One day when this happened, Dad and Pete were on the ridge above the Old Trail, just where the north slope of Dewey shades into the rim of the Hollow.  The elder man was seated on the ground in the shade of an oak, with his back against the trunk of the tree, while the boy lay full length on the soft grass, looking up into the green depths of foliage where a tiny brown bird flitted from bough to bough.  In his quaint way, Pete was carrying on a conversation with his little friend in the tree top, translating freely the while for his less gifted, but deeply interested, companion on the ground below, when Brave, the shepherd dog, lying near, interrupted the talk by a short bark.  Looking up, they saw Young Matt riding along the summit of the ridge.

The young man paused when he heard the dog, and caught sight of the two under the tree; then he came to them, and seated himself on the grass at Pete’s side.  He spoke no word of greeting, and the look on his face was not good to see.

Pete’s eyes went wide with fear at the manner of his big friend, and he drew back as if to run, but when Young Matt, throwing himself over on the grass, had hidden his face, a half sad, half knowing look came into the lad’s delicate features; reaching forth a hand, as slim as a girl’s, he stroked the shaggy, red brown head, as he murmured softly, “Poor Matt.  Poor Matt.  Does it hurt?  Is Matt hurt?  It’ll be better by-and-by.”

The great form on the grass stirred impatiently.  The shepherd spoke no word.  Pete continued, stroking the big head, and talking in low, soothing tones, as one would hush a child, “Pete don’t know what’s a hurtin’ Young Matt, but it’ll be alright, some day.  It’ll sure grow over after awhile.  Ain’t nothing won’t grow over after awhile; ’cause God he says so.”

Still the older man was silent.  Then the giant burst forth in curses, and the shepherd spoke, “Don’t do that, Grant.  It’s not like you, lad.  You cannot help your trouble that way.”

Young Matt turned over to face his friend; “I know it, Dad;” he growled defiantly; “but I just got to say somethin’; I ain’t meanin’ no disrespect to God ’lmighty, and I reckon He ought to know it; but—­” he broke forth again.

Pete drew back in alarm.  “Look your trouble in the face, lad,” said the shepherd; “don’t let it get you down like this.”

“Look it in the face!” roared the other.  “Good God! that’s just it! ain’t I a lookin’ it in the face every day?  You don’t know about it, Dad.  If you did, you—­you’d cuss too.”  He started in again.

“I know more than you think, Grant,” said the other, when the big fellow had stopped swearing to get his breath.  While he spoke, the shepherd was looking away along the Old Trail.  “There comes your trouble now,” he added, pointing to a girl on a brown pony, coming slowly out of the timber near the deer lick.  The young man made no reply.  Pete, at sight of the girl, started to his feet, but the big fellow pulled him down again, and made the boy understand that he must not betray their position.