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“Ay,” agreed Robbins bitterly, “little chaps leavin’ school gets eight shillin’ a week—it’s bwoy’s wage, bwoy’s wage.”

“An’ very good wage too,” retorted the farmer, now as much nettled as was possible for one of his placid nature. “You ought to take it an’ be thankful, Abel Robbins. Many a man ’ud be proud an’ glad to earn as much an’ have it paid reg’lar. Many a able-bodied man wi’ a family,” he added impressively. “’Tis enough an’ more than enough for you, a lone man wi’ no one dependin’ on ye, so to speak.”

“Ay, I am a lone man, I am that,” agreed the shepherd warmly. “An’ why am I a lone man? When I worked for ye first, after your father died, says you, ‘We must have a single man,’ says you. ‘I must have ye on the spot,’ says you, ‘with all them dumb things about the place to see to.’ So I give up walkin’ wi’ the maid I was coortin’ an’ give up the notion o’ gettin’ wed. An’ when you got married yourself your missus sent me to lodge in the village.”

“Well, an’ why didn’t ye get tied up then?” returned Joyce, with no less heat. “Why, that’s nigh forty year ago. You have had time, sure, to pick a wife between this an’ then?”