"He is also too honest, son. Now go and get your camping traps together. I expect by afternoon to have a telegram that will answer in place of permits until they can be mailed to us. As soon as they come you and Sandy can start off; and in case they do not come to-day I can send them after you by a mounted messenger. So I think you'd better set out anyway. Wear your tramping shoes and carry your sleeping-bag. You better ask Sandy if there is anything else he wants you to take." Donald needed no second bidding. He was in the highest of spirits. An hour later and he had said good-bye to his father and Thornton, and was on his way to the range with Sandy McCulloch. At their backs a band of about two thousand sheep ambled along, the four dogs, Robin, Prince Charlie, Colin, and Hector, dashing in and out among them to keep the stragglers well in the path. The trail Sandy was following led across the open fields and ascending gradually, made for the chain of low hills faintly outlined in the far-away blue haze. Beyond these hills loomed more distant mountains, their tops capped with snow. These mountains, Sandy told Donald, were the foot-hills of the Rockies. It was quite evident that Sandy was now in his element. He swung along with slow but steady gait, carrying his pack easily and swinging his staff. His eye was alert for every movement of the flock. Now he would turn and draw some straying creature into place by putting his crook around one of its back legs. Sometimes he would motion the dogs to drive the herd along faster. To an eastern-bred lad who had lived all his life in a city the scene was wonderfully novel. The great blue stretch of sky seemed endless. How still the country was! Had it not been for the muffled tramp of hoofs, the low bleating of the herd, the flat-toned note of the sheep-bells, there would not have been a sound. The quiet of the day cast its spell everywhere. Sandy, who was usually chary enough of his words, preserved even a stricter silence. Although his lips were parted with a contented smile, only once did he venture to break the quiet and that was when he softly hummed a bar or two of "There Were Hundred Pipers"--a favorite song of his. At last Donald, who was bubbling over with questions, could bear it no longer. "Are you always so quiet, Sandy, when you go to the range?" he asked. The Scotchman roused himself.