Among the few features of agricultural England which retain anappearance but little modified by the lapse of centuries, may bereckoned the high, grassy and furzy downs, coombs, or ewe-leases, asthey are indifferently called, that fill a large area of certaincounties in the south and south-west. If any mark of humanoccupation is met with hereon, it usually takes the form of thesolitary cottage of some shepherd.

　　Fifty years ago such a lonely cottage stood on such a down, and maypossibly be standing there now. In spite of its loneliness,however, the spot, by actual measurement, was not more than fivemiles from a county-town. Yet that affected it little. Five milesof irregular upland, during the long inimical seasons, with theirsleets, snows, rains, and mists, afford withdrawing space enough toisolate a Timon or a Nebuchadnezzar; much less, in fair weather, toplease that less repellent tribe, the poets, philosophers, artists,and others who 'conceive and meditate of pleasant things.'

　　Some old earthen camp or barrow, some clump of trees, at least somestarved fragment of ancient hedge is usually taken advantage of inthe erection of these forlorn dwellings. But, in the present case,such a kind of shelter had been disregarded. Higher Crowstairs, asthe house was called, stood quite detached and undefended. The onlyreason for its precise situation seemed to be the crossing of twofootpaths at right angles hard by, which may have crossed there andthus for a good five hundred years. Hence the house was exposed tothe elements on all sides. But, though the wind up here blewunmistakably when it did blow, and the rain hit hard whenever itfell, the various weathers of the winter season were not quite soformidable on the coomb as they were imagined to be by dwellers onlow ground. The raw rimes were not so pernicious as in the hollows,and the frosts were scarcely so severe. When the shepherd and hisfamily who tenanted the house were pitied for their sufferings fromthe exposure, they said that upon the whole they were lessinconvenienced by 'wuzzes and flames' (hoarses and phlegms) thanwhen they had lived by the stream of a snug neighbouring valley.

　　The night of March 28, 182-, was precisely one of the nights thatwere wont to call forth these expressions of commiseration. Thelevel rainstorm smote walls, slopes, and hedges like the clothyardshafts of Senlac and Crecy. Such sheep and outdoor animals as hadno shelter stood with their buttocks to the winds; while the tailsof little birds trying to roost on some scraggy thorn were blowninside-out like umbrellas. The gable-end of the cottage was stainedwith wet, and the eavesdroppings flapped against the wall. Yetnever was commiseration for the shepherd more misplaced. For thatcheerful rustic was entertaining a large party in glorification ofthe christening of his second girl.

　　The guests had arrived before the rain began to fall, and they wereall now assembled in the chief or living room of the dwelling. Aglance into the apartment at eight o'clock on this eventful eveningwould have resulted in the opinion that it was as cosy andcomfortable a nook as could be wished for in boisterous weather.

　　The calling of its inhabitant was proclaimed by a number of highly-polished sheep-crooks without stems that were hung ornamentally overthe fireplace, the curl of each shining crook varying from theantiquated type engraved in the patriarchal pictures of old familyBibles to the most approved fashion of the last local sheep-fair.

　　The room was lighted by half-a-dozen candles, having wicks only atrifle smaller than the grease which enveloped them, in candlesticksthat were never used but at high-days, holy-days, and family feasts.

　　The lights were scattered about the room, two of them standing onthe chimney-piece. This position of candles was in itselfsignificant. Candles on the chimney-piece always meant a party.

　　On the hearth, in front of a back-brand to give substance, blazed afire of thorns, that crackled 'like the laughter of the fool.'

　　Nineteen persons were gathered here. Of these, five women, wearinggowns of various bright hues, sat in chairs along the wall; girlsshy and not shy filled the window-bench; four men, including CharleyJake the hedge-carpenter, Elijah New the parish-clerk, and JohnPitcher, a neighbouring dairyman, the shepherd's father-in-law,lolled in the settle; a young man and maid, who were blushing overtentative pourparlers on a life-companionship, sat beneath thecorner-cupboard; and an elderly engaged man of fifty or upward movedrestlessly about from spots where his betrothed was not to the spotwhere she was. Enjoyment was pretty general, and so much the moreprevailed in being unhampered by conventional restrictions.

