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An old man, much older, apparently, than his master, the outlines of his bent shoulders sharply defined under the soiled linen jacket; his ragged hair and whiskers white, his very face grey and rugged, ploughed into deep furrows by time and hardship; the eyes looking straight before them with a dull non-expectant gaze; the horny old hand, which rested on the gate, gnarled and knotted, and extraordinarily thin.

“Good-day to you, shepherd. How’s the rheumatics?”

“Good-day, farmer; good-day. Rheumatics is bad, thank ye.”

“Ah,” said Joyce, “I fear ye’re falterin’, shepherd, I do, truly.”

Shepherd Robbins made no response; he stood aside to let his master pass into the enclosure. Then the two paced together from pen to pen, the farmer’s usually dreamy eye alert enough now, and quick to take note of anything amiss. Once or twice he found fault, and once or twice he gave directions; Robbins receiving commands and admonitions alike in stolid silence. With stiff and feeble movements he helped the farmer to set before the ewes the provender which he had brought, and stood watching them with him while they precipitated themselves upon it.