The girl shook her head and clapped her hand on her mouth as before, but the boy went on.
"I think it is about a year now," he said, "since the people first felt sure that the cattle could not hear your pipes; and from that time we've been driving them down. But we are rested now, and will go home. Good-night, sir."
The three children then went down the hill, the girl scolding the boy all the way home. Old Pipes stood silent a few moments, and then he went into his cottage.
"Mother," he shouted, "did you hear what those children said?"
"Children!" exclaimed the old woman; "I did not hear them. I did not know there were any children here."
Then Old Pipes told his mother—shouting very loudly to make her hear—how the two boys and the girl had helped him up the hill, and what he had heard about his piping and the cattle.
"They can't hear you?" cried his mother. "Why, what's the matter with the cattle?"
"Ah, me!" said Old Pipes; "I don't believe there's anything the matter with the cattle. It must be with me and my pipes that there is something the matter. But one thing is certain: if I do not earn the wages the Chief Villager pays me, I shall not take them. I shall go straight down to the village and give back the money I received to-day."
"Nonsense!" cried his mother. "I'm sure you've piped as well as you could, and no more can be expected. And what are we to do without the money?"
"I don't know," said Old Pipes; "but I'm going down to the village to pay it back."