　　Absolute confidence in each other's good opinion begat perfect ease,while the finishing stroke of manner, amounting to a truly princelyserenity, was lent to the majority by the absence of any expressionor trait denoting that they wished to get on in the world, enlargetheir minds, or do any eclipsing thing whatever--which nowadays sogenerally nips the bloom and bonhomie of all except the two extremesof the social scale.

　　Shepherd Fennel had married well, his wife being a dairyman'sdaughter from a vale at a distance, who brought fifty guineas in herpocket--and kept them there, till they should be required forministering to the needs of a coming family. This frugal woman hadbeen somewhat exercised as to the character that should be given tothe gathering. A sit-still party had its advantages; but anundisturbed position of ease in chairs and settles was apt to leadon the men to such an unconscionable deal of toping that they wouldsometimes fairly drink the house dry. A dancing-party was thealternative; but this, while avoiding the foregoing objection on thescore of good drink, had a counterbalancing disadvantage in thematter of good victuals, the ravenous appetites engendered by theexercise causing immense havoc in the buttery. Shepherdess Fennelfell back upon the intermediate plan of mingling short dances withshort periods of talk and singing, so as to hinder any ungovernablerage in either. But this scheme was entirely confined to her owngentle mind: the shepherd himself was in the mood to exhibit themost reckless phases of hospitality.

　　The fiddler was a boy of those parts, about twelve years of age, whohad a wonderful dexterity in jigs and reels, though his fingers wereso small and short as to necessitate a constant shifting for thehigh notes, from which he scrambled back to the first position withsounds not of unmixed purity of tone. At seven the shrill tweedle-dee of this youngster had begun, accompanied by a booming ground-bass from Elijah New, the parish-clerk, who had thoughtfully broughtwith him his favourite musical instrument, the serpent. Dancing wasinstantaneous, Mrs. Fennel privately enjoining the players on noaccount to let the dance exceed the length of a quarter of an hour.

　　But Elijah and the boy, in the excitement of their position, quiteforgot the injunction. Moreover, Oliver Giles, a man of seventeen,one of the dancers, who was enamoured of his partner, a fair girl ofthirty-three rolling years, had recklessly handed a new crown-pieceto the musicians, as a bribe to keep going as long as they hadmuscle and wind. Mrs. Fennel, seeing the steam begin to generate onthe countenances of her guests, crossed over and touched thefiddler's elbow and put her hand on the serpent's mouth. But theytook no notice, and fearing she might lose her character of genialhostess if she were to interfere too markedly, she retired and satdown helpless. And so the dance whizzed on with cumulative fury,the performers moving in their planet-like courses, direct andretrograde, from apogee to perigee, till the hand of the well-kickedclock at the bottom of the room had travelled over the circumferenceof an hour.

　　While these cheerful events were in course of enactment withinFennel's pastoral dwelling, an incident having considerable bearingon the party had occurred in the gloomy night without. Mrs.

　　Fennel's concern about the growing fierceness of the dancecorresponded in point of time with the ascent of a human figure tothe solitary hill of Higher Crowstairs from the direction of thedistant town. This personage strode on through the rain without apause, following the little-worn path which, further on in itscourse, skirted the shepherd's cottage.

　　It was nearly the time of full moon, and on this account, though thesky was lined with a uniform sheet of dripping cloud, ordinaryobjects out of doors were readily visible. The sad wan lightrevealed the lonely pedestrian to be a man of supple frame; his gaitsuggested that he had somewhat passed the period of perfect andinstinctive agility, though not so far as to be otherwise than rapidof motion when occasion required. At a rough guess, he might havebeen about forty years of age. He appeared tall, but a recruitingsergeant, or other person accustomed to the judging of men's heightsby the eye, would have discerned that this was chiefly owing to hisgauntness, and that he was not more than five-feet-eight or nine.

