I scanned the hills about me, but could see no sign of sheep, shepherd, or dog. But as we drew to the edge of the wide plateau we were traversing, and got a view down into the steep combe beyond, there sure enough were all three. The sheep, just growing artistically presentable after their June shearing, were scattered over the deep bottom, quietly nibbling at the turf. Far below, in the shadow of a single stunted hawthorn, sat young George Artlett scribbling on his knee. No doubt Rowster had been lying by his master’s side, until our shadows struck sheer down upon him from the brink of the hill. But now he was up and pricking his ears sharply in our direction, growling menaces and wagging a welcome at one and the same time. I gave the Reverend what I saw in few words. To my surprise he began to descend the steep hill-side. [Picture: “Southdown Ewes”] ‘After all,’ said he, ‘George Artlett and I never really fell out. But we agreed to differ, and that is the most fatal, most lasting disagreement of all. I should have known better. I think I will risk a hand to him again.’ As we clambered down the precipitous slope, into the shelter of the combe, the wind suddenly stopped its music in our ears. There fell a dead calm about us. At the bottom, we seemed to be walking between two widely separated, yet almost perpendicular cliffs of green, with a great span of blue sky far above, across which the heavy cumuli raged unceasingly. George Artlett got to his feet at our approach, thrust his paper into his pocket, and gravely clawed off his old tarpaulin hat. He took the hand held out to him with wonder, and a little hesitation. ‘And how fares the good work, George?’ Artlett was silent a moment. He tried to read the sightless eyes. ‘Shepherdin’, sir? ’Tis allers slow goin’, but goin’ all th’ time. We did famous with th’ wool, an’—’ ‘George, leave the wool alone. You know what I mean.’ George Artlett swung round on his heel, and swung back again. He counted the fingers on his gnarled hand slowly one by one. ‘Be ut priest to lost runagate, or be ut man to man?’ he asked, looking up suddenly. ‘It is just one child in the dark way putting forth hand to another. For, to the best of us, George, comradeship can be no more than a heartening touch and sound of a footstep going a common road, and the voice of a friend. Do you see a light at the end of your path?’ ‘Ay! I do that!’ ‘Look closer. Is not the light just the shine of a Beautiful Face, very grave and sorrowful, but with a great joy beginning to spread over it, and—’ Though the deep voice stemmed on in the sunny quiet of the combe, I could distinguish the words no longer; for something, that was by no means part of me but of a more delicate nurture, had set my feet going against my will. I was halfway down the long alley of the combe before I stopped to wait for the old vicar. And then, looking backward, I fell to staring with all my eyes.