, lad, yo 'ye done
your work for to-day, and right well too; go yo' home wi' him. I'm off
to see to this!"

He turned and crossed the Stony Bottom. His face was set like a rock.
At length the proof was in his hand. Once and for all the hill-country
should be rid of its scourge.

As he stalked up the hill, a dark head appeared at his knee. Two big
grey eyes; half doubting, half penitent, wholly wistful, looked up at
him, and a silvery brush signalled a mute request.

"Eh, Owd Un, but yo' should ha' gone wi' Andrew," the Master said.
"Hooiver, as yo' are here, come along." And he strode away up the hill,
gaunt and menacing, with the gray dog at his heels.

As they approached the house, M'Adam was standing in the door, sucking
his eternal twig. James Moore eyed him closely as he came, but the sour
face framed in the door betrayed nothing. Sarcasm, surprise, challenge,
were all writ there, plain to read; but no guilty consciousness of the
other's errand, no storm of passion to hide a failing heart. If it was
acting it was splendidly done.

As man and dog passed through the gap in the hedge, the expression on
the little man's face changed again. He started forward.

"James Moore, as I live!" he cried, and advanced with both hands
extended, as though welcoming a long-lost brother. "'Deed and it's a
weary while sin' ye've honored ma puir hoose." And, in fact, it was nigh
twenty years. "I tak' it gey kind in ye to look in on a lonely auld man.
Come ben and let's ha' a crack. James Moore kens weel hoo welcome he aye
is in ma bit biggin'."

The Master ignored the greeting.

"One o' ma sheep been killed back o' t' Dyke," he announced shortly,
jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

"The Killer?"

"The Killer."

The cordiality beaming in every wrinkle of the little man's face was
absorbed in a wondering interest; and that again gave place to sorrowful
sympathy.

"Dear, dear! it's come to that, has it--at last?" he said gently, and
his eyes wandered to the gray dog and dwelt mournfully upon him. "Man,
I'm sorry--I canna tell ye I'm surprised. Masel', I kent it all alang.
But gin Adam M'Adam had tell't ye, no ha' believed him. Weel, weel, he's
lived his life, gin ony dog iver did; and noo he maun gang where
he's sent a many before him. Puir mon! puir tyke!" He heaved a sigh,
profoundly melancholy, tenderly sympathetic. Then, brightening up a
little: "Ye'll ha' come for the gun?"

James Moore listened to this harangue