　　Notwithstanding the regularity of his tread, there was caution init, as in that of one who mentally feels his way; and despite thefact that it was not a black coat nor a dark garment of any sortthat he wore, there was something about him which suggested that henaturally belonged to the black-coated tribes of men. His clotheswere of fustian, and his boots hobnailed, yet in his progress heshowed not the mud-accustomed bearing of hobnailed and fustianedpeasantry.

　　By the time that he had arrived abreast of the shepherd's premisesthe rain came down, or rather came along, with yet more determinedviolence. The outskirts of the little settlement partially brokethe force of wind and rain, and this induced him to stand still.

　　The most salient of the shepherd's domestic erections was an emptysty at the forward corner of his hedgeless garden, for in theselatitudes the principle of masking the homelier features of yourestablishment by a conventional frontage was unknown. Thetraveller's eye was attracted to this small building by the pallidshine of the wet slates that covered it. He turned aside, and,finding it empty, stood under the pent-roof for shelter.

　　While he stood, the boom of the serpent within the adjacent house,and the lesser strains of the fiddler, reached the spot as anaccompaniment to the surging hiss of the flying rain on the sod, itslouder beating on the cabbage-leaves of the garden, on the eight orten beehives just discernible by the path, and its dripping from theeaves into a row of buckets and pans that had been placed under thewalls of the cottage. For at Higher Crowstairs, as at all suchelevated domiciles, the grand difficulty of housekeeping was aninsufficiency of water; and a casual rainfall was utilized byturning out, as catchers, every utensil that the house contained.

　　Some queer stories might be told of the contrivances for economy insuds and dish-waters that are absolutely necessitated in uplandhabitations during the droughts of summer. But at this season therewere no such exigencies; a mere acceptance of what the skiesbestowed was sufficient for an abundant store.

　　At last the notes of the serpent ceased and the house was silent.

　　This cessation of activity aroused the solitary pedestrian from thereverie into which he had lapsed, and, emerging from the shed, withan apparently new intention, he walked up the path to the house-door. Arrived here, his first act was to kneel down on a largestone beside the row of vessels, and to drink a copious draught fromone of them. Having quenched his thirst he rose and lifted his handto knock, but paused with his eye upon the panel. Since the darksurface of the wood revealed absolutely nothing, it was evident thathe must be mentally looking through the door, as if he wished tomeasure thereby all the possibilities that a house of this sortmight include, and how they might bear upon the question of hisentry.

　　In his indecision he turned and surveyed the scene around. Not asoul was anywhere visible. The garden-path stretched downward fromhis feet, gleaming like the track of a snail; the roof of the littlewell (mostly dry), the well-cover, the top rail of the garden-gate,were varnished with the same dull liquid glaze; while, far away inthe vale, a faint whiteness of more than usual extent showed thatthe rivers were high in the meads. Beyond all this winked a fewbleared lamplights through the beating drops--lights that denotedthe situation of the county-town from which he had appeared to come.

　　The absence of all notes of life in that direction seemed to clinchhis intentions, and he knocked at the door.

　　Within, a desultory chat had taken the place of movement and musicalsound. The hedge-carpenter was suggesting a song to the company,which nobody just then was inclined to undertake, so that the knockafforded a not unwelcome diversion.

　　'Walk in!' said the shepherd promptly.

　　The latch clicked upward, and out of the night our pedestrianappeared upon the door-mat. The shepherd arose, snuffed two of thenearest candles, and turned to look at him.

　　Their light disclosed that the stranger was dark in complexion andnot unprepossessing as to feature. His hat, which for a moment hedid not remove, hung low over his eyes, without concealing that theywere large, open, and determined, moving with a flash rather than aglance round the room. He seemed pleased with his survey, and,baring his shaggy head, said, in a rich deep voice, 'The rain is soheavy, friends, that I ask leave to come in and rest awhile.'

