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Tonight he was sadder than ever. It would be fine tomorrow, the last of the wool would dry during the day, in time to be fetched away before evening.

That meant it was his last night’s watch this spring.

His eyes took leave of the wild duck swimming in the stream near their nests, that he had cared for and protected; several times he had waded out to see how they fared. He looked the hillside up and down, bidding good-bye to the buttercups and dandelions—every morning he had watched their opening, a solitary witness, as they unfolded at the gracious bidding of the sun. He noted, too, the great clusters of tiny-flowered forget-me-nots that grew everywhere around.

At five o’clock he rose to go. From one of the chimneys smoke was already rising, thin and clear as from a censer; old Ossa had hung the big kettle over the fire for early coffee. A big plate of new bread would be waiting for him, with butter, meat, cheese, and a steaming cup of coffee—a delicious meal.

From force of habit he glanced round before moving off; counted the chimneys from which smoke was rising, and looked about for any other signs of life. Then suddenly he realized that something unusual was going on. With trembling hands he adjusted the telescope he always carried, and looked towards the spot.