His head was bare, and his
flaxen hair so bleached by the sun that it looked quite white against
his bronzed face. He looked at Grace with a grave interest in his large
blue eyes, as if he would like to know a little more; but he still
brandished his cudgel before her, and shouted resolutely:
"Hold back, or Blackie will be at ye."
"But who is Blackie?" asked Grace, with a gasp, looking furtively round
in the direction of the birch wood, in case the said Blackie might be
approaching from behind.
"Who's Blackie!" said the boy, repeating the question, as if to hold up
to ridicule the absurd ignorance which it implied. "Do ye no ken that
Blackie is Gowrie's bull--the ill-natertest bull in a' the
country-side?"
"And what have you to do with Blackie?" asked Grace, glancing across to
the hillocks, where some cattle grazed inoffensively, in search of the
formidable animal.
"I herd him--I'm Gowrie's herd-laddie. They're all terrible easy-managed
beasts but him, and he's full o' ill tricks. He can't bear woman-folks,"
added the boy, with a slight mischievous twinkle in his eye; for he felt
more at his ease now, having assured himself that Blackie was much too
intent on some sweet blades of grass to give any trouble at that moment.
"Gowrie! that's the old farm down in the hollow there, isn't it? And how
long have you been herding?" asked Grace, who still stood on the
stepping-stones, and pursued the conversation with the noisy little
stream babbling round her.
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