　　'To be sure, stranger,' said the shepherd. 'And faith, you've beenlucky in choosing your time, for we are having a bit of a fling fora glad cause--though, to be sure, a man could hardly wish that gladcause to happen more than once a year.'

　　'Nor less,' spoke up a woman. 'For 'tis best to get your familyover and done with, as soon as you can, so as to be all the earlierout of the fag o't.'

　　'And what may be this glad cause?' asked the stranger.

　　'A birth and christening,' said the shepherd.

　　The stranger hoped his host might not be made unhappy either by toomany or too few of such episodes, and being invited by a gesture toa pull at the mug, he readily acquiesced. His manner, which, beforeentering, had been so dubious, was now altogether that of a carelessand candid man.

　　'Late to be traipsing athwart this coomb--hey?' said the engaged manof fifty.

　　'Late it is, master, as you say.--I'll take a seat in the chimney-corner, if you have nothing to urge against it, ma'am; for I am alittle moist on the side that was next the rain.'

　　Mrs. Shepherd Fennel assented, and made room for the self-invitedcomer, who, having got completely inside the chimney-corner,stretched out his legs and his arms with the expansiveness of aperson quite at home.

　　'Yes, I am rather cracked in the vamp,' he said freely, seeing thatthe eyes of the shepherd's wife fell upon his boots, 'and I am notwell fitted either. I have had some rough times lately, and havebeen forced to pick up what I can get in the way of wearing, but Imust find a suit better fit for working-days when I reach home.'

　　'One of hereabouts?' she inquired.

　　'Not quite that--further up the country.'

　　'I thought so. And so be I; and by your tongue you come from myneighbourhood.'

　　'But you would hardly have heard of me,' he said quickly. 'My timewould be long before yours, ma'am, you see.'

　　This testimony to the youthfulness of his hostess had the effect ofstopping her cross-examination.

　　'There is only one thing more wanted to make me happy,' continuedthe new-comer. 'And that is a little baccy, which I am sorry to sayI am out of.'

　　'I'll fill your pipe,' said the shepherd.

　　'I must ask you to lend me a pipe likewise.'

　　'A smoker, and no pipe about 'ee?'

　　'I have dropped it somewhere on the road.'

　　The shepherd filled and handed him a new clay pipe, saying, as hedid so, 'Hand me your baccy-box--I'll fill that too, now I am aboutit.'

　　The man went through the movement of searching his pockets.

　　'Lost that too?' said his entertainer, with some surprise.

　　'I am afraid so,' said the man with some confusion. 'Give it to mein a screw of paper.' Lighting his pipe at the candle with asuction that drew the whole flame into the bowl, he resettledhimself in the corner and bent his looks upon the faint steam fromhis damp legs, as if he wished to say no more.

　　Meanwhile the general body of guests had been taking little noticeof this visitor by reason of an absorbing discussion in which theywere engaged with the band about a tune for the next dance. Thematter being settled, they were about to stand up when aninterruption came in the shape of another knock at the door.

　　At sound of the same the man in the chimney-corner took up the pokerand began stirring the brands as if doing it thoroughly were the oneaim of his existence; and a second time the shepherd said, 'Walkin!' In a moment another man stood upon the straw-woven door-mat.

　　He too was a stranger.

　　This individual was one of a type radically different from thefirst. There was more of the commonplace in his manner, and acertain jovial cosmopolitanism sat upon his features. He wasseveral years older than the first arrival, his hair being slightlyfrosted, his eyebrows bristly, and his whiskers cut back from hischeeks. His face was rather full and flabby, and yet it was notaltogether a face without power. A few grog-blossoms marked theneighbourhood of his nose. He flung back his long drab greatcoat,revealing that beneath it he wore a suit of cinder-gray shadethroughout, large heavy seals, of some metal or other that wouldtake a polish, dangling from his fob as his only personal ornament.

　　Shaking the water-drops from his low-crowned glazed hat, he said, 'Imust ask for a few minutes' shelter, comrades, or I shall be wettedto my skin before I get to Casterbridge.'

