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if Fancy’s lips had been real cherries probably Dick’s would have appeared deeply stained. The landlord was standing in the yard.

      “Heu-heu! hay-hay, Master Dewy! Ho-ho!” he laughed, letting the laugh slip out gently and by degrees that it might make little noise in its exit, and smiting Dick under the fifth rib at the same time. “This will never do, upon my life, Master Dewy! calling for tay for a feymel passenger, and then going in and sitting down and having some too, and biding such a fine long time!”

      “But surely you know?” said Dick, with great apparent surprise. “Yes, yes! Ha-ha!” smiting the landlord under the ribs in return.

      “Why, what? Yes, yes; ha-ha!”

      “You know, of course!”

      “Yes, of course! But — that is — I don’t.”

      “Why about — between that young lady and me?” nodding to the window of the room that Fancy occupied.

      “No; not I!” said the innkeeper, bringing his eyes into circles.

      “And you don’t!”

      “Not a word, I’ll take my oath!”

      “But you laughed when I laughed.”

      “Ay, that was me sympathy; so did you when I laughed!”

      “Really, you don’t know? Goodness — not knowing that!”

      “I’ll take my oath I don’t!”

      “O yes,” said Dick, with frigid rhetoric of pitying astonishment, “we’re engaged to be married, you see, and I naturally look after her.”

      “Of course, of course! I didn’t know that, and I hope ye’ll excuse any little freedom of mine, Mr. Dewy. But it is a very odd thing; I was talking to your father very intimate about family matters only last Friday in the world, and who should come in but Keeper Day, and we all then fell a-talking o’ family matters; but neither one o’ them said a mortal word about it; knowen me too so many years, and I at your father’s own wedding. ‘Tisn’t what I should have expected from an old neighbour!”

      “Well, to say the truth, we hadn’t told father of the engagement at that time; in fact, ‘twasn’t settled.”

      “Ah! the business was done Sunday. Yes, yes, Sunday’s the courting day. Heu-heu!”

      “No, ‘twasn’t done Sunday in particular.”

      “After school-hours this week? Well, a very good time, a very proper good time.”

      “O no, ‘twasn’t done then.”

      “Coming along the road today then, I suppose?”

      “Not at all; I wouldn’t think of getting engaged in a dog-cart.”

      “Dammy — might as well have said at once, the when be blowed! Anyhow, ’tis a fine day, and I hope next time you’ll come as one.”

      Fancy was duly brought out and assisted into the vehicle, and the newly affianced youth and maiden passed up the steep hill to the Ridgeway, and vanished in the direction of Mellstock.

      Chapter III

      A Confession

       Table of Contents

      It was a morning of the latter summer-time; a morning of lingering dews, when the grass is never dry in the shade. Fuchsias and dahlias were laden till eleven o’clock with small drops and dashes of water, changing the colour of their sparkle at every movement of the air; and elsewhere hanging on twigs like small silver fruit. The threads of garden spiders appeared thick and polished. In the dry and sunny places, dozens of long-legged crane-flies whizzed off the grass at every step the passer took.

      Fancy Day and her friend Susan Dewy the tranter’s daughter, were in such a spot as this, pulling down a bough laden with early apples. Three months had elapsed since Dick and Fancy had journeyed together from Budmouth, and the course of their love had run on vigorously during the whole time. There had been just enough difficulty attending its development, and just enough finesse required in keeping it private, to lend the passion an ever-increasing freshness on Fancy’s part, whilst, whether from these accessories or not, Dick’s heart had been at all times as fond as could be desired. But there was a cloud on Fancy’s horizon now.

      “She is so well off — better than any of us,” Susan Dewy was saying. “Her father farms five hundred acres, and she might marry a doctor or curate or anything of that kind if she contrived a little.”

      “I don’t think Dick ought to have gone to that gipsy-party at all when he knew I couldn’t go,” replied Fancy uneasily.

      “He didn’t know that you would not be there till it was too late to refuse the invitation,” said Susan.

      “And what was she like? Tell me.”

      “Well, she was rather pretty, I must own.”

      “Tell straight on about her, can’t you! Come, do, Susan. How many times did you say he danced with her?”

      “Once.”

      “Twice, I think you said?”

      “Indeed I’m sure I didn’t.”

      “Well, and he wanted to again, I expect.”

      “No; I don’t think he did. She wanted to dance with him again bad enough, I know. Everybody does with Dick, because he’s so handsome and such a clever courter.”

      “O, I wish! — How did you say she wore her hair?”

      “In long curls — and her hair is light, and it curls without being put in paper: that’s how it is she’s so attractive.”

      “She’s trying to get him away! yes, yes, she is! And through keeping this miserable school I mustn’t wear my hair in curls! But I will; I don’t care if I leave the school and go home, I will wear my curls! Look, Susan, do! is her hair as soft and long as this?” Fancy pulled from its coil under her hat a twine of her own hair, and stretched it down her shoulder to show its length, looking at Susan to catch her opinion from her eyes.

      “It is about the same length as that, I think,” said Miss Dewy.

      Fancy paused hopelessly. “I wish mine was lighter, like hers!” she continued mournfully. “But hers isn’t so soft, is it? Tell me, now.”

      “I don’t know.”

      Fancy abstractedly extended her vision to survey a yellow butterfly and a red-and-black butterfly that were flitting along in company, and then became aware that Dick was advancing up the garden.

      “Susan, here’s Dick coming; I suppose that’s because we’ve been talking about him.”

      “Well, then, I shall go indoors now — you won’t want me;” and Susan turned practically and walked off.

      Enter the single-minded Dick, whose only fault at the gipsying, or picnic, had been that of loving Fancy too exclusively, and depriving himself of the innocent pleasure the gathering might have afforded him, by sighing regretfully at her absence — who had danced with the rival in sheer despair of ever being able to get through that stale, flat, and unprofitable afternoon in any other way; but this she would not believe.

      Fancy had settled her plan of emotion. To reproach Dick? O no, no. “I am in great trouble,” said she, taking what was intended to be a hopelessly melancholy survey of a few small apples lying under the tree; yet a critical ear might have noticed in her voice a tentative tone as to the effect of the words upon Dick when she uttered them.

      “What are you in trouble about? Tell me of it,” said Dick earnestly. “Darling, I will share it with ‘ee and help ‘ee.”

      “No, no: you can’t! Nobody can!”

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