“An’ there’s another thing,” pursued the farmer, following up his advantage, “if you’d ha’ married when ye was a young un, your sons would be gettin’ into years pretty well by now themselves. They’d have wives an’ families o’ their own. Lard bless you! that they would, an’ where ’ud you be among ’em all?” This flight of imagination was too much for Robbins, who did not attempt to follow it. He came back instead to the point at issue. “Eight shillin’ a week,” he repeated. “’Tis what your father give me when I first worked for en. Ay, I worked for en for that an’ kept myself. You mind the time, master; you were a young un too yourself—there is but a two year atween us, but you’ve wore well, fanner; a deal better nor I. ’Tis the good food, I daresay—ay, ay, it makes a lot of difference. Good keep makes fat sheep, as the sayin’ goes. A man laisses twice as long if his victuals is nourishin’.” “Come, come, I do ’low you’re tough though,” laughed his master good-naturedly. “Ye’ll see me down, maybe. You come of a long-lived race, shepherd.” “Ay, eight shillin’ a week yer father give me,” repeated Robbins, reverting to his original statement, and once more rubbing his hands and blinking his dim eyes as though in the effort to gaze back on that distant past. “I mind ’twas thought wonderful high pay i’ them days; folks was gettin’ six shillin’ an’ five, but yer father said I was wuth it to en; an’ when he died an’ I went to live yonder with you ye give me eight shillin’ a week an’ my keep—ay, that was summat, I was hearty enough then. Ye give me that for ten year, an’ then ye got married an’ I must shift to the village, an’ then ye give me ten shillin’ a week. And when I were fifty year of age I up an’ I says to you, ‘Master,’ says I, ‘I’ve a-sarved ye twenty-five year now an’ ye must raise me,’ says I, d’ye mind? So ye rose me two shillin’, didn’t ye? Well, an’ I’ve had twelve shillin’ a week ever since,” he summed up, and his eyes, which had been travelling slowly back over the years, reverted altogether to the present and fixed themselves reproachfully on his master’s face. “An’ now I be to have bwoy’s pay again, be I?” he queried with an almost childish quiver and droop of the under lip. “Well, Abel, ’tis onfortunate—terrible onfortunate, ’tis truely. I’m fair puzzled, I am,” returned the farmer, much moved himself. “Look at it whichever way you will it don’t seem fair, but there’s a deal o’ difference between the look o’ things an’ the real natur’ of em’, shepherd. Look at figures now, an’ prices. Lard, when ye count by pence ye seem to have such a lot you’re fair puzzled wi’ addin’ ’em up—a body ’ud need to have twenty fingers instead of a cluster o’ five. But put ’em into shillin’s an’ where are ye? An’ put ’em into pounds, ah—” here the farmer drew in his breath with a sucking sound that implied volumes. “An’ yet it be all the same money, Abel.” The shepherd, looking at him still reproachfully, shook his head.