“Is not that a glorious sight?”

“Aye! 'Tis grand. But like all beauty o' the warld it fadeth into naught; an' is only a mask for dool.”

“You do not seem to hold a very optimistic opinion of things generally.” He deliberately stoked himself from his snuff mull before replying:

“Optimist nor pessimist am I, eechie nor ochie. I'm thinkin' the optimist and the pessimist are lears alike; takin' a pairt for the whole, an' so guilty o' the logical sin o' a particulari ad universale. Sophism they misca' it; as if there were anything but a lee in a misstatement o' fac'. Fac's is good eneuch for me; an' that, let me tell ye, is why I said that the splendour o' the sunset is but a mask for dool. Look yon! The clouds are all gold and glory, like a regiment goin' oot to the battle. But bide ye till the sun drops, not only below the horizon but beyond the angle o' refraction. Then what see ye? All grim and grey, and waste, and dourness and dool; like the army as it returns frae the fecht. There be some that think that because the sun sets fine i' the nicht, it will of necessity rise fine i' the morn. They seem to no ken that it has to traverse one half o' the warld ere it returns; and that the averages of fine and foul, o' light and dark hae to be aye maintained. It may be that the days o' fine follow ane anither fast; or that the foul times linger likewise. But in the end, the figures of fine and foul tottle up, in accord wi' their ordered sum. What use is it, then, to no tak' heed o' fac's? Weel I ken, that the fac' o' the morrow will differ sair frae the fac's o' this nicht. Not in vain hae I seen the wisdom and glory o' the Lord in sunsets an' dawns wi'oot learnin' the lessons that they teach. Mon, I tell ye that it's all those glories o' pomp and pageantry-all the lasceevious luxuries o' colour an' splendour, that are the forerinners o' disaster. Do ye no see the streaks o' wind rinnin' i' the sky, frae the east to the west? Do ye ken what they portend? I'm tellin' ye, that before the sun sets the morrow nicht there will be ruin and disaster on all this side o' Scotland. The storm will no begin here. It is perhaps ragin' the noo away to the east. But it will come quick, most likely wi' the risin' o' the tide; and woe be then to them as has no made safe wi' all they can. Hark ye the stillness!” Shepherd-like he took no account of his own sheep whose ceaseless bleating, sounding in every note of the scale, broke the otherwise universal silence of nature. “I'm thinkin' it's but the calm before the storm. Weel sir, I maun gang. The yowes say it is time for the hame comin'. An' mark ye, the collie! He looks at me reproachful, as though I had forgot the yowes! My sairvice to ye, sir!”

“Good night” I answered, “I hope I shall meet you again.”

“I'm thinkin' the same masel'. I hae much enjoyed yer pleasin' converse. I hope it's mony a crack we yet may hae thegither!” And so my philosophical egoist moved homewards, blissfully unconscious of the fact that my sole contribution to the “pleasing converse” was the remark that he did not seem optimistic.

The whole mass of his charge moved homewards at an even footpace, the collie making frantic dashes here and there to keep his flock headed in the right direction. Presently I saw the herd pouring like a foam-white noisy river across the narrow bridge over the Water of Cruden.

The next morning was fine, very hot, and of an unusual stillness. Ordinarily I should have rejoiced at such a day; but the warning of the erudite and philosophical shepherd made me mistrust. To me the worst of the prophecy business was that it became a disturbing influence. To-day, perforce, because it was fine, I had to expect that it would end badly. About noon I walked over to Whinnyfold; it being Saturday I knew that the workmen would have gone away early, and I wanted to have the house to myself so that I could go over it quietly and finally arrange the scheme of colouring. I remained there some hours, and then, when I had made up my mind as to things, I set off for the hotel.