It appeared that a week previously, James Moore with a pack of sheep had met the new Grammoch-town butcher at the Dalesmen's Daughter. A bargain concluded, the butcher started with the flock for home. As he had no dog, the Master offered him Th' Owd Un. “And he'll pick me i' th' town to-morrow,” said he. Now the butcher was a stranger in the land. Of course he had heard of Owd Bob o' Kenmuir, yet it never struck him that this handsome gentleman with the quiet, resolute manner, who handled sheep as he had never seen them handled, was that hero--“the best sheep-dog in the North.” Certain it is that by the time the flock was penned in the enclosure behind the shop, he coveted the dog--ay, would even offer ten pounds for him! Forthwith the butcher locked him up in an outhouse--summit of indignity; resolving to make his offer on the morrow. When the morrow came he found no dog in the outhouse, and, worse, no sheep in the enclosure. A sprung board showed the way of escape of the one, and a displaced hurdle that of the other. And as he was making the discovery, a gray dog and a flock of sheep, travelling along the road toward the Dalesman's Daughter, met the Master. From the first, Owd Bob had mistrusted the man. The attempt to confine him set the seal on his suspicions. His master's sheep were not for such a rogue; and he worked his own way out and took the sheep along with him. The story was told to a running chorus of--“Ma word! Good, Owd Un!--Ho! ho! did he thot?” Of them all, only M'Adam sat strangely silent. Rob Saunderson, always glad to draw the little man, remarked it. “And what d'yo' think o' that, Mr. M'Adam, for a wunnerfu' story of a wunnerfu' tyke?” he asked. “It's a gude tale, a vera gude tale,” the little man answered dreamily. “And James Moore didna invent it; he had it from the Christmas number o' the _Flock-keeper_ in saxty.” (On the following Sunday, old Rob, from sheer curiosity, reached down from his shelf the specified number of the paper. To his amazement he found the little man was right. There was the story almost identically. None the less is it also true of Owd Bob o' Kenmuir.) “Ay, ay,” the little man continued, “and in a day or two James Moore'll ha' anither tale to tell ye--a better tale, ye'll think it--mair laffable. And yet--ay---no---I'll no believe it! I niver loved James Moore, but I think, as Mr. Hornbut aince said, he'd rather die than lie. Owd Bob o' Kenmuir!” he continued in a whisper. “Up till the end I canna shake him aff. Hafflins I think that where I'm gaein' to there'll be gray dogs sneakin' around me in the twilight. And they're aye behind and behind, and I canna, canna--” Teddy Bolstock interrupted, lifting his hand for silence. “D'yo' hear thot?--Thunder!” They listened; and from without came a gurgling, jarring roar, horrible to hear. “It's comin' nearer!” “Nay, it's goin' away!” “No thunder thot!” “More like the Lea in flood. And yet--Eh, Mr. M'Adam, what is it?”