　　'Make yourself at home, master,' said the shepherd, perhaps a trifleless heartily than on the first occasion. Not that Fennel had theleast tinge of niggardliness in his composition; but the room wasfar from large, spare chairs were not numerous, and damp companionswere not altogether desirable at close quarters for the women andgirls in their bright-coloured gowns.

　　However, the second comer, after taking off his greatcoat, andhanging his hat on a nail in one of the ceiling-beams as if he hadbeen specially invited to put it there, advanced and sat down at thetable. This had been pushed so closely into the chimney-corner, togive all available room to the dancers, that its inner edge grazedthe elbow of the man who had ensconced himself by the fire; and thusthe two strangers were brought into close companionship. Theynodded to each other by way of breaking the ice of unacquaintance,and the first stranger handed his neighbour the family mug--a hugevessel of brown ware, having its upper edge worn away like athreshold by the rub of whole generations of thirsty lips that hadgone the way of all flesh, and bearing the following inscriptionburnt upon its rotund side in yellow lettersTHERE IS NO FUNUNTiLL i CUM.

　　The other man, nothing loth, raised the mug to his lips, and drankon, and on, and on--till a curious blueness overspread thecountenance of the shepherd's wife, who had regarded with no littlesurprise the first stranger's free offer to the second of what didnot belong to him to dispense.

　　'I knew it!' said the toper to the shepherd with much satisfaction.

　　'When I walked up your garden before coming in, and saw the hivesall of a row, I said to myself; "Where there's bees there's honey,and where there's honey there's mead." But mead of such a trulycomfortable sort as this I really didn't expect to meet in my olderdays.' He took yet another pull at the mug, till it assumed anominous elevation.

　　'Glad you enjoy it!' said the shepherd warmly.

　　'It is goodish mead,' assented Mrs. Fennel, with an absence ofenthusiasm which seemed to say that it was possible to buy praisefor one's cellar at too heavy a price. 'It is trouble enough tomake--and really I hardly think we shall make any more. For honeysells well, and we ourselves can make shift with a drop o' smallmead and metheglin for common use from the comb-washings."'O, but you'll never have the heart!' reproachfully cried thestranger in cinder-gray, after taking up the mug a third time andsetting it down empty. 'I love mead, when 'tis old like this, as Ilove to go to church o' Sundays, or to relieve the needy any day ofthe week.'

　　'Ha, ha, ha!' said the man in the chimney-corner, who, in spite ofthe taciturnity induced by the pipe of tobacco, could not or wouldnot refrain from this slight testimony to his comrade's humour.

　　Now the old mead of those days, brewed of the purest first-year ormaiden honey, four pounds to the gallon--with its due complement ofwhite of eggs, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, mace, rosemary, yeast, andprocesses of working, bottling, and cellaring--tasted remarkablystrong; but it did not taste so strong as it actually was. Hence,presently, the stranger in cinder-gray at the table, moved by itscreeping influence, unbuttoned his waistcoat, threw himself back inhis chair, spread his legs, and made his presence felt in variousways.

　　'Well, well, as I say,' he resumed, 'I am going to Casterbridge, andto Casterbridge I must go. I should have been almost there by thistime; but the rain drove me into your dwelling, and I'm not sorryfor it.'

　　'You don't live in Casterbridge?' said the shepherd.

　　'Not as yet; though I shortly mean to move there.'

　　'Going to set up in trade, perhaps?'

　　'No, no,' said the shepherd's wife. 'It is easy to see that thegentleman is rich, and don't want to work at anything.'

　　The cinder-gray stranger paused, as if to consider whether he wouldaccept that definition of himself. He presently rejected it byanswering, 'Rich is not quite the word for me, dame. I do work, andI must work. And even if I only get to Casterbridge by midnight Imust begin work there at eight to-morrow morning. Yes, het or wet,blow or snow, famine or sword, my day's work to-morrow must bedone.'

　　'Poor man! Then, in spite o' seeming, you be worse off than we?'

　　replied the shepherd's wife.

