shepherd took command of these operations, no man gainsaying, and shouted here, there and everywhere, sparing neither age nor sex, but scolding all indiscriminately, hallooing to his dogs and waving his arms—­as his master described it later—­“like a paper man in a cyclone.”  And the dogs were silent no longer, but coursed the beach with short, fierce yelps, yet always intent on their business, as ’Dolph discovered when, spurred on by his theatrical instincts, he made a feint of joining in the sport.  A snap of teeth close to his fore-legs sent him back yelping, and he retired in dudgeon to a heap of seaweed; but by and by, when the sheep were gathered into a compact crowd, he made a really heroic effort to divert attention back to his own talents.

“Look to the dog, there—­look to ’en!” cried a maiden of eighteen, pointing and then resting a hand on either hip while she laughed.

This was Chrissy (short for Christiana), the prettiest, though not the youngest of the girls.  Beside her there were Dinah (it was she who suckled the baby) and Polly, and Rose and Sabina, and Charity; and of the young men John Edward, and William, ’Rastus, Donatus and Obed.  These were of the sons and daughters of the old steersman, with others of whom Tilda had not yet learnt the names.  There was Old William also—­Dinah’s husband—­a young man of thirty or so, but serious for his years; and Old William’s two sisters, Sheba and Bathsheba—­the younger a maiden, but the elder married to a youth they called Daniel; and Festus, who appeared to be courting Chrissy; and Roger, the young giant who had pulled the bow oar, and was courting nobody as yet.  Quick though Tilda was to find her feet in a crowd and distinguish names and faces, she found the numbers bewildering.  To Arthur Miles they were but a phantom throng.  He stood on the beach amid the small tumult and, while the sheep blundered by, gazed back upon the Island, still in view, still resting like a shield out yonder upon the milky, golden sea.

As yet Tilda could not know that the old man had been married twice, that these stalwart youths and maidens were his offspring by two mothers.  Indeed, they might all have been his, and of one womb, so frankly and so gently spoken they were one to another.  Only the shepherd kept scolding all the while, and with vigour, using his brief authority which no one—­not even his master—­attempted to dispute.  While this was going on two farm-boys from the rearmost boat had run up the hill, and by and by returned, each cracking a whip and leading a pair of horses harnessed to a lumbering hay-wagon.  All scrambled on board, romping and calling to Tilda and Arthur Miles to follow their example; and so, leaving the shepherd to follow with his collected flock, the procession started, the horses plunging at the first steep rise from the beach.

Half-a-dozen children had collected on the beach and ran with them, cheering, up the hill, and before the cottage doorways three or four women, wives and widows, stood to watch the procession go by.  These (someone told Tilda) were all the inhabitants left, their men-folk having sailed away west and north a month ago for the fishery.