The Master turned away, and his face was hard as the nether millstone. But the little man pursued him. “I was nigh forgettin',” he said. “I've a surprise for ye, James Moore. But I hear it's yer birthday on Sunday, and I'll keep it till then--he! he!” “Ye'll see me before Sunday, M'Adam,” the other answered. “On Saturday, as I told yo', I'm comin' to see if yo've done yer duty.” “Whether ye come, James Moore, is your business. Whether ye'll iver go, once there, I'll mak' mine. I've warned ye twice noo--” and the little man laughed that harsh, cackling laugh of his. At the door of the hall the Master met David. “Noo, lad, yo're comin' along wi' Andrew and me,” he said; “Maggie'll niver forgie us if we dinna bring yo' home wi' us.” “Thank you kindly, Mr. Moore,” the boy replied. “I've to see squire first; and then yo' may be sure I'll be after you.” The Master faltered a moment. “David, ha'n yo' spoke to yer father yet?” he asked in low voice. “Yo' should, lad.” The boy made a gesture of dissent. “I canna,” he said petulantly. “I would, lad,” the other advised. “An' yo' don't yo' may be sorry after.” As he turned away he heard the boy's steps, dull and sodden, as he crossed the hall; and then a thin, would-be cordial voice in the emptiness: “I declar' if 'tisna David! The return o' the Prodeegal--he! he! So ye've seen yer auld dad at last, and the last; the proper place, say ye, for yen father--he! he! Eh, lad, but I'm blithe to see ye. D'ye mind when we was last thegither? Ye was kneelin' on ma chest: 'Your time's come, dad,' says you, and wangs me o'er the face--he! he! I mind it as if 'twas yesterday. Weel, weel, we'll say nae mair about it. Boys will be boys. Sons will be sons. Accidents will happen. And if at first ye don't succeed, why, try, try again--he! he!” * * * * * Dusk was merging into darkness when the Master and Andrew reached the Dalesman's Daughter. It had been long dark when they emerged from the cosy parlor of the inn and plunged out into the night. As they crossed the Silver Lea and trudged over that familiar ground, where a fortnight since had been fought out the battle of the Cup, the wind fluttered past them in spasmodic gasps. “There 's trouble in the wind,” said the Master. “Ay,” answered his laconic son. All day there had been no breath of air, and the sky dangerously blue. But now a world of black was surging up from the horizon, smothering the star-lit night; and small dark clouds, like puffs of smoke, detaching themselves from the main body, were driving tempestuously forward--the vanguard of the storm. In the distance was a low rumbling like heavy tumbrils on the floor of heaven. All about, the wind sounded hollow like a mighty scythe on corn. The air was oppressed with a leaden blackness--no glimmer of light on any hand; and as they began the ascent of the Pass they reached out blind hands to feel along the rock-face.