"Did you ever know people lost on these hills?" asked the girl, looking into the blackness ahead of them. Her shrill, slight voice rang out in sharp contrast to the broad gutturals of his Westmoreland speech. "Aye, missy--I've known two men lost on t' fells sin I wor a lad." "Were they shepherds, like you?" "Noa, missy--they wor tramps. Theer's mony a fellow cooms by this way i' th' bad weather to Pen'rth, rather than face Shap fells. They say it's betther walkin'. But when it's varra bad, we doan't let 'em go on--noa, it's not safe. Theer was a mon lost on t' fells nine year ago coom February. He wor an owd mon, and blind o' yan eye. He'd lost the toother, dippin' sheep." "How could he do that?" Hester asked indifferently, still staring ahead into the advancing storm, and trembling with cold from head to foot. "Why, sum o' the dippin' stuff got into yan eye, and blinded him. It was my son, gooin afther th' lambs i' the snaw, as found him. He heard summat--a voice like a lile child cryin'--an he scratted aboot, an dragged th' owd man out. He worn't deed then, but he died next mornin'. An t' doctor said as he'd fair broken his heart i' th' storm--not in a figure o' speach yo unnerstan--but juist th' plain truth." The old man rose. The sheep had all been folded. He called to his dog, and went to shut the gate. Then, still curiously eyeing Hester, he came back, followed by his dog, to the place where she stood, listlessly watching. "Doan't yo go too far on t' fells, missy. It's coomin' on to snaw, an it'll snaw aw neet. Lor bless yer, it's wild here i' winter. An when t' clouds coom down like yon--" he pointed up the valley--"even them as knaws t' fells from a chilt may go wrang." "Where does this path lead?" said Hester, absently. "It goes oop to Marly Head, and joins on to th' owd road--t' Roman road, foak calls it--along top o' t' fells. An' if yo follers that far enoof you may coom to Ullswatter an' Pen'rth." "Thank you. Good afternoon," said Hester, moving on. [Illustration: "The old shepherd looked after her doubtfully"] The old shepherd looked after her doubtfully, then said to himself that what the lady did was none of his business, and turned back toward one of the farms across the bridge. Who was she? She was a strange sort of body to be walking by herself up the head of Long Whindale. He supposed she came from Burwood--there was no other house where a lady like that could be staying. But it was a bit queer anyhow. * * * * *