　　''Tis the nature of my trade, men and maidens. 'Tis the nature ofmy trade more than my poverty . . . But really and truly I must upand off, or I shan't get a lodging in the town.' However, thespeaker did not move, and directly added, 'There's time for one moredraught of friendship before I go; and I'd perform it at once if themug were not dry.'

　　'Here's a mug o' small,' said Mrs. Fennel. 'Small, we call it,though to be sure 'tis only the first wash o' the combs.'

　　'No,' said the stranger disdainfully. 'I won't spoil your firstkindness by partaking o' your second.'

　　'Certainly not,' broke in Fennel. 'We don't increase and multiplyevery day, and I'll fill the mug again.' He went away to the darkplace under the stairs where the barrel stood. The shepherdessfollowed him.

　　'Why should you do this?' she said reproachfully, as soon as theywere alone. 'He's emptied it once, though it held enough for tenpeople; and now he's not contented wi' the small, but must needscall for more o' the strong! And a stranger unbeknown to any of us.

　　For my part, I don't like the look o' the man at all.'

　　'But he's in the house, my honey; and 'tis a wet night, and achristening. Daze it, what's a cup of mead more or less? There'llbe plenty more next bee-burning.'

　　'Very well--this time, then,' she answered, looking wistfully at thebarrel. 'But what is the man's calling, and where is he one of;that he should come in and join us like this?'

　　'I don't know. I'll ask him again.'

　　The catastrophe of having the mug drained dry at one pull by thestranger in cinder-gray was effectually guarded against this time byMrs. Fennel. She poured out his allowance in a small cup, keepingthe large one at a discreet distance from him. When he had tossedoff his portion the shepherd renewed his inquiry about thestranger's occupation.

　　The latter did not immediately reply, and the man in the chimney-corner, with sudden demonstrativeness, said, 'Anybody may know mytrade--I'm a wheelwright.'

　　'A very good trade for these parts,' said the shepherd.

　　'And anybody may know mine--if they've the sense to find it out,'

　　said the stranger in cinder-gray.

　　'You may generally tell what a man is by his claws,' observed thehedge-carpenter, looking at his own hands. 'My fingers be as fullof thorns as an old pin-cushion is of pins.'

　　The hands of the man in the chimney-corner instinctively sought theshade, and he gazed into the fire as he resumed his pipe. The manat the table took up the hedge-carpenter's remark, and addedsmartly, 'True; but the oddity of my trade is that, instead ofsetting a mark upon me, it sets a mark upon my customers.'

　　No observation being offered by anybody in elucidation of thisenigma, the shepherd's wife once more called for a song. The sameobstacles presented themselves as at the former time--one had novoice, another had forgotten the first verse. The stranger at thetable, whose soul had now risen to a good working temperature,relieved the difficulty by exclaiming that, to start the company, hewould sing himself. Thrusting one thumb into the arm-hole of hiswaistcoat, he waved the other hand in the air, and, with anextemporizing gaze at the shining sheep-crooks above themantelpiece, began:-'O my trade it is the rarest one,Simple shepherds all -My trade is a sight to see;For my customers I tie, and take them up on high,And waft 'em to a far countree!'

　　The room was silent when he had finished the verse--with oneexception, that of the man in the chimney-corner, who, at thesinger's word, 'Chorus! 'joined him in a deep bass voice of musicalrelish -'And waft 'em to a far countree!'

　　Oliver Giles, John Pitcher the dairyman, the parish-clerk, theengaged man of fifty, the row of young women against the wall,seemed lost in thought not of the gayest kind. The shepherd lookedmeditatively on the ground, the shepherdess gazed keenly at thesinger, and with some suspicion; she was doubting whether thisstranger were merely singing an old song from recollection, or wascomposing one there and then for the occasion. All were asperplexed at the obscure revelation as the guests at Belshazzar'sFeast, except the man in the chimney-corner, who quietly said,'Second verse, stranger,' and smoked on.

