Then from somewhere among the trees came the quick, low bark of a
dog. The man looked carefully in every direction; be could see
nothing but the sheep, yet he felt himself observed. Again came
the short bark; and this time a voice--a girl's voice, Mr. Howitt
thought--said, "It's alright, Brave; go on, brother." And from
behind a big rock not far away a shepherd dog appeared, followed
by a youth of some fifteen years.

He was a lightly built boy; a bit tall for his age, perhaps, but
perfectly erect; and his every movement was one of indescribable
grace, while he managed, somehow, to wear his rough backwoods
garments with an air of distinction as remarkable as it was
charming. The face was finely molded, almost girlish, with the
large gray eyes, and its frame of yellow, golden hair. It was a
sad face when in repose, yet wonderfully responsive to every
passing thought and mood. But the eyes, with their strange
expression, and shifting light, proclaimed the lad's mental
condition.

As the boy came forward in a shy, hesitating way, an expression of
amazement and wonder crept into the stranger's face; he left his
seat and started forward. "Howard," he said; "Howard."

"That ain't his name, Mister; his name's Pete," returned the
youth, in low, soft tones.

In the voice and manner of the lad, no less than in his face and
eyes, Mr. Howitt read his story. Unconsciously he echoed the words
of Mr. Matthews, "Poor Pete."