Bob slid on to the floor again and laid his old white muzzle on the worn corduroy knee; and Abel continued to stroke his head, but without speaking, until at last the sympathetic eyes closed, and the dog dozed, still pressing close to him. Then Abel suffered his hand to drop and sat as before, staring blankly at the wall in front of him.
Saturday came, one of those mild, south country days when winter seems to give place to spring; the sky was blue, thrushes were singing; the air was soft and fragrant, almost as with the spicy smell of mounting sap and growing herbage. Farmer Joyce toiled up the hill again with his smock frock thrown open, and his hat on the back of his head. His face, too, was full of a mild radiance as he paused within the gate of the enclosure.
“Well shepherd?” he said interrogatively.
Robbins had been turning over the litter within the pens, and continued his occupation for a moment or two, the sun gleaming on his white hair and the golden straw. Then he drove the pitchfork slowly into the ground and turned round, holding himself erect; his old dog came shambling forward and stood by his side.
“Well, farmer,” said Abel grimly, “I be goin’.”
His master stood gazing at him, shading his eyes with his hand. “When be ye goin’, shepherd?” he asked still mildly.
“This day week,” returned the shepherd briefly.
“How be goin’ to live, Abel?”
Robbins made no reply. Farmer Joyce thumped the gate with his massive brown fist.
“Ye’ll starve, Abel, that’s what ye’ll do.”