　　The singer thoroughly moistened himself from his lips inwards, andwent on with the next stanza as requested:-'My tools are but common ones,Simple shepherds all -My tools are no sight to see:

　　A little hempen string, and a post whereon to swing,Are implements enough for me!'

　　Shepherd Fennel glanced round. There was no longer any doubt thatthe stranger was answering his question rhythmically. The guestsone and all started back with suppressed exclamations. The youngwoman engaged to the man of fifty fainted half-way, and would haveproceeded, but finding him wanting in alacrity for catching her shesat down trembling.

　　'O, he's the--!' whispered the people in the background, mentioningthe name of an ominous public officer. 'He's come to do it! 'Tisto be at Casterbridge jail to-morrow--the man for sheep-stealing--the poor clock-maker we heard of; who used to live away atShottsford and had no work to do--Timothy Summers, whose family werea-starving, and so he went out of Shottsford by the high-road, andtook a sheep in open daylight, defying the farmer and the farmer'swife and the farmer's lad, and every man jack among 'em. He' (andthey nodded towards the stranger of the deadly trade) 'is come fromup the country to do it because there's not enough to do in his owncounty-town, and he's got the place here now our own county man'sdead; he's going to live in the same cottage under the prison wall.'

　　The stranger in cinder-gray took no notice of this whispered stringof observations, but again wetted his lips. Seeing that his friendin the chimney-corner was the only one who reciprocated hisjoviality in any way, he held out his cup towards that appreciativecomrade, who also held out his own. They clinked together, the eyesof the rest of the room hanging upon the singer's actions. Heparted his lips for the third verse; but at that moment anotherknock was audible upon the door. This time the knock was faint andhesitating.

　　The company seemed scared; the shepherd looked with consternationtowards the entrance, and it was with some effort that he resistedhis alarmed wife's deprecatory glance, and uttered for the thirdtime the welcoming words, 'Walk in!'

　　The door was gently opened, and another man stood upon the mat. He,like those who had preceded him, was a stranger. This time it was ashort, small personage, of fair complexion, and dressed in a decentsuit of dark clothes.

　　'Can you tell me the way to--?' he began: when, gazing round theroom to observe the nature of the company amongst whom he hadfallen, his eyes lighted on the stranger in cinder-gray. It wasjust at the instant when the latter, who had thrown his mind intohis song with such a will that he scarcely heeded the interruption,silenced all whispers and inquiries by bursting into his thirdverse:-'To-morrow is my working day,Simple shepherds all -To-morrow is a working day for me:

　　For the farmer's sheep is slain, and the lad who did it ta'en,And on his soul may God ha' merc-y!'

　　The stranger in the chimney-corner, waving cups with the singer soheartily that his mead splashed over on the hearth, repeated in hisbass voice as before:-'And on his soul may God ha' merc-y!'

　　All this time the third stranger had been standing in the doorway.

　　Finding now that he did not come forward or go on speaking, theguests particularly regarded him. They noticed to their surprisethat he stood before them the picture of abject terror--his kneestrembling, his hand shaking so violently that the door-latch bywhich he supported himself rattled audibly: his white lips wereparted, and his eyes fixed on the merry officer of justice in themiddle of the room. A moment more and he had turned, closed thedoor, and fled.

　　'What a man can it be?' said the shepherd.

　　The rest, between the awfulness of their late discovery and the oddconduct of this third visitor, looked as if they knew not what tothink, and said nothing. Instinctively they withdrew further andfurther from the grim gentleman in their midst, whom some of themseemed to take for the Prince of Darkness himself; till they formeda remote circle, an empty space of floor being left between them andhim -' . . . circulus, cujus centrum diabolus.'

　　The room was so silent--though there were more than twenty people init--that nothing could be heard but the patter of the rain againstthe window-shutters, accompanied by the occasional hiss of a straydrop that fell down the chimney into the fire, and the steadypuffing of the man in the corner, who had now resumed his pipe oflong clay.

