"Aye—it's onding o' snaw—" said the shepherd, his shrewd blue eyes travelling over her face and form. "An' it'll mappen be a rough night."
"Are you taking your sheep into shelter?"
He pointed to a half-ruined fold, with three sycamores beside it, a stone's throw away. The gate of it was open, and the dog was gradually chasing the sheep within it.
"I doan't like leavin' 'em on t' fells this bitter weather. I'm afraid for t' ewes. It's too cauld for 'em. They'll be for droppin' their lambs too soon if this wind goes on. It juist taks t' strength out on 'em, doos the wind."
"Do you think it's going to snow a great deal?"
The old man looked round at the clouds and the mountains; at the powdering of snow that had already whitened the heights.
"It'll be more'n a bit!" he said cautiously. "I dessay we'll have to be gettin' men to open t' roads to-morrow."
"Does it often block the roads?"
"Aye, yance or twice i' t' winter. An' ye can't let 'em bide. What's ter happen ter foak as want the doctor?"
"Did you ever know people lost on these hills?" asked the girl, looking into the blackness ahead of them. Her shrill, slight voice rang out in sharp contrast to the broad gutturals of his Westmoreland speech.