Farmer Joyce had a mind above petty cares; the small home worries and anxieties he left, as he frequently announced, his missus to see to; for himself he kept his soul untroubled, taking good and evil fortune alike philosophically. Yet to-day his face wore a puzzled, not to say perturbed, expression, and, as he neared the top of the hill, he imperceptibly slackened his long, swinging strides.
At the turn of the road, through the black irregular line of wintry hedgerow, came glimpses of yellow, standing out vividly against the sombre background of dull green and grey; these were the hurdles carefully padded with straw which penned in the lambing ewes. From the spot where Farmer Joyce stood, pausing a moment hesitatingly before continuing the ascent, a small tarred shepherd’s hut reared itself between him and the sky, and presently the figure of a man appeared slowly moving round it.
“There he be,” murmured the farmer to himself, and went on more rapidly.
The figure advanced to meet him, and was standing by the small wicket gate leading to the field by the time the other reached it.
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.
“What a din they do make—a body can scarce hear his own voice,” cried Joyce, turning away at last.