"Earth to earth--ashes
to ashes--dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to
eternal life."

* * * * *

When you wander in the gray hill-country of the North, in the loneliest
corner of that lonely land you may chance upon a low farmhouse, lying in
the shadow of the Muir Pike.

Entering, a tall old man comes out to greet you--the Master of Kenmuir.
His shoulders are bent now; the hair that was so dark is frosted; but
the blue-gray eyes look you as proudly in the face as of yore.

And while the girl with the glory of yellow hair is preparing food for
you--they are hospitable to a fault, these Northerners--you will notice
on the mantelpiece, standing solitary, a massive silver cup, dented.

That is the world-known Shepherds' Trophy, won outright, as the old man
will tell you, by Owd Bob, last and best of the Gray Dogs of Kenmuir.
The last because he is the best; because once, for a long-drawn unit of
time, James Moore had thought him to be the worst.

When at length you take your leave, the old man accompanies you to the
top of the slope to point you your way.

"Yo' cross the stream; over Langholm How, yonder; past the Bottom; and
oop th' hill on far side. Yo'll come on th' house o' top. And happen
yo'll meet Th' Owd Un on the road. Good-day to you, sir, good-day."

So you go as he has bidden you; across the stream, skirting the How,
over the gulf and up the hill again.

On the way, as the Master has foretold, you come upon an old gray dog,
trotting soberly along. Th' Owd Un, indeed, seems to spend the evening
of his life going thus between Kenmuir and the Grange. The black muzzle
is almost white now; the gait, formerly so smooth and strong, is stiff
and slow; venerable, indeed, is he of whom men still talk as the best
sheep-dog in the North.

As he passes, he pauses to scan you. The noble head is high, and one
foot raised; and you look into two big gray eyes such as you have never
seen before--soft, a little dim, and infinitely sad.

That is Owd Bob o' Kenmuir, of whom the tales are many as the flowers on
the May. With him dies the last of the immortal line of the Gray Dogs of
Kenmuir.

* * * * *

You travel on up the bill, something pensive, and knock at the door of
the house on the top.

A woman, comely with the inevitable comeliness of motherhood, opens to
you. And nestling in her arms is a little boy with golden hair and