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Robbins nodded. He had ceased to rub his hands, but stood with the palms still tightly pressed together.

“Well, ye see, we didn’t a-grudge it ye. Ye was wuth it to us, shepherd—while ye was strong an’ hearty ye was wuth it to us,” he repeated handsomely. “But now, ye bain’t fit for much, and that’s the trewth; ’tis no fault o’ yourn, but ye bain’t. We lost a terrible lot o’ lambs last year. Ye be too stiff in your joints to get about quick, an’ ye can’t get through your work. It comes hard on we, ye see, to be payin’ out good money an’ not gettin’ the money value—an’ it comes hard on you too, now ye be a-gettin’ into years, shepherd, to be strivin’ an’ contrivin’ like, an’ bibberin’ in the frostiss an’ snow stuff, an standin’ out o’ nights when the rheumatics is bad. ’Tis cruel hard for ye, shepherd.”

“Ay, sure,” agreed Robbins more readily than usual. He did not in the least see the drift of the farmer’s argument, but felt that the last proposition was indubitably true.

“So ye see ’tis this way: I lose four shillin’ a week by hirin’ a chap to help ’ee, and you lose four shillin’ a week. I’ll pay him eight shillin’, an’ I’ll pay you eight shillin’, an’ ye’ll divide the work between ye. That’s it, do ye see?” said Farmer Joyce confidentially. “Divide the work an’ divide the wage.”