"So I figure. He must be thinking now and again that he'd like a sight of you at Crescent instead of seeing Thornton every day."
"What sort of a man is Thornton, Sandy?"
"What sort of a man do you take him to be?"
"I do not like him!" was the prompt reply.
"And wherefore?"
"Oh, I—don't—know."
"A poor reason. Dinna say that about any man until you get a better one."
Donald colored.
Sandy had dropped many a curt word that had brought the boy up, standing. Whatever else the young herder was he was just. Not only did Donald's liking, but his respect for him, increase.
Ah, what happy days they passed together! Donald became so attached to the various camps that he hated to leave them. Sometimes he and Sandy would stay in a spot a week, sometimes ten days; then onward and upward over the great plateaus of the mountains they made their way. These flat reaches of pasture-land were like huge steps. It was hard to realize that they were constantly climbing. Yet up, up, up they went! Each camp was several hundred feet higher than the last. As they went on the pasturage became richer, the air cooler. Clear streams from melting, snowy summits rushed along, leaving pathways of music behind them. With a hawk's keenness Sandy chose the most fertile stretches of grass for the flock.