“Well, but,” argued the farmer, “’tis this way, ye see, I can’t afford to be at a loss. I’ve a-stood it as long as I could, shepherd, but I can’t noways let things go wrong this season same as last; I can’t truly. Ye mustn’t be onreasonable. Why, look ’ee—d’ye know any man o’ your years in these parts as gets twelve shillin’ a week? It’s the natur’ o’ things as when they can’t do the full day’s work they can’t have the full day’s pay. Look at Adam Blanchard and Eddard Boyt yon. When they began to falter they made up their minds to it and went back to eight shillin’ a week same as their grandsons do get.” “Ay,” agreed Robbins bitterly, “little chaps leavin’ school gets eight shillin’ a week—it’s bwoy’s wage, bwoy’s wage.” “An’ very good wage too,” retorted the farmer, now as much nettled as was possible for one of his placid nature. “You ought to take it an’ be thankful, Abel Robbins. Many a man ’ud be proud an’ glad to earn as much an’ have it paid reg’lar. Many a able-bodied man wi’ a family,” he added impressively. “’Tis enough an’ more than enough for you, a lone man wi’ no one dependin’ on ye, so to speak.” “Ay, I am a lone man, I am that,” agreed the shepherd warmly. “An’ why am I a lone man? When I worked for ye first, after your father died, says you, ‘We must have a single man,’ says you. ‘I must have ye on the spot,’ says you, ‘with all them dumb things about the place to see to.’ So I give up walkin’ wi’ the maid I was coortin’ an’ give up the notion o’ gettin’ wed. An’ when you got married yourself your missus sent me to lodge in the village.” “Well, an’ why didn’t ye get tied up then?” returned Joyce, with no less heat. “Why, that’s nigh forty year ago. You have had time, sure, to pick a wife between this an’ then?” Abel stared at him reflectively. “I’d got used to bein’ without one,” he said, dropping his voice. “I was goin’ on thirty, then. Ay, it was too late. I’d given up the thought o’ womankind, an’ ’twouldn’t have seemed nait’ral like. But I could wish now that I did ha’ married an’ had childern to keep me.” “Ye mid ha’ been without ’em,” replied Joyce, once more placid and thoughtful. “Ay, shepherd, ’tis very like you would. There’s nothin’ in my opinion more disappointin’ an’ onsartin than wedlock. There was my mother, a poor ailing thing, an’ Lard, what a family she did have to be sure! The babbies used to be like rabbits—’pon me word they was. But they died most of ’em, an’ only a matter o’ half a-dozen o’ us grew up. Well now, look at my missus—she be a fine, strong, healthy woman, bain’t she? Never had chick nor child, as the sayin’ goes. An’ my first wife, ye mind her, Abel? She was a straight woman an’ a stout un, an’ the only child she had was a poor nesh little thing, that withered away, ye may say, as soon as it was born. Ye mightn’t ha’ had no children, shepherd, an’ if so be ye had wed ye’d have had the wife to keep.” “That’s true,” assented Abel.