"I doubt it willun’t," responded the other, with a critical glance at the thin body and drooping hind-quarters. "Its mother war carred by th’ side on ’t, dead as Job, when I gat up to th’ Heights this morn, and th’ little chap war bleating fair like ony babby. Well, I mun tak it to th’ home-farm, an’ they’ll mebbe rear ’t by th’ hearthstun.—What’s agate wi’ thee, Hiram, lad? Tha looks as if tha’d dropped a crown-piece and picked up a ha’ penny." "I war thinking o’ th’ owd Maister, who ligs below yonder at Marsh. He war a grand un, an’ proper. I warrant th’ young un ’ull noan be a patch on him." "That’s as th’ Lord sends," said the shepherd, shifting the lamb a little to ease his arms; "though why th’ new should allus be war nor th’ owd, beats me. Tha niver will see th’ hopeful side of ony matter, Hiram—no, not if they paid thee for ’t. I mind, an’ all, that ye hed hard words to say o’ him that’s goan while he war wick an’ aboon-ground." "Well, that’s nobbut right. If ye cannot speak gooid of a man when he’s dead, an’ noan liable to be puffed up wi’ pride at hearing on ’t, when can ye let a soft word out, says I?" "There’s a way o’ looking at iverything, I allus did say; an’ I’ve knawn a kindly word i’ season do more for th’ living nor all th’ praise i’ th’ world can iver advantage th’ dead." "Nay," said Hiram, taking up his spade and resting both hands on the top, "nay, I war reared on hard words an’ haver-bread, an’ they both of ’em stiffen a chap, to my thinking. I doan’t knaw that owt iver comed o’ buttering your tongue." "Tha doesn’t knaw? Then that’s why I’m telling ye. There’s th’ young Maister, now—him ’at they call Shameless, though I reckon he’s cured o’ that sin’ last neet. He’s a chap ye can no way drive, is’t Shameless Wayne, but I’ve knawn him, even i’ his owd wild days, go soft i’ a minute if ye tried to lead i’ stead o’ driving him." "I doubt th’ chap. Whin-bushes carry no cherries, Jose." "Well, tha wert allus hard on th’ lad; but there’s marrow i’ him, ye mark my words. An’ we shall see what he’s made on, choose what, now he’s getten th’ farm on his hands.—Sakes, what is’t, Hiram?" he broke off, as a slim figure of a woman, wild-eyed and mud-bedraggled, came down the moor and stood on the far side of the fence watching them in questioning fashion. "Why, by th’ Heart,’tis Mistress Wayne!" cried Hiram. "Begow, I thowt it war a boggart! What mud she be after, think’st ’a, Jose?" "Nay, I know not—save that she passed me many an hour agone, as I war looking after th’ sheep, an’ axed th’ road to Wildwater. I thowt that she war fairy-kist, and now I’m sure on ’t." "Ay, she’s fairy-kist, for sure; ye need only see her een to be sure o’ that. Tak that lamb o’ thine to her, Jose; I’ve known mony a sickness dumb and human, cured by a touch o’ such poor bodies."