It was now time he should resume his journey up Daurside, and he set out to follow the burn that he might regain¹ the river. It led him into a fine meadow, where a number of cattle were feeding. The meadow was not fenced—little more than marked off, indeed, upon one side, from a field of growing corn, by a low wall of earth, covered with moss² and grass and flowers. The cattle were therefore herded³ by a boy, whom Gibbie recognized even in the distance as him by whose countenance⁵ he had been so much attracted when, like an old deity⁶ on a cloud, he lay spying through the crack in the ceiling. The boy was reading a book, from which every now and then he lifted his eyes to glance around him, and see whether any of the cows or heifers or stirks were wandering beyond their pasture of rye-grass and clover. Having them all before him, therefore no occasion to look behind, he did not see Gibbie approaching. But as soon as he seemed thoroughly⁷ occupied, a certain black cow, with short sharp horns and a wicked look, which had been gradually, as was her wont⁸, edging nearer and nearer to the corn, turned suddenly and ran for it, jumped the dyke⁹, and plunging¹⁰ into a mad revelry of greed, tore and devoured¹¹ with all the haste not merely of one insecure, but of one that knew she was stealing. Now Gibbie had been observant enough during his travels to learn that this was against the law and custom of the country—that it was not permitted to a cow to go into a field where there were no others—and like a shot he was after the black marauder. The same instant the herd⁴ boy too, lifting his eyes from his book, saw her, and springing to his feet, caught up his great stick, and ran also: he had more than one reason to run, for he understood only too well the dangerous temper of the cow, and saw that Gibbie was a mere¹² child, and unarmed—an object most provocative¹³ of attack to Hornie—so named, indeed, because of her readiness to use the weapons with which Nature had provided her. She was in fact a malicious¹⁴ cow, and but that she was a splendid milker, would have been long ago fatted up and sent to the butcher. The boy as he ran full speed to the rescue, kept shouting to warn Gibbie from his purpose, but Gibbie was too intent to understand the sounds he uttered, and supposed them addressed to the cow. With the fearless service that belonged to his very being, he ran straight at Hornie, and, having nothing to strike her with, flung himself against her with a great shove towards the dyke. Hornie, absorbed in her delicious robbery, neither heard nor saw before she felt him, and, startled by the sudden attack, turned tail. It was but for a moment. In turning, she caught sight of her ruler, sceptre in hand, at some little distance, and turned again, either to have another mouthful, or in the mere instinct to escape him. Then she caught sight of the insignificant¹⁵ object that had scared her, and in contemptuous indignation lowered her head between her forefeet, and was just making a rush at Gibbie, when a stone struck her on a horn, and the next moment the herd came up, and with a storm of fiercest blows, delivered with the full might of his arm, drove her in absolute rout¹⁶ back into the meadow. Drawing himself up in the unconscious majesty¹⁷ of success, Donal Grant looked down upon Gibbie, but with eyes of admiration¹⁸.  
"Haith, cratur!" he said, "ye're mair o' a man nor ye'll luik this saven year! What garred ye rin upo' the deevil's verra horns that gait?"
 
Gibbie stood smiling.
 
"Gien't hadna been for my club we wad baith be owre the mune 'gain this time. What ca' they ye, man?"
 
Still Gibbie only smiled.
 
"Whaur come ye frae?—Wha's yer fowk?—Whaur div ye bide¹⁹?—Haena ye a tongue i' yer heid, ye rascal²⁰?"
 
Gibbie burst out laughing, and his eyes sparkled and shone: he was delighted with the herd-boy, and it was so long since he had heard human speech addressed to himself!
 
"The cratur's feel (foolish)!" concluded Donal to himself pityingly. "Puir thing! puir thing!" he added aloud, and laid his hand on Gibbie's head.
 
It was but the second touch of kindness Gibbie had received since he was the dog's guest: had he been acquainted with the bastard²¹ emotion of self-pity, he would have wept; as he was unaware²² of hardship in his lot, discontent in his heart, or discord²³ in his feeling, his emotion was one of unmingled delight, and embodied²⁴ itself in a perfect smile.
 
