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“I did, missus; I did,” sobbed the old man. “It bain’t temper neither, it—it be the notion, I think.”

“Yes, that’s all it be, sure,” said Mrs. Joyce, not in the least knowing what he meant, but speaking in soothing tones and patting his arm kindly; “’tis but a notion, Abel. Eight shillin’ bain’t so bad, you know—come. You’ll never want so long as you ’arn eight shillin’ a week—eight shillin’ a week ’ll keep you, wunt it?”

“Ay, it’ll keep me, missus—it bain’t that. But I do ’low it’ll be main hard to go up on pay-day wi’ ’em all, an’ take laiss nor any of ’em—me that has always took the most. They’ll all be castin’ eyes at me an’ talkin’ small o’ me. They’ll be sayin’, ‘Shepherd be takin’ bwoy’s wage. He bain’t worth his salt now, shepherd bain’t.’ It’s the notion o’ that, missus, as I can’t stand—nohow.”

“Oh, that’s what it be,” returned his mistress thoughtfully.

The excitement which rendered Robbins so unusually garrulous had flushed his cheeks and given light to his eyes. The woman’s heart was touched as she looked at him.