"I know nothin' about figures, master; all I know is 'tis cruel hard that when I've a-worked all my days for 'ee, Farmer Joyce, you turn on me i'my ancient years. It be hard, an' I can't say no different."

For the third time that day Mr. Joyce's usually equable temper was disturbed. He now spoke angrily, partly to end the dispute, for the sight of Abel Robbins' haggard, reproachful face was almost more than he could bear, partly because he was vexed at the pertinacity with which the old fellow adhered to his own point of view, partly because his kind heart smote him for the course of action he was about to pursue, though his judgment held it to be just.

"Well, 'tis this way, Robbins," he cried roughly, "take it or leave it, an' please yourself. I've made ye a fair offer, an' more than a fair offer. I can get another man to do all the work for ten shillin' a week-men be plenty an' work be scarce-'tis clear loss of six shillin' a week out o' my own pocket, an' if I'm willin' to put up with it you should be content; I'll stick to my bargain."

"Well, I bain't content, master," cried Robbins, a dull fire coming into his eyes. "I'd sooner leave-I'd sooner give notice-ay, that I would."

Farmer Joyce raised hands and eyes to Heaven.

"I never heard such talk from a reasonable man. If you do leave me, how be you a-goin' to live? Who's a-going to take you on as a new hand if you leave me? It'll be the House, man. There, don't talk so foolish like. Think it over an' give me your answer on Saturday. I'll not hear a word on't till then. It's never my way to be hasty. Take time, shepherd; take time. When you've a-thought it over you'll find it's not such a bad bargain.”

He turned away and strode down the hill, crook and pitchfork on shoulder. Robbins made no effort to detain him,

but stood watching the receding figure in a dazed way till it disappeared at the angle of the lane. Then he walked back slowly to the enclosure where the sheep were still feeding and stood for a moment or two looking at them according to his custom, but without noticing them.

"I be mazed," he said to himself; "I be fair mazed."

Gradually he woke to the consciousness that his limbs were trembling under him, and his head dizzy, and leaving the sheep pen he entered the hut and sat down on the solitary chair which it contained. In one corner, curled up on an old coat that Robbins sometimes put on when the nights were exceptionally cold, lay his dog, which, on his master's entrance, opened its eyes without raising its head and wagged its tail in welcome. The keen yellow eyes remained fixed on Robbins' face, and after a time the tail ceased wagging, and the dog stiffly rose, shook itself, and pattered across the floor to the shepherd's feet. Finding still no return, it laid its head upon Abel's knee, looking up into his face with such a world of dumb questioning anguish that it at length elicited a response. Robbins stretched out his hand, which still shook oddly, and patted the tawny head.

"Ay, Bob, I see thee," he said; "there, down, down!" as the dog, springing up, began to lick his face. "We can't help it, boy; we're to be chucked out, thee and I. You be getting old, too, an' 'tis a sin to be old i' these times. Nobody wants us, Bob. If some folks had their will you an' me 'ud be knocked on the head, Bob; an' I do 'low it 'ud be the best way. I could a'most wish as somebody 'ud come up without my knowing it an' jest settle me. Livin's poor work when folk be wishin' to be rid on ye."

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 ye 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."

"Well, then," cried Abel, thumping the gate too with his lean old hand, "I will starve, farmer. I don't care so much if I do starve; livin's weary work -the sooner I be done with it the better."

LIVING AGE, VOL. III, No. 108.

"Shepherd, shepherd," expostulated Farmer Joyce in real distress and perplexity, "this be fool's talk-this be nothin' but stubbornness. I'll not take such an answer."

"Ye may take it," retorted Robbins, thumping the gate again, "for ye'll not get no other."

"Well, I be. sorry, Abel; I be very sorry-I-I be terrible sorry. You've sarved me faithful, Abel."

"Ay, master, I do 'low I've sarved 'ee too faithful," returned Robbins. He betook himself to his pitchfork again, and all his master's remonstrances failed to extract another word.

Sorely perturbed in mind Joyce withdrew at last, and made his way homewards. Throwing down his hat on the kitchen table he informed his wife of the result of the interview.

"I could a'most wish as we hadn't ha' said nothin' about it to the old chap. He won't last long-an' I might ha' made shift to help him a bit."

"That be real nonsense," returned his better half. ""Twould be a pretty notion for the master to be a-workin' for the man. Let him go if he's set on't-he'll repent it."

She set a dish on the table with somewhat unnecessary energy, and her husband held his peace for a moment or two. By-and-bye, however, he put into words that which was in the minds of both.

