tened, the somber eye
melted, the contracted brow relaxed, and for the first time in all this
length of years, he cried like a little child.

At the same instant the sun swept up, and he fell. Parson Christian bent
over him. The crimson of the east twas reflected on his white face. The
new day had dawned.

On the Tuesday following two mourners stood by an open grave in the
church-yard of Newlands. One of them was white-headed; the other wore
the jacket and cap, the badge and broad arrow of a convict. The sexton
and his man had lowered the coffin to its last home, and then stepped
aside. A tall man leaned on the lych-gate, and a group of men and women
stood in silence by the porch of the church. The afternoon sun was low,
and the shadows of the tombstones stretched far on the grass.

The convict went down on his knees, and looked long into the grave. When
he arose, the company that had gathered about the porch had gone, and
voices singing a hymn came from within the old church. It was the
village choir practicing. The world's work had begun again.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Two days later the fell behind the Ghyll was a scene of unusual
animation. It was the day of the shearing. The sheep, visibly whiter and
more fleecy for a washing of some days before, had been gathered into
stone folds. Clippers were seated on creels ranged about a turf fire,
over which a pot of tar hung from a triangle of boughs. Boy "catchers"
brought up the sheep, one by one, and girl "helpers" carried away the
fleeces, hot and odorous, and hung them over the open barn doors. As the
sheep were stripped, they were tugged to the fire and branded from the
bubbling tar with the smet mark of the Ritsons. The metallic click of
the shears was in the air, and over all was the blue sky and the
brilliant sunshine.

In a white overall, stained with patches of tar and some streaks of
blood, smudged with soap and scraps of the clinging wool, Parson
Christian moved among the shearers, applying plentiful doses of salve
from a huge can to the snips made in the skin of the sheep by the
accidents of the shears.

"We might have waited for the maister afore shearing--eh?" said Reuben,
from one of the creels.

"He'll be here before we finish, please the Lord," answered the parson.

"Is it to-day you're to gang for him?"

"Yes, this afternoon."

"A daub on this leg, parson, where she kicked--deuced take her!... It's
like you'll bring him home in a car?"

"