than a remembered vista from the immeasurable past. He always seemed to be sitting, half-dozing, before a fire,—a fire not greatly different from that which burned before him in reality. It was always so red, so cheering, that the love of it seemed to shiver his heart to pieces. The forest always stretched about him, silent, mysterious, sinister past all words. And there were always the sheep.
Always, in his dream, he guarded the sheep. It was a matter of life itself. And Death was always waiting for him the instant he relaxed his vigilance. It was not an easy passing, a swift crossing to a happy, bright, quiet land from which he might return and whisper in the night. It was always darkness and cold and pain, and most of all it was fear. The sheep were white in the same moon, the same stars were in the sky. But the tent was absent. Such a thing was without his bourn of thought. In the darkness he dared not leave the fire to seek shelter from the rain. And as he dozed he sat in a somewhat different position,—usually leaning forward, his hands locked behind his head. And in the summer nights the hair on his arms drained off the rain.
Shep was still beside him, and the communion between them was even more close than in life. They seemed almost like brothers, rather than master and servant. A peace that was almost rapture abided in their companionship. And it
