One hot July day when John Shelley’s White Ram was already a thing of the past, he came home unexpectedly about ten in the morning, looking so very grave that Fairy, who was painting on the kitchen table, asked what was the matter. John often looked grave now; indeed, he had never been quite the same since Jack had struck that unlucky blow; the suspense and anxiety he endured then, and the narrow escape he felt they had had of a terrible tragedy being enacted in the midst of their happy home circle, and then the loss of his eldest son, which he felt exceedingly, for he was very proud of clever, handsome Jack; all had saddened him. Perhaps, too, the knowledge that he had attained the goal of his earthly ambition, to be captain of the Lewes shearing company, and had nothing more to hope for in this world, made him grave; at any rate, though he had always lived for the future—for the life beyond the grave, he did so more than ever now; and though he was too good a man and too busy to indulge in any morbid thoughts, yet he set very little store on this life, and often longed for the time to come when he should lay his burden down and cross the dark river which leads to those fields of light where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest. For Fairy the shepherd had ever a smile; she was the light of his home, the poetry of his life; one glance at her delicate, bright little face, crowned with its wealth of golden hair, was sufficient to chase all gloom from his brow; and now, though he looked unusually grave, he smiled at her. “Where is mother, little one?” “She is lying down with one of her bad headaches; she would clean up the house first, but at last I persuaded her to let me cook the dinner, so I am going to; surely, it is not time yet. Why have you come home so soon, John?” “Mother ill! That is bad. ‘It never rains but it pours,’ as they say. What am I to do?” “Why, John; what is the matter? Has anything happened to Charlie?” “No, child, no, not that I know of; but my sheep have got it.” No need for Fairy to ask what the sheep had got, for this disease had been Charlie’s sole topic of conversation ever since it had broken out, so, to tell the truth, she was rather weary of it; but for John’s sheep to have it was a serious matter she knew; moreover, she always took special interest in “our sheep,” as she called them. “Oh, John, have our sheep got it? Oh, I am sorry! I thought you would be sure to escape. How many are ill?” “Only ten at present; but though I have taken them away from the others, it is so infectious I am afraid they will all get it.” “Did you come home to tell mother?” asked Fairy. “No, I came back to ask her to go to Lewes and tell Hobbs, the veterinary, to come and see them as soon as possible, while I take those who are all right to the downs, and go on to look at Charlie’s flock; he may not have noticed the first symptoms. Perhaps I can find someone in the village to go, as mother is ill.”