"We'll be like to repent it, too. Abel be wonderful handy about the place. 'Tis but his j'ints as is scraggled. He be no Sammy, shepherd bain't; his head's wise enough yet if his body be tewly."

"I do 'low ye didn't take him the right way," said Mrs. Joyce, looking at her husband with severe disapproval. "Men-folk be all alike, they've no notion o' things. I'll lay a shillin' ye took en rough like-told en he weren't good for nothin', an' vexed en so that he were fair dathered. Leave en to

me, I'll talk to en a bit, an' see what I can make of en."

Then she banged another plate upon the table and added somewhat inconsequently, "I've no patience with ennor you neither."

Later in the day she was standing, knitting in hand, watching a brood of very young chickens which had made their appearance at an astonishingly early date. Despite this fact they were hardy, healthy little things, and Mrs. Joyce smiled as she watched them running in and out from under their mother, picking up the meal she threw them with great alertness and enjoyment.

Mrs. Joyce was a tall, large woman with sandy hair, from which the sun now brought out pretty lights. She had the temper which usually accompanies such hair, easily roused and as easily appeased. The mere sight of these yellow, fluffy chickens, the consciousness of the sunshine, and the fragrance, and suggestiveness, had filled her with a kind of hazy content. The wall-flowers yonder under the kitchen windows were already ablow, she observed. The pigs, too, were coming on nicely; the calf, which was bleating not unmusically in one of the outhouses, had had the good sense to be a heifer. Altogether Mrs. Joyce felt that the world was not a bad place and that life was worth living.

She was in this frame of mind when, chancing to raise her eyes, she saw the figure of Shepherd Robbins shambling slowly down the steep "pinch" of road that led to the farm gate. Perhaps it was the sudden contrast between that gaunt form, that haggard, melancholy face, and the surrounding brightness and prosperity that moved her, perhaps because, being a good-hearted woman in the main, she shared her husband's regret at the course events were taking; in any case at sight of him her anger melted away, and a flood of genuine pity swept over her heart.

She went to meet Robbins at the gate and laid her hand kindly on his

arm.

"Why, shepherd," she said, and her pleasant voice assumed an inflection that was almost tender, "tis never true what my husband tells me? You bain't a-thinkin' of leaving we? We couldn't get on without 'ee."

Sometimes an unexpected kind word from a person whom we have distrusted, and perhaps disliked, carries more weight than a similar one from a friend. Poor Robbins had been dogged and surly enough with the master whom he loved, but when the missus, with whom he had hitherto lived, as it were, on the defensive, spoke so gently and looked so kind, he gazed back at her astonished, softened, confounded.

And when she said again: "Why, shepherd, you bain't goin' to desert we?" he suddenly burst into tears.

"No, ma'am," he said brokenly. "I-I-what be I to do?" The tears were running down his face. "I d' 'low I'd be loth to leave master."

"Well, you mustn't think on it," returned Mrs. Joyce decidedly. "We couldn't do without you. See 'tis all a bit o' temper, bain't it? You never truly meant to give notice?"

"I did, missus; I did," sobbed the old man. "It bain't temper neither, it-it be the notion, I think."

"Yes, that's all it be, sure," said Mrs. Joyce, not in the least knowing what he meant, but speaking in soothing tones and patting his arm kindly; "tis but a notion, Abel. Eight shillin' bain't so bad, you know-come. You'll never want so long as you 'arn eight shillin' a week-eight shillin' a week 'll keep you, wunt it?"

"Ay, it'll keep me, missus-it bain't that. But I do 'low it'll be main hard to go up on pay-day wi' 'em all, an' take laiss nor any of 'em-me that has always took the most. They'll all be castin' eyes at me an' talkin' small o'

me. They'll be sayin', 'Shepherd be takin' bwoy's wage. He bain't worth his salt now, shepherd bain't.' It's the notion o' that, missus, as I can't stand-nohow."

"Oh, that's what it be," returned his mistress thoughtfully.

The excitement which rendered Robbins so unusually garrulous had flushed his cheeks and given light to his eyes. The woman's heart was touched as she looked at him.

"Ay, ma'am, an' another thingthe lad as I be to have help me, he'll be a cheeky un very like the ruck o' lads be. He'll think himself as good as me-better mayhap. He'll be gettin' same money as me, ye know. What'll he think o' me at my time o' life? Adam Blanchard and Eddard Boyt they be gettin' same as their grandsons I d' 'low, but there! the boys be their grandsons, an' if they don't treat 'em respectful-like they can give 'em the stick."

Mrs. Joyce was silent for a moment, her brows were knit and her lips compressed; she seemed to be turning over a problem in her mind. Suddenly her face lit up.

