'Oh, let me have one, Silas. Let me have Flick. Here, Flick, will you come?'

'Where be thee going?'

'For a long walk, that's all.'

'You'll find it nearly broiling 'cross the hill. The old ewe died early this morning. There's another loss for the master. But, lor', he's dazed like. If I told him the whole flock was dead he wouldn't care. Master is queerish this morning.'

'He is not well,' Bryda said. 'Don't trouble him, Silas, if you can help, and let me have Flick.'

Flick was only waiting the word of command from his master, with anxious upturned nose and eyes scanning Silas's rugged face.

'Get along with you,' was the not very gracious dismissal.

And the old dog leaped for joy, gave his low, deep-mouthed bay, scuttled round the yard twice, sending two sedate cats clambering up the old wall, with its high lichen-covered coping, where they turned at bay, with swelled tails and arched backs, to spit at their enemy.

So bright was the sky, and so full of life was everything around her, that as Bryda tripped lightly on her way she had almost forgotten what was her errand.

The church clock of Dundry struck ten as she passed. The village was quiet, almost deserted.