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“Well shepherd?” he said interrogatively.

Robbins had been turning over the litter within the pens, and continued his occupation for a moment or two, the sun gleaming on his white hair and the golden straw. Then he drove the pitchfork slowly into the ground and turned round, holding himself erect; his old dog came shambling forward and stood by his side.

“Well, farmer,” said Abel grimly, “I be goin’.”

His master stood gazing at him, shading his eyes with his hand. “When be ye goin’, shepherd?” he asked still mildly.

“This day week,” returned the shepherd briefly.

“How be goin’ to live, Abel?”

Robbins made no reply. Farmer Joyce thumped the gate with his massive brown fist.

“Ye’ll starve, Abel, that’s what ye’ll do.”

“Well, then,” cried Abel, thumping the gate too with his lean old hand, “I will starve, farmer. I don’t care so much if I do starve; livin’s weary work—the sooner I be done with it the better.”

“Shepherd, shepherd,” expostulated Farmer Joyce in real distress and perplexity, “this be fool’s talk—this be nothin’ but stubbornness. I’ll not take such an answer.”