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with his hand as though he were blinded.

ā€œDinna look at me sae, lass!ā€ he cried, and fell on his knees, kissing the picture, hugging it to him and sobbing passionately.

Red Wull came up and pushed his face compassionately into his masterā€™s; but the little man shoved him roughly away, and the dog retreated into a corner, abashed and reproachful.

Memories swarmed back on the little man.

It was more than a decade ago now, and yet he dared barely think of that last evening when she had lain so white and still in the little room above.

ā€œPit the bairn on the bed, Adam man,ā€ she had said in low tones. ā€œIā€™ll be gaeinā€™ in a wee while noo. Itā€™s the lang good-by to youā€”and him.ā€

He had done her bidding and lifted David up. The tiny boy lay still a moment, looking at this white-faced mother whom he hardly recognized.

ā€œMinnie!ā€ he called piteously. Then, thrusting a small, dirty hand into his pocket, he pulled out a grubby sweet.

ā€œMinnie, haā€™ a sweetieā€”ain oā€™ Davieā€™s sweeties!ā€ and he held it out anxiously in his warm plump palm, thinking it a certain cure for any ill.

ā€œEat it for mither,ā€ she said, smiling tenderly; and then: ā€œDavie, ma heart, Iā€™m leavinā€™ ye.ā€

The boy ceased sucking the sweet, and looked at her, the corners of his mouth drooping pitifully.

ā€œYeā€™re no gaeinā€™ awaā€™, mither?ā€ he asked, his face all working. ā€œYeā€™ll no leave yen wee laddie?ā€

ā€œAy, laddie, awaā€™ā€”reet awaā€™. Haā€™s callinā€™ me.ā€ She tried to smile; but her motherā€™s heart was near to bursting.

ā€œYeā€™ll takā€™ yen wee Davie wiā€™ ye mither!ā€ the child pleaded, crawling up toward her face.

The great tears rolled, unrestrained, down her wan cheeks, and Mā€™Adam, at the head of the bed, was sobbing openly.

ā€œEh, ma bairn, ma bairn, Iā€™m sam to leave ye!ā€ she cried brokenly. ā€œLift him for me, Adam.ā€

He placed the child in her arms; but she was too weak to hold him. So he laid him upon his motherā€™s pillows; and the boy wreathed his soft arms about her neck and sobbed tempestuously.

And the two lay thus together.

Just before she died, Flora turned her head and whispered:

ā€œAdam, ma man, yeā€™ll haā€™ to be mither and father baith to the lad nooā€; and she looked at him with tender confidence in her dying eyes.

ā€œI wull! afore God as I stanā€™ here I wull!ā€ he declared passionately. Then she died, and there was a look of ineffable peace upon her face.

ā€œMither and father baith!ā€

The little man rose to his feet and flung the photograph from him. Red Wull pounced upon it; but Mā€™Adam leapt at him as he mouthed it.

ā€œGit awaā€™, ye devil!ā€ he screamed; and, picking it up, stroked it lovingly with trembling fingers.

ā€œMaither and father baith!ā€

How had he fulfilled his loveā€™s last wish? How!

ā€œOh God! ā€œā€”and he fell upon his knees at the table-side, hugging the picture, sobbing and praying.

Red Wull cowered in the far corner of the room, and then crept whining up to where his master knelt. But Mā€™Adam heeded him not, and the great dog slunk away again.

There the little man knelt in the gloom of the winterā€™s afternoon, a miserable penitent. His gray-flecked head was bowed upon his arms; his hands clutched the picture; and he prayed aloud in gasping, halting tones.

ā€œGie me grace, O God! ā€˜Father and mither baith,ā€™ ye said, Floraā€” and I haā€™na done it.

