“You are to be a man while I am away. Try to be brave and to add a little comfort to the lives of your poor mother and your brothers and sisters. Go to your aunt for counsel. She is a good woman and means well by you all.” Dian lifted his sack as he spoke and threw it over his shoulder. “I’m not welcome there. I’ll have naught to do with them,” Grigge answered sullenly, but realizing that his friend was about to depart he caught his cloak again. “I’ll do well by the sheep, and I’ll try to think of the others when the hunger is tearing at my heart. Will you not tell me where you are going and why you leave this way in the stillness of the night?” Dian shook his head. “That I cannot do, Grigge, but if the good God will it, I shall come back again. Remember all I have said and guard my sheep well, for they are dear indeed to me. Hold your courage through the winter. Who knows what good may come by spring!” He touched the boy’s shoulder in farewell and was off down the wide road. [Illustration: Grigge] Grigge gazed after him, his hands clasped together, a sob catching his throat. It seemed as though all that he knew of kindliness and comradeship was going farther and farther from him down the wind-swept road. He had never known anything in his life but discomfort. He had always been hungry and in winter he had always been cold. He was rough and selfish and sullen and he knew it and most of the time did not care. But as he stood there that night by the low door of his wretched home, Grigge determined to be different! He went inside, and the wind slammed the door behind him before he could catch it. The noise awoke his little sister Letta, who whined, “It is cold; it is cold.” “You are no colder than the rest of us,” Grigge answered roughly, but, after hesitating a moment, he put the piece of shawl over her and then tumbled down on to his mound of straw by the door.