For the last few days we have had nothing but rain. Rain, rain, rain, till the leaves were fairly washed off the trees, and the very earth seemed as if it must be sodden to the rocks beneath. Yesterday afternoon I felt tired of being shut up in the large bare room which I have been using as a studio, so I put on a thick suit, and went out for a stretch in the midst of a perfect deluge. I crossed the river by a stone bridge, about a mile lower down, as the stepping-stones were covered, and soon I got to a wide expanse of country, composed of large sodden green fields, barely reclaimed from the moor, and even now, in spite of drains, partly overgrown with rushes. There were no fences; and the hardy cattle wandered at will over the land. It was inexpressibly dreary. There was little or no wind--no clouds in the sky--only a lead-coloured heaven from which the rain fell incessantly. There was not a house, not a tree, not a hedgerow in sight; and the rain-laden atmosphere hid the horizon. Suddenly I heard the noise of singing, the singing of a child. I was fairly startled, and looked round, wondering where the sound could come from. I was on the border between the moor and the reclaimed land; and there was literally nothing in sight but the earth, the sky, and the rain, except what looked like a small heap of turf left by the peat-cutters. Could some stray child be hidden behind it? If so, I thought, its life must be in danger. I hurried up to the mound of peats, and as I did so, the sound of the song became stronger. Then it ceased, and the little singer began a fresh melody: ‘Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, ‘Mang muirs an’ mosses mony, O, The wintry sun the day has closed----’ He stopped suddenly as he caught sight of me, and a fine collie which had been lying beside him made a dash at me. ‘Doon, Swallow! Lie doon, sir!’ cried the child, and the dog obeyed at once. It was not a heap of peats, as I had supposed, but a tiny hut, just large enough to hold a boy sitting upright, ingeniously built of dry peats. It was open to the east, the lee side, and was quite impervious to the weather. The little fellow seemed to be about twelve years of age, a stout, rosy-cheeked laddie, clad in an immense Scotch bonnet and a tattered gray plaid; and his little red bare feet peeped out beneath his corduroys. ‘What on earth are you doing here, child?’ I exclaimed. ‘Eh?’ asked the boy, looking up in my face with surprise. ‘Why are you here? Why are you not at home?’ ‘Man, I’m herdin’.’ ‘Herding what?’ ‘The kye.’ At that moment some of the young cattle took it into their heads to cross the ditch which separated their territory from the moor, and the boy with a ‘Here, Swallow!’ sent the dog bounding after the ‘stirks.’ ‘And do you stay here all alone?’ ‘Ay.’ ‘All day long?’ ‘Ou, ay.’