But ā€˜tis no too lateā€”say itā€™s no, lass. Tell me thereā€™s time yet, and say ye forgie me. Iā€™ve tried to bear wiā€™ him mony and mony a time. But heā€™s vexed me, and set himself agin me, and stiffened my back, and ye ken hoo I was aye quick to takā€™ offence. But Iā€™ll makā€™ it up to himā€”makā€™ it up to him, and mair. Iā€™ll humble maselā€™ afore him, and thatā€™ll be bitter enough. And Iā€™ll be father and mither baith to him. But thereā€™s bin none to help me; and itā€™s bin sair wiā€™oot ye. Andā€”. but, eh, lassie, Iā€™m wearyinā€™ for ye!ā€

It was a dreary little procession that wound in the drizzle from Kenmuir to the little Dale Church. At the head stalked James Moore, and close behind David in his meagre coat. While last of all, as if to guide the stragglers in the weary road, come Owd Bob.

There was a full congregation in the tiny church now. In the squireā€™s pew were Cyril Gilbraith, Muriel Sylvester, and, most conspicuous, Lady Eleanour. Her slender figure was simply draped in gray, with gray fur about the neck and gray fur edging sleeves and jacket; her veil was lifted, and you could see the soft kair about her temples, like waves breaking on white cliffs, and her eyes big with tender sympathy as she glanced toward the pew upon her right.

For there were the mourners from Kenmuir: the Master, tall, grim, and gaunt; and beside him Maggie, striving to be calm, and little Andrew, the miniature of his father.

Alone, in the pew behind, David Mā€™Adam in his fatherā€™s coat.

The back of the church was packed with farmers from the whole March Mere Estate; friends from Silverdale and Grammochtown; and nearly every soul in Wastreldale, come to show their sympathy for the living and reverence for the dead.

At last the end came in the wet dreariness of the little churchyard, and slowly the mourners departed, until at length were left only the parson, the Master, and Owd Bob.

The parson was speaking in rough, short accents, digging nervously at the wet ground. The other, tall and gaunt, his face drawn and half-averted, stood listening. By his side was Owd Bob, scanning his masterā€™s countenance, a wistful compassion deep in the sad gray eyes; while close by, one of the parsonā€™s terriers was nosing inquisitively in the wet grass.

Of a sudden, James Moore, his face still turned away, stretched out a hand. The parson, broke off abruptly and grasped it. Then the two men strode away in opposite directions, the terrier hopping on three legs and shaking the rain off his hard coat.

Davidā€™s steps sounded outside. Mā€™Adam rose from his knees. The door of the house opened, and the boyā€™s feet shuffled in the passage.

ā€œDavid!ā€ the little man called in a tremulous voice.

He stood in the halflight, one hand on the table, the other clasping the picture. His eyes were bleared, his thin hair all tossed, and he was shaking.

ā€œDavid,ā€ he called again; ā€œIā€™ve somethinā€™ I wush to say to ye!ā€

The boy burst into the room. His face was stained with tears and rain; and the new black coat was wet and slimy all down the front, and on the elbows were green-brown, muddy blots. For, on his way home, he had flung himself down in the Stony Bottom just as he was, heedless of the wet earth and his fatherā€™s coat, and, lying on his face thinking of that second mother lost to him, had wept his heart out in a storm of passionate grief.

Now he stood defiantly, his hand upon the door.

ā€œWhat dā€™yoā€™ want?ā€

The little man looked from him to the picture in his hand.

ā€œHelp me, Floraā€”heā€™ll no,ā€ he prayed. Then raising his eyes, he began: ā€œIā€™d like to sayā€”Iā€™ve bin thinkinā€™ā€”I think I should tell yeā€”itā€™s no an easy thing for a man to sayā€”ā€

He broke off short. The self-imposed task was almost more than he could accomplish.

He looked appealingly at David. But there was no glimmer of understanding in that white, set countenance.

ā€œO God, itā€™s maist mair than I can do!ā€ the little man muttered; and the perspiration stood upon his forehead. Again he began: David, after I saw ye this afternoon steppinā€™ doon the hillā€”ā€ Again he paused. His glance rested unconsciously upon the coat. David mistook the look; mistook the dimness in his fatherā€™s eyes; mistook the tremor in his voice.

