"He! he! he!" he chuckled, as if suddenly recollecting his errand. "I’d almost forgot why I came. Farmer Crabtree wanted to know, Master Stich, if you’m got the wether’s collar mended yet?" "Oh, yes, to be sure," replied the smith, pointing to a rough bench on which lay a number of metal articles. "You’ll find it on that there bench, Jock. Farmer Crabtree sold his sheep yet?" Jock toddled up to the bench and picked up the wether’s collar. "Noa!" he muttered, "not yet, worse luck! And his temper is that hot! So don’t ’ee charge him too much for the collar, Master Stich, or it’s me that’ll have to suffer." And Miggs rubbed his shoulder significantly. Stich laughed. Philip himself, in spite of his anxiety, could not help being amused at the quaint figure of the little shepherd with his wizened face and gentle, vaguely fatalistic manner. Thus it was that no one in the forge had perceived the patter of small feet on the mud outside, and when Jock Miggs, with more elaborate "Mornings" and final leave-takings, once more reached the doorway, he came in violent collision with a short, be-cloaked and closely-hooded figure that was picking its way on very small, very high-heeled shoes, through the maze of puddles which guarded the entrance to the forge. The impact sent Jock Miggs, scared and apologetic, stumbling in one direction, whilst the grey hood flew off the head of its wearer and disclosed in the setting of its shell-pink lining a merry, pretty, impudent little face, with brown eyes sparkling and red lips pouting in obvious irritation. "Lud, man!" said the dainty young damsel, withering the unfortunate shepherd with a scornful glance, "why don’t you look where you’re going?" "I dunno," replied Jock Miggs, with his usual humble vagueness. "Morning, miss ... morning, Master Stich ... morning." And still scared, still in obvious apology for his existence, he pulled at his forelock, re-adjusted his hat over his yellow curls, took his final leave, and presently began to wend his way slowly back towards the Heath. But within the forge, at first bound of the young girl’s voice, Stretton had started in uncontrollable excitement. "Betty!" he whispered, eagerly clutching John Stich’s arm. "Aye! aye!" replied the cautious smith, "but I beg you, my lord, keep in the background until I find out if all is safe." Mistress Betty’s saucy brown eyes followed Jock Miggs’s quaint, retreating figure. "Well! you’re a pretty bit of sheep’s wool, ain’t ye?" she shouted after him, with a laugh and a shrug of her plump shoulders. Then she peered into the forge. "Lud love you, Master Stich!" she said, "how goes it with you?" In obedience to counsels of prudence, Stretton had retired into the remote corner of the forge. John Stich too was masking the entrance with his burly figure. "All the better, Mistress Betty," he said, "for a sight of your pretty face."