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there-of’ may be’.”

      Want of breath prevented a continuance of the song; and the breakdown attracted the attention of a firm-standing man of middle age, who kept each corner of his crescent-shaped mouth rigorously drawn back into his cheek, as if to do away with any suspicion of mirthfulness which might erroneously have attached to him.

      “A fair stave, Grandfer Cantle; but I am afeard ’tis too much for the mouldy weasand of such a old man as you,” he said to the wrinkled reveller. “Dostn’t wish th’ wast three sixes again, Grandfer, as you was when you first learnt to sing it?”

      “Hey?” said Grandfer Cantle, stopping in his dance.

      “Dostn’t wish wast young again, I say? There’s a hole in thy poor bellows nowadays seemingly.”

      “But there’s good art in me? If I couldn’t make a little wind go a long ways I should seem no younger than the most aged man, should I, Timothy?”

      “And how about the new-married folks down there at the Quiet Woman Inn?” the other inquired, pointing towards a dim light in the direction of the distant highway, but considerably apart from where the reddleman was at that moment resting. “What’s the rights of the matter about ’em? You ought to know, being an understanding man.”

      “But a little rakish, hey? I own to it. Master Cantle is that, or he’s nothing. Yet ’tis a gay fault, neighbour Fairway, that age will cure.”

      “I heard that they were coming home tonight. By this time they must have come. What besides?”

      “The next thing is for us to go and wish ’em joy, I suppose?”

      “Well, no.”

      “No? Now, I thought we must. I must, or ’twould be very unlike me—the first in every spree that’s going!

      “Do thou’ put on’ a fri’-ar’s coat’,

      And I’ll’ put on’ a-no’-ther,

      And we’ will to’ Queen Ele’anor go’,

      Like Fri’ar and’ his bro’ther.

      “I met Mis’ess Yeobright, the young bride’s aunt, last night, and she told me that her son Clym was coming home a’ Christmas. Wonderful clever, ’a believe—ah, I should like to have all that’s under that young man’s hair. Well, then, I spoke to her in my well-known merry way, and she said, ‘O that what’s shaped so venerable should talk like a fool!’—that’s what she said to me. I don’t care for her, be jowned if I do, and so I told her. ‘Be jowned if I care for ’ee,’ I said. I had her there—hey?”

      “I rather think she had you,” said Fairway.

      “No,” said Grandfer Cantle, his countenance slightly flagging. “’Tisn’t so bad as that with me?”

      “Seemingly ’tis, however, is it because of the wedding that Clym is coming home a’ Christmas—to make a new arrangement because his mother is now left in the house alone?”

      “Yes, yes—that’s it. But, Timothy, hearken to me,” said the Grandfer earnestly. “Though known as such a joker, I be an understanding man if you catch me serious, and I am serious now. I can tell ’ee lots about the married couple. Yes, this morning at six o’clock they went up the country to do the job, and neither vell nor mark have been seen of ’em since, though I reckon that this afternoon has brought ’em home again man and woman—wife, that is. Isn’t it spoke like a man, Timothy, and wasn’t Mis’ess Yeobright wrong about me?”

      “Yes, it will do. I didn’t know the two had walked together since last fall, when her aunt forbad the banns. How long has this new set-to been in mangling then? Do you know, Humphrey?”

      “Yes, how long?” said Grandfer Cantle smartly, likewise turning to Humphrey. “I ask that question.”

      “Ever since her aunt altered her mind, and said she might have the man after all,” replied Humphrey, without removing his eyes from the fire. He was a somewhat solemn young fellow, and carried the hook and leather gloves of a furze-cutter, his legs, by reason of that occupation, being sheathed in bulging leggings as stiff as the Philistine’s greaves of brass. “That’s why they went away to be married, I count. You see, after kicking up such a nunny-watch and forbidding the banns ’twould have made Mis’ess Yeobright seem foolish-like to have a banging wedding in the same parish all as if she’d never gainsaid it.”

      “Exactly—seem foolish-like; and that’s very bad for the poor things that be so, though I only guess as much, to be sure,” said Grandfer Cantle, still strenuously preserving a sensible bearing and mien.

      “Ah, well, I was at church that day,” said Fairway, “which was a very curious thing to happen.”

      “If ’twasn’t my name’s Simple,” said the Grandfer emphatically. “I ha’n’t been there to-year; and now the winter is a-coming on I won’t say I shall.”

      “I ha’n’t been these three years,” said Humphrey; “for I’m so dead sleepy of a Sunday; and ’tis so terrible far to get there; and when you do get there ’tis such a mortal poor chance that you’ll be chose for up above, when so many bain’t, that I bide at home and don’t go at all.”

      “I not only happened to be there,” said Fairway, with a fresh collection of emphasis, “but I was sitting in the same pew as Mis’ess Yeobright. And though you may not see it as such, it fairly made my blood run cold to hear her. Yes, it is a curious thing; but it made my blood run cold, for I was close at her elbow.” The speaker looked round upon the bystanders, now drawing closer to hear him, with his lips gathered tighter than ever in the rigorousness of his descriptive moderation.

      “’Tis a serious job to have things happen to ’ee there,” said a woman behind.

      “‘Ye are to declare it,’ was the parson’s words,” Fairway continued. “And then up stood a woman at my side—a-touching of me. ‘Well, be damned if there isn’t Mis’ess Yeobright a-standing up,’ I said to myself. Yes, neighbours, though I was in the temple of prayer that’s what I said. ’Tis against my conscience to curse and swear in company, and I hope any woman here will overlook it. Still what I did say I did say, and ’twould be a lie if I didn’t own it.”

      “So ’twould, neighbour Fairway.”

      “‘Be damned if there isn’t Mis’ess Yeobright a-standing up,’ I said,” the narrator repeated, giving out the bad word with the same passionless severity of face as before, which proved how entirely necessity and not gusto had to do with the iteration. “And the next thing I heard was, ‘I forbid the banns,’ from her. ‘I’ll speak to you after the service,’ said the parson, in quite a homely way—yes, turning all at once into a common man no holier than you or I. Ah, her face was pale! Maybe you can call to mind that monument in Weatherbury church—the cross-legged soldier that have had his arm knocked away by the schoolchildren? Well, he would about have matched that woman’s face, when she said, ‘I forbid the banns.’”

      The audience cleared their throats and tossed a few stalks into the fire, not because these deeds were urgent, but to give themselves time to weigh the moral of the story.

      “I’m sure when I heard they’d been forbid I felt as glad as if anybody had gied me sixpence,” said an earnest voice—that of Olly Dowden, a woman who lived by making heath brooms, or besoms. Her nature was to be civil to enemies as well as to friends, and grateful to all the world for letting her remain alive.

      “And now the maid have married him just the same,” said Humphrey.

      “After that Mis’ess Yeobright came round and was quite agreeable,” Fairway resumed, with an unheeding air, to show that his words were no appendage to Humphrey’s, but the result of independent reflection.

      “Supposing they were ashamed, I don’t see why they shouldn’t have done it here-right,” said a wide-spread

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