It was from Long Kirby--still in retirement--begging him for mercy's sake to keep Owd Bob safe within doors at nights; at all events till after the great event was over. For Kirby knew, as did every Dalesman, that the old dog slept in the porch, between the two doors of the house, of which the outer was only loosely closed by a chain, so that the ever-watchful guardian might slip in and out and go his rounds at any moment of the night. This was how the smith concluded his ill-spelt note: “Look out for M'Adam i tell you i _know_ hel tri at thowd un afore cup day--failin im you if the ole dog's bete i'm a ruined man i say so for the luv o' God keep yer eyes wide.” The Master read the letter, and handed it to the postman, who perused it carefully. “I tell yo' what,” said Jim at length, speaking with an earnestness that made the other stare, “I wish yo'd do what he asks yo': keep Th' Owd Un in o' nights, I mean, just for the present.” The Master shook his head and laughed, tearing the letter to pieces. “Nay,” said he; “M'Adam or no M'Adam, Cup or no Cup, Th' Owd Un has the run o' ma land same as he's had since a puppy. Why, Jim, the first night I shut him up that night the Killer comes, I'll lay.” The postman turned wearily away, and the Master stood looking after him, wondering what had come of late to his former cheery friend. Those two were not the only warnings James Moore received. During the weeks immediately preceding the Trials, the danger signal was perpetually flaunted beneath his nose. Twice did Watch, the black cross-bred chained in the straw-yard, hurl a brazen challenge on the night air. Twice did the Master, with lantern, Sam'l and Owd Bob, sally forth and search every hole and corner on the premises--to find nothing. One of the dairy-maids gave notice, avowing that the farm was haunted; that, on several occasions in the early morning, she had seen a bogie flitting down the slope to the Wastrel--a sure portent, Sam'l declared, of an approaching death in the house. While once a shearer, coming up from the village, reported having seen, in the twilight of dawn, a little ghostly figure, haggard and startled, stealing silently from tree to tree in the larch-copse by the lane. The Master, however, irritated by these constant alarms, dismissed the story summarily. “One thing I'm sartin o',” said he. “There's not a critter moves on Kenmuir at nights but Th' Owd Un knows it.” Yet, even as he said it, a little man, draggled, weary-eyed, smeared with dew and dust, was limping in at the door of a house barely a mile away. “Nae luck, Wullie, curse it!” he cried, throwing himself into a chair, and addressing some one who was not there--“nae luck. An' yet I'm sure o't as I am that there's a God in heaven.” * * * * *