"Come, cratur, an' I'll gie ye a piece: ye'll aiblins un'erstan' that!" said Donal, as he turned to leave the corn for the grass, where Hornie was eating with the rest like the most innocent of hum'le (hornless) animals. Gibbie obeyed, and followed, as, with slow step and downbent face, Donal led the way. For he had tucked his club under his arm, and already his greedy eyes were fixed²⁵ on the book he had carried all the time, nor did he take them from it until, followed in full and patient content by Gibbie, he had almost reached the middle of the field, some distance from Hornie and her companions, when, stopping abruptly²⁶ short, he began without lifting his head to cast glances on this side and that.
 
"I houp nane o' them's swallowed my nepkin!" he said musingly²⁷. "I'm no sure whaur I was sittin'. I hae my place i' the beuk, but I doobt I hae tint²⁸ my place i' the gerse."
 
Long before he had ended, for he spoke²⁹ with utter deliberation, Gibbie was yards away, flitting hither and thither³⁰ like a butterfly. A minute more and Donal saw him pounce³¹ upon his bundle, which he brought to him in triumph.
 
"Fegs! ye're no the gowk I took ye for," said Donal meditatively³².
 
Whether Gibbie took the remark for a compliment, or merely was gratified that Donal was pleased, the result was a merry laugh.
 
The bundle had in it a piece of hard cheese, such as Gibbie had already made acquaintance with, and a few quarters of cakes. One of these Donal broke in two, gave Gibbie the half, replaced the other, and sat down again to his book—this time with his back against the fell-dyke dividing the grass from the corn. Gibbie seated himself, like a Turk, with his bare legs crossed under him, a few yards off, where, in silence and absolute content, he ate his piece, and gravely regarded him. His human soul had of late been starved, even more than his body—and that from no fastidiousness; and it was paradise again to be in such company. Never since his father's death had he looked on a face that drew him as Donal's. It was fair of complexion³³ by nature, but the sun had burned it brown, and it was covered with freckles³⁴. Its forehead was high, with a mass of foxy hair over it, and under it two keen hazel eyes, in which the green predominated over the brown. Its nose was long and solemn, over his well-made mouth, which rarely smiled, but not unfrequently trembled with emotion—over his book. For age, Donal was getting towards fifteen, and was strongly built, and well grown. A general look of honesty, and an attractive expression of reposeful³⁵ friendliness³⁶ pervaded³⁷ his whole appearance. Conscientious³⁸ in regard to his work, he was yet in danger of forgetting his duty for minutes together in his book. The chief evil that resulted from it was such an occasional inroad on the corn as had that morning taken place; and many were Donal's self-reproaches ere he got to sleep when that had fallen out during the day. He knew his master would threaten him with dismissal if he came upon him reading in the field, but he knew also his master was well aware that he did read, and that it was possible to read and yet herd well. It was easy enough in this same meadow: on one side ran the Lorrie; on another was a stone wall; and on the third a ditch; only the cornfield lay virtually unprotected, and there he had to be himself the boundary. And now he sat leaning against the dyke, as if he held so a position of special defence; but he knew well enough that the dullest calf³⁹ could outflank him, and invade, for a few moments at the least, the forbidden pleasure-ground. He had gained an ally, however, whose faculty⁴⁰ and faithfulness he little knew yet. For Gibbie had begun to comprehend the situation. He could not comprehend why or how anyone should be absorbed in a book, for all he knew of books was from his one morning of dame-schooling; but he could comprehend that, if one's attention were so occupied, it must be a great vex⁴¹ to be interrupted continually by the ever-waking desires of his charge after dainties. Therefore, as Donal watched his book, Gibbie for Donal's sake watched the herd, and, as he did so, gently possessed⁴² himself of Donal's club. Nor had many minutes passed before Donal, raising his head to look, saw the curst cow again in the green corn, and Gibbie manfully encountering her with the club, hitting her hard upon head and horns, and deftly⁴³ avoiding every rush she made at him.
 
"Gie her't upo' the nose," Donal shouted in terror, as he ran full speed to his aid, abusing Hornie in terms of fiercest vituperation.
 
But he needed not have been so apprehensive⁴⁴. Gibbie heard and obeyed, and the next moment Hornie had turned tail and was fleeing back to the safety of the

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