At mention of Mr. Howitt’s name, Young Matt had looked at his father quickly.  When the stranger paused, he answered, “Yes, sir.  We know Dad Howitt.  Is he a friend of yourn?”

“Dad—­Dad Howitt.  Doc and Dad.  Well, what would Sarah and the girls say?  Friend of mine?  Young man Daniel and David, I am David; Daniel and David lay on the same blanket when they were babies; played in the same alley; school together same classes; colleged together; next door neighbors.  Know him!  Blast it all, where is this sheep place?”

Again the two woodsmen exchanged glances.  The elder Matthews spoke, “It ain’t so far from here, sir.  The ranch belongs to me and my son.  But Mr. Howitt will be out on the hills somewhere with the sheep now.  You’d better go home with us and have supper, and the boy will take you down this evenin’.”

“Well, now, that’s kind, sir; very kind, indeed.  Man at the Postoffice is a savage, sir; blasted, old incorrigible savage.  My name is Coughlan; Dr. David Coughlan, of Chicago; practicing physician for forty years; don’t do anything now; not much, that is.  Sarah and the girls won’t let me.  Your name, sir?”

“Grant Matthews.  My boy there has the same.  We’re mighty glad to meet any friend of Dad’s, I can tell you.  He’s sure been a God’s blessin’ to this neighborhood.”

Soon they started homeward, Young Matt going ahead to do the chores, and to tell his mother of their coming guest, while Mr. Matthews followed more slowly with the doctor.  Shortening his stride to conform to the slow pace of the smaller man, the mountaineer told his guest about the shepherd; how he had come to them; of his life; and how he had won the hearts of the people.  When he told how Mr. Howitt had educated Sammy, buying her books himself from his meager wages, the doctor interrupted in his quick way, “Just like him! just like him.  Always giving away everything he earned.  Made others give, too.  Blast it all, he’s cost me thousands of dollars, thousands of dollars, treating patients of his that never paid a cent; not a cent, sir.  Proud, though; proud as Lucifer.  Fine old, family; finest in the country, sir.  Right to be proud, right to be.”

Old Matt scowled as he returned coldly, “He sure don’t seem that way to us, Mister.  He’s as common as an old shoe.”  And then the mountaineer told how his son loved the shepherd, and tried to explain what the old scholar’s friendship had meant to them.

The stranger ejaculated, “Same old thing; same old trick.  Did me that way; does everybody that way.  Same old Daniel.  Proud, though; can’t help it; can’t help it.”

The big man answered with still more warmth, “You ought to hear how he talks to us folks when we have meetin’s at the Cove school house.  He’s as good as any preacher you ever heard; except that he don’t put on as much, maybe.  Why, sir, when we buried Jim Lane week before last, everybody ’lowed he done as well as a regular parson.”