“Don’t you talk that way, Charlotte.  It isn’t lucky for girls to talk of wrong and sorrow.  Talking of things bespeaks them.  There’s always them that hear; them that we don’t see.  And everybody pulls flowers, dearie.”

“I don’t.  If I pull a rose, I always believe every other rose on that tree is sad about it.  They may be in families, Ducie, who can tell?  And the little roses may be like the little children, and very dear to the grown roses.”

“Why, what fancies!  Let us go into the yard, and see the shearing.  You’ve made me feel as if I’d never like to pull a posy again.  You shouldn’t say such things, indeed you shouldn’t:  you’ve given me quite a turn, I’m sure.”

As Ducie talked, they went through the back-door into a large yard walled in from the hillside, and having in it three grand old sycamores.  One of these was at the top of the enclosure, and a circle of green shadow like a tent was around it.  In this shadow the squire and the statesman were sitting.  Their heads were uncovered, their long clay pipes in their hands; and, with a placid complacency, they were watching the score of busy men before them.  Many had come long distances to try their skill against each other; for the shearings at Latrigg’s were a pastoral game, at which it was a local honor to be the winner.  There the young statesman who could shear his six score a day found others of a like capacity, and it was Greek against Greek at Up-Hill shearing that afternoon.

“I had two thousand sheep to get over,” said Latrigg, “but they’ll be bare by sunset, squire.  That isn’t bad for these days.  When I was young we wouldn’t have thought so much of two thousand, but every dalesman then knew what good shearing was. Now,” and the old man shook his head slowly, “good shearers are few and far between.  Why, there’s some here from beyond Kirkstone Pass and Nab Scar!”

It was customary for young people of all conditions to give men as aged as Barf Latrigg the honorable name of “grandfather;” and Charlotte said, as she sat down in the breezy shadow beside him, “Who is first, grandfather?”

“Why, our Stephen, to be sure!  They’ll have to be up before day-dawn to keep sidey with our Steve.—­Steve, how many is thou ahead now?” The voice that asked the question, though full of triumph, was thin and weak; but the answer came back in full, mellow tones,—­

“Fifteen ahead, grandfather.”

“Oh, I’m so glad!”

“Charlotte Sandal says ‘she’s so glad.’  Now then, if thou loses ground, I wouldn’t give a ha’penny for thee.”