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“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.

“I know nothin’ about figures, master; all I know is ’tis cruel hard that when I’ve a-worked all my days for ’ee, Farmer Joyce, you turn on me i’ my ancient years. It be hard, an’ I can’t say no different.”

For the third time that day Mr. Joyce’s usually equable temper was disturbed. He now spoke angrily, partly to end the dispute, for the sight of Abel Robbins’ haggard, reproachful face was almost more than he could bear, partly because he was vexed at the pertinacity with which the old fellow adhered to his own point of view, partly because his kind heart smote him for the course of action he was about to pursue, though his judgment held it to be just.