'l announced opportunely, pig-bucket
uplifted.

M'Adam turned on him.

"What, man? What is it?"

"I misdoot yo'll iver see your dog agin, mister," Sam'l repeated, as if
he was supplying the key to the mystery.

"Noo, Sam'l, if yo' know owt tell it," ordered his master.

Sam'l grunted sulkily.

"Wheer's oor Bob, then?" he asked.

At that M'Adam turned on the Master.

"'Tis that, nae doot. It's yer gray dog, James Moore, yer ---- dog. I
might ha' kent it,"--and he loosed off a volley of foul words.

"Sweerin' will no find him," said the Master coldly. "Noo, Sam'l."

The big man shifted his feet, and looked mournfully at M'Adam.

"'Twas 'appen 'aif an hour agone, when I sees oor Bob goin' oot o'
yard wi' little yaller tyke in his mouth. In a minnit I looks agin--and
theer! little yaller 'un was gone, and oor Bob a-sittin' a-lickin'
his chops. Gone foriver, I do reck'n. Ah, yo' may well take on, Tammas
Thornton!" For the old man was rolling about the yard, bent double with
merriment.

M'Adam turned on the Master with the resignation of despair.

"Man, Moore," he cried piteously, "it's yer gray dog has murdered ma wee
Wull! Ye have it from yer ain man."

"Nonsense," said the Master encouragingly. "'Tis but yon girt oof."

Sam'l tossed his head and snorted.

"Coom, then, and i'll show yo'," he said, and led the way out of the
yard. And there below them on the slope to the stream, sitting like
Justice at the Courts of Law, was Owd Bob.

Straightway Sam'l whose humor was something of the calibre of old
Ross's, the sexton, burst into horse-merriment. "Why's he sittin' so
still, think 'ee? Ho! Ho! See un lickin' his chops--ha! ha!"--and he
roared afresh. While from afar you could hear the distant rumbling of
'Enry and oor Job.

At the sight, M'Adam burst into a storm of passionate invective, and
would have rushed on the dog had not James Moore forcibly restrained
him.

"Bob, lad," called the Master, "coom here!"

But even as he spoke, the gray dog cocked his ears, listened a momen