He started as the sharp ring of a horse’s iron shoe on the flint rocks came from beyond the Lookout, and, safely hidden, he saw a neighbor round the hill and pass on his way to the store on Roark. He watched, as horse and rider followed the Old Trail around the rim of the Hollow; watched, until they passed from sight in the belt of timber. Then his eyes were fixed on a fine thread of smoke that curled above the trees on the Matthews place; and, leaving the shelter of rock and bush, he walked along the Old Trail toward the big log house on the distant ridge. Below him, on his left, Mutton Hollow lay submerged in the drifting mists, with only a faint line of light breaking now and then where Lost Creek made its way; and on the other side Compton Ridge lifted like a wooded shore from the sea. A black spot in the red west shaped itself into a crow, making his way on easy wing toward a dead tree on the top of Boulder Bald. The old shepherd walked wearily; the now familiar objects wore a strange look. It was as though he saw them for the first time, yet had seen them somewhere before, perhaps in another world. As he went his face was the face of one crushed by shame and grief, made desperate by his suffering. Supper was just over and Young Matt was on the porch when Mr. Howitt entered the gate. The young fellow greeted his old friend, and called back into the house, “Here’s Dad, Father.” As Mr. Matthews came out, Aunt Mollie and Sammy appeared in the doorway. How like it all was to that other evening. The mountaineer and the shepherd sat on the front porch, while Young Matt brought the big sorrel and the brown pony to the gate, and with Sammy rode away. They were going to the Postoffice at the Forks. “Ain’t had no news for a week,” said Aunt Mollie, as she brought her chair to join the two men. “And besides, Sammy needs the ride. There’s goin’ to be a moon, so it’ll be light by the time they start home.” The sound of the horses’ feet and the voices of the young people died away in the gray woods. The dusk thickened in the valley below, and, as the light in the west went out, the three friends saw the clump of pines etched black and sharp against the blood red background of the sky. Old Matt spoke, “Reckon everything’s alright at the ranch, Dad. How’s the little doctor? You ought to brung him up with you.” He watched the shepherd’s face curiously from under his heavy brows, as he pulled at his cob pipe. “Tired out trampin’ over these hills, I reckon,” ventured Aunt Mollie. Mr. Howitt tried to answer with some commonplace, but his friends could not but note his confusion. Mrs. Matthews continued, “I guess you’ll be a leavin’ us pretty soon, now. Well, I ain’t a blamin’ you; and you’ve sure been a God’s blessin’ to us here in the woods. I don’t reckon we’re much ’long ’side the fine friends you’ve got back where you come from in the city; and we—we can’t do nothin’ for you, but—but—” The good soul could say no more.