As yet Tilda could not know that the old man had been married twice,
that these stalwart youths and maidens were his offspring by two
mothers. Indeed, they might all have been his, and of one womb, so
frankly and so gently spoken they were one to another. Only the
shepherd kept scolding all the while, and with vigour, using his brief
authority which no one--not even his master--attempted to dispute.
While this was going on two farm-boys from the rearmost boat had run up
the hill, and by and by returned, each cracking a whip and leading a
pair of horses harnessed to a lumbering hay-wagon. All scrambled on
board, romping and calling to Tilda and Arthur Miles to follow their
example; and so, leaving the shepherd to follow with his collected
flock, the procession started, the horses plunging at the first steep
rise from the beach.
Half-a-dozen children had collected on the beach and ran with them,
cheering, up the hill, and before the cottage doorways three or four
women, wives and widows, stood to watch the procession go by.
These (someone told Tilda) were all the inhabitants left, their men-folk
having sailed away west and north a month ago for the fishery.
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