ā€œHere ā€˜tis! takā€™ yoā€™ coat!ā€ he cried passionately; and, tearing it off, flung it down at his fatherā€™s feet. ā€œTakā€™ itā€”andā€“andā€“-curse yoā€™/ā€

He banged out of the room and ran upstairs; and, locking himself in, threw himself on to his bed and sobbed.

Red Wull made a movement to fly at the retreating figure; then turned to his master, his stump-tail vibrating with pleasure. But little Mā€™Adam was looking at the wet coat now lying in a wet bundle at his feet.

ā€œCurse ye,ā€ he repeated softly. ā€œCurse ye ā€”ye heard him. Wullie?ā€

A bitter smile crept across his face. He looked again at the picture now lying crushed in his hand.

ā€œYe canna say I didna try; ye canna ask me to agin,ā€ he muttered, and slipped it into his pocket. ā€œNiver agin, Wullie; not if the Queen were to ask it.ā€

Then he went out into the gloom and drizzle, still smiling the same bitter smile.

That night, when it came to closing-time at the Sylvester Arms, Jem Burton found a little gray-haired figure lying on the floor in the tap-room. At the little manā€™s head lay a great dog.

ā€œYoā€™ beast!ā€ said the righteous publican, regarding the figure of his best customer with fine scorn. Then catching sight of a photograph in the little manā€™s hand:

ā€œOh, yoā€™re that sort, are yoā€™, foxy?ā€ he leered. ā€œGie us a look at ā€˜er,ā€ and he tried to disengage the picture from the otherā€™s grasp. But at the attempt the great dog rose, bared his teeth, and assumed such a diabolical expression that the big landlord retreated hurriedly behind the bar.

ā€œTwo on ye!ā€ he shouted viciously, rattling his heels; ā€œbeasts baith!ā€

PART III THE SHEPHERDSā€™ TROPHY

Chapter IX. RIVALS

Mā€™ADAM never forgave his son. After the scene on the evening of the funeral there could be no alternative but war for all time. The little man had attempted to humble himself, and been rejected; and the bitterness of defeat, when he had deserved victory, rankled like a poisoned barb in his bosom.

Yet the heat of his indignation was directed not against David, but against the Master of Kenmuir. To the influence and agency of James Moore he attributed his discomfiture, and bore himself accordingly. In public or in private, in tap-room or market, he never wearied of abusing his enemy.

ā€œFeel the loss oā€™ his wife, dā€™ye say?ā€ he would cry. ā€œAy, as muckle as I feel the loss oā€™ my hair. James Moore can feel naethinā€™, I tell ye, except, aiblins, a mischance to his meeserable dog.ā€

When the two met, as they often must, it was always Mā€™Adamā€™s endeavor to betray his enemy into an unworthy expression of feeling. But James Moore, sorely tried as he often was, never gave way. He met the little manā€™s sneers with a quelling silence, looking down on his asp-tongued antagonist with such a contempt flashing from his blue-gray eyes as hurt his adversary more than words.

Only once was he spurred into reply. It was in the tap-room of the Dalesmanā€™s Daughter on the occasion of the big spring fair in Grammochtown, when there was a goodly gathering of farmers and their dogs in the room.

Mā€™Adam was standing at the fireplace with Red Wull at his side.

ā€œItā€™s a noble pairt ye play, James Moore,ā€ he cried loudly across the room, ā€œsettinā€™ son against father, and dividinā€™ hoose against hoose. Itā€™s worthy oā€™ ye weā€™ yer churchgoinā€™, and yer psalm-singinā€™, and yer godliness.ā€

The Master looked up from the far end of the room.

ā€œHappen yoā€™re not aware, Mā€™Adam,ā€ he said sternly, ā€œthat, anā€™ it had not bin for me, Davidā€™d haā€™ left you years agoneā€”and ā€˜twould nobā€™but haā€™ served yoā€™ right, Iā€™m thinkinā€™.

The little man was beaten on his own ground, so he changed front.

ā€œDinna shout so, manā€”I have ears to hear, Forbye ye irritate Wullie.ā€

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