He suddenly got up and found a curious satisfaction in swinging mighty blows with the axe at the fir log Dan had used for fuel. It acted as a relief valve for emotions that he felt would soon get away from him. He looked up, smiling boyishly. “I’ll stay—to the end,” he promised. “But Lord knows—I don’t know anything about sheep.” “And you give me fresh heart.” Thus they made a pact in the firelight, and they had a few moments of sheer joy as she gave him simple directions as to how to take care of the flock, when to salt them, and how to direct their feeding. “And while you’re telling me these things,” the man said, “for Heaven’s sake tell me about Spot.” “Of course you mean the yearling ram——” Hugh nodded. “You must have learned a lot about sheep in one day—or you’d never have noticed him. Spot _is_ a mystery—has been since he was born. And what has he been doing to-day?” Hugh narrated with much enthusiasm the encounter between the flock leader and the coyote, so interested in the story itself that he quite failed to wonder and be amazed at his own unlooked-for lightness of heart, his buoyant spirits. “It’s typical of Spot,” the girl said at the end. “Perhaps you’ve noticed that he’s oversized—taller and stronger than the rest?” “Yes——” “If it hadn’t been for that, he would have likely been lamb stew long ago. He was exceptionally large at birth, and father had him retained partly because he was interested in his unusual coloring, and partly because he thought that his extra size would give him value as a ram. He endeared himself to the herder, and this year—he’s a yearling ram but he’s not yet mature—father let him run with the flock. None of us know what to make of him.” They got up, built the fire high so that its glow went out over the flock, and tried to get another glimpse of him. They found him easily enough, at the very foremost of the band, his brown color in vivid contrast to the whiteness of the ewes. And in finding him Alice made another, less pleasing discovery. Hugh didn’t understand at first. He saw that she was making some kind of a count, first leisurely, then in frantic haste. A troubled look came into her fresh face. Once more she verified the count, then turned to him with a rueful smile. “My day’s work is not yet over,” she said slowly. “Why not?” he demanded. “One of the markers—one of sixteen black ewes—is missing. Do you know what that means?” “Good Heavens—that you’ve got to go out—in this dark forest—to look for him?” “The ninety and nine,” she quoted, still with the same, inscrutable smile. “But it isn’t just one, Hugh. You see, sheep keep relatively the same position in the flock. Of course it might be just a single disaster—a coyote snatching her from the flanks—but ordinarily when one of the black sheep is gone, it means that a hundred or so others have gone with her. I can’t take the chance.” His own face grew mournful. “You see—what a good herder I am. Lose a hundred sheep the first day.”