Mrs. Railton, knowing what he meant, went to the porch.  It was lighter outside and the hillside was growing distinct.  She thought something moved on the path beside the beck, and turned to her daughter, who had followed.

“What’s yon by the water, Lucy?”

Lucy was silent for a few moments and then said quietly, “I think it’s sheep!”

She watched the path.  The mist made a puzzling background and her eyes were getting dazzled; but there was something.  Then she heard a chair jar on the flags and glanced at Railton, who leaned forward.

“Weel?” he said.  “Canna you speak?  Is neabody coming yet?”

Lucy threw another glance up the dale and her heart beat.  An indistinct row of small dark objects moved along the path, with two tall figures behind.

“Kit’s coming down the beck; he’s brought the Herdwicks!” she cried.

“Canny lad!” said Railton, and leaning back limply, wiped his face.  His forehead was wet with sweat, for he was weak and the suspense had been keen.

The sheep vanished behind a wall, and Lucy began to put fresh food on the table.  Mrs. Railton hung a kettle on a hook above the fire, and then turned with a start as a girl came into the porch.

“Miss Osborn!” she exclaimed.

Grace advanced calmly, although there was some color in her face, because she knew the others were surprised that she had come.

“Is Mr. Hayes here?” she asked.

“Mayhappen he’s at the pens,” Lucy replied.  “I thought I heard his car.”

“Then I missed him at the cross-roads,” said Grace.  “I was going to Allerby, and my father asked me to give him a note when he stopped at Lawson’s.”  She hesitated, and then resumed impulsively:  “Perhaps I oughtn’t to have come on; but I wanted to do so.”

They knew what she meant, but nobody answered, and Grace sat down on a bench by the table.

“Will you give the note to Mr. Hayes?  Has Kit Askew brought the Swinset sheep?”

“He’s coming now,” said Lucy, picking up the note, and Grace’s eyes sparkled.

“I knew he would bring them; I told him he must.”

Lucy went out and Grace asked Railton about his pains.  While they talked somebody shouted outside, and the old man, getting up with an effort, hobbled to the door.

“Hoad on; dinna close t’ pen,” a man called.  “Here’s Kit and t’ lot fra Swinset.”

Three of four more shouted and Grace, who had followed Railton, thought there was a note of triumph in their cries.  Then dogs began to bark, somebody opened a gate, and a flock of Herdwicks, leaping out with wet fleeces shaking, and hoofs clicking on stone, ran across a shallow pool where the beck had overflowed.

A few minutes afterwards, Kit came in.  He looked tired, his face was rather haggard, and his clothes were wet.  Tom, the shepherd, followed and sat down by the fire.

“It was nea an easy job, but we manished it,” he said.  “Swinset sheep is thief sheep, but they’re none a match for Kit’s oad dog.”