"Abel," she said, "I'm o' your mind arter all. I think instead o' your master cuttin' off your wages he ought to raise you. You ought to have some reward for your long years of faithful service. In my opinion your master ought to raise you to sixteen shillin'."

Shepherd Robbins looked as though he scarcely heard aright. "Why, missus!" he exclaimed, and paused overcome.

"Yes; if master raises you, nobody couldn't vex you, an' yet nobody couldn't find aught amiss. The master 'ud tell 'em all 'twas but nat'ral after ye bein' wi' us so long an' so punished wi' rheumatics. It's time he should do something more for 'ee. An' he'd say, he's goin' to raise

so,

you

an' you be goin' to keep a lad."

Robbins still stared, astonishment and delight vying with each other in his face. "That 'ud be a different story!" he ejaculated.

"An' you see, you could pick your own bwoy easy then-he'd be your bwoy; you could choose en for yourself, an' send en away if he didn't behave hisself. Would that do ye?" she asked with modest triumph.

"Do me!-ah, that it would! I did never expect so much. But master won't hear on it, sure!"

"He will, though-I'll see to that. 'Tis but your due, shepherd. I d' 'low you deserve some reward; we bain't onreasonable!"

She turned quickly, and went into the house, leaving Robbins radiant but still half incredulous.

He was forced to believe in his own good fortune, however, when at pay time Farmer Joyce announced the intended promotion of Shepherd Robbins, who, in view of his long service and failing health, was now to receive an increase of wages amounting to four shillings a week.

The shepherd bore himself with becoming modesty under the congratulations of his comrades. One or two of them were disposed to be envious, but for the most part they received the intelligence in an ungrugding spirit.

"They do say that you be goin' to keep a bwoy, shepherd," remarked the ploughman a little later, gazing at him with respectful admiration.

"Very like I be," returned Abel loftily. He was not proud, but thoroughly aware of his own importance.

One of the other men, the father of a family, humbly mentioned that he had a fine well-grown lad at home that would, maybe, suit Mr. Robbins as well as another, and Abel graciously promised to think of it.

He went home thoroughly convinced

that a piece of most unexpected good luck had befallen him, an opinion which was shared by all his neighbors. As for

Mr. and Mrs. Joyce they kept their own counsel.

M. E. Francis.

It was a good feature of last January's Military Service Act, as of this month's, that unlike the Continental conscription laws it recognized and provided a loophole for the conscientious objector. The intention was wise, but it has been foolishly carried out. Two main problems had to be solved-how to ascertain the genuine conscientious objector, and how to treat him when ascertained. The Government turned the first over to the local tribunals, who have made a ludicrous mess of it, as of most else that they have touched. Their mistakes have in many, but not all, cases been rectified by the appeal tribunals. The second problem has never received any official solution at all. It has been left to be solved at discretion, jointly or severally, by benches of magistrates, military officers, prison governors, N.C.O.s, turnkeys, private soldiers -with little guidance for any of them, except the natural man's instinct to make it hot for shirkers. As a result the treatment of unexempted conscientious objectors has, with wide and illogical variations, been brutal and stupid.

A wise policy must begin, we believe, by distinguishing conscientious objectors whose objection is religious from those whose objection is political. People whose reluctance to fight must be honestly referred to beliefs entertained by them regarding immortal souls and a transcendental God form a class apart. The less the State interferes with such beliefs, the better; politics and religion are not in pari materia. A Government must reserve its rights to suppress religious observ

ances which it deems anti-social, as the Indian Government suppresses suttee; but it should exercise them as sparingly as possible. History shows that statesmen cannot too constantly bear in mind Gamaliel's warning against being "found fighting against God."

The chief thing to do with the religious objectors is to ascertain very carefully who they are, and then exempt them. Since earthly penalties do not touch the mainsprings of religion, they will not be mended or deterred by punishments; and the only real use of any disabilities inflicted on them must be as a test of their genuineness. There is little need even for this, for the test of the bona-fide holder of religious tenets must in general be settled and confirmed membership of a religious society holding those tenets; and the comparatively few cases falling outside this or on the border-line could pretty easily be dealt with by any person or body of ordinary judicial capacity. How lacking the appeal tribunals are in capacity of the kind is shown by their frequent refusals to exempt even the regular members of such well-known sects as the Christadelphians and the Society of Friends-refusals which in some localities have not been reversed on appeal.

The conscience, whose objection rests not on supernatural but on political grounds, seems to us in a very different case. People who object to fight because they think that wars in general (or this war in particular) are political unwisdom, bring themselves strictly within the State's purview. They present a close analogy to those who refuse