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“What a din they do make—a body can scarce hear his own voice,” cried Joyce, turning away at last.

“’Tis their natur’ like, master,” replied the shepherd, hobbling after him. “There’s little need of a-hearin’ one’s own voice with ewes and lambs about. It do take a man all his time to see to ’em.”

“Ah,” agreed the farmer, stopping short suddenly and looking at him, “it do, shepherd; it do. ’Tis more nor many a man can do. ’Tis more nor you can do at your time of life, shepherd, I d’ ’low.”

“I do do it,” returned Robbins stolidly.

“Ah,” pursued the farmer, following out his own train of thought, as though he had not heard him, “we be near lambin’ time now, and ’tis puzzlin’ to know how ye’re agoin’ to manage it. It do puzzle me, I know. Ye’re falterin’, man, I tell ’ee.”

Robbins gazed vacantly at his master, rubbing his gnarled hands together slowly.

“My missus was a-sayin’ it to me only last night,” pursued the other. “She do think—”

But here some gleam of intelligence seemed to filter into Robbins’ mind.