That afternoon, as the men still talked, the quiet echoes of the farm rung with a furious animal cry, twice repeated: “Shot for sheep-murder”—“Shot for sheep-murder”; followed by a hollow stillness.
The two men finished their colloquy. The matter was concluded peacefully, mainly owing to the pacifying influence of Mrs. Moore. Together the three went out into the yard; Mrs. Moore seizing the opportunity to shyly speak on David's behalf.
“He's such a good little lad, I do think,” she was saying.
“Ye should ken, Mrs. Moore,” the little man answered, a thought bitterly; “ye see enough of him.”
“Yo' mun be main proud of un, mester,” the woman continued, heedless of the sneer: “an' 'im growin' such a gradely lad.”
M'Adam shrugged his shoulders.
“I barely ken the lad,” he said. “By sight I know him, of course, but barely to speak to. He's but seldom at hame.”
“An' hoo proud his mother'd be if she could see him,” the woman continued, well aware of his one tender place. “Eh, but she was fond o' him, so she was.”
An angry flush stole over the little man's face. Well he understood the implied rebuke; and it hurt him like a knife.