　　The stillness was unexpectedly broken. The distant sound of a gunreverberated through the air--apparently from the direction of thecounty-town.

　　'Be jiggered!' cried the stranger who had sung the song, jumping up.

　　'What does that mean?' asked several.

　　'A prisoner escaped from the jail--that's what it means.'

　　All listened. The sound was repeated, and none of them spoke butthe man in the chimney-corner, who said quietly, 'I've often beentold that in this county they fire a gun at such times; but I neverheard it till now.'

　　'I wonder if it is MY man?' murmured the personage in cinder-gray.

　　'Surely it is!' said the shepherd involuntarily. 'And surely we'vezeed him! That little man who looked in at the door by now, andquivered like a leaf when he zeed ye and heard your song!'

　　'His teeth chattered, and the breath went out of his body,' said thedairyman.

　　'And his heart seemed to sink within him like a stone,' said OliverGiles.

　　'And he bolted as if he'd been shot at,' said the hedge-carpenter.

　　'True--his teeth chattered, and his heart seemed to sink; and hebolted as if he'd been shot at,' slowly summed up the man in thechimney-corner.

　　'I didn't notice it,' remarked the hangman.

　　'We were all a-wondering what made him run off in such a fright,'

　　faltered one of the women against the wall, 'and now 'tisexplained!'

　　The firing of the alarm-gun went on at intervals, low and sullenly,and their suspicions became a certainty. The sinister gentleman incinder-gray roused himself. 'Is there a constable here?' he asked,in thick tones. 'If so, let him step forward.'

　　The engaged man of fifty stepped quavering out from the wall, hisbetrothed beginning to sob on the back of the chair.

　　'You are a sworn constable?'

　　'I be, sir.'

　　'Then pursue the criminal at once, with assistance, and bring himback here. He can't have gone far.'

　　'I will, sir, I will--when I've got my staff. I'll go home and getit, and come sharp here, and start in a body.'

　　'Staff!--never mind your staff; the man'll be gone!'

　　'But I can't do nothing without my staff--can I, William, and John,and Charles Jake? No; for there's the king's royal crown a paintedon en in yaller and gold, and the lion and the unicorn, so as when Iraise en up and hit my prisoner, 'tis made a lawful blow thereby. Iwouldn't 'tempt to take up a man without my staff--no, not I. If Ihadn't the law to gie me courage, why, instead o' my taking up himhe might take up me!'

　　'Now, I'm a king's man myself; and can give you authority enough forthis,' said the formidable officer in gray. 'Now then, all of ye,be ready. Have ye any lanterns?'

　　'Yes--have ye any lanterns?--I demand it!' said the constable.

　　'And the rest of you able-bodied--'

　　'Able-bodied men--yes--the rest of ye!' said the constable.

　　'Have you some good stout staves and pitch-forks--'

　　'Staves and pitchforks--in the name o' the law! And take 'em in yerhands and go in quest, and do as we in authority tell ye!'

　　Thus aroused, the men prepared to give chase. The evidence was,indeed, though circumstantial, so convincing, that but littleargument was needed to show the shepherd's guests that after whatthey had seen it would look very much like connivance if they didnot instantly pursue the unhappy third stranger, who could not asyet have gone more than a few hundred yards over such unevencountry.

　　A shepherd is always well provided with lanterns; and, lightingthese hastily, and with hurdle-staves in their hands, they pouredout of the door, taking a direction along the crest of the hill,away from the town, the rain having fortunately a little abated.

　　Disturbed by the noise, or possibly by unpleasant dreams of herbaptism, the child who had been christened began to cry heart-brokenly in the room overhead. These notes of grief came downthrough the chinks of the floor to the ears of the women below, whojumped up one by one, and seemed glad of the excuse to ascend andcomfort the baby, for the incidents of the last half-hour greatlyoppressed them. Thus in the space of two or three minutes the roomon the ground-floor was deserted quite.

　　But it was not for long. Hardly had the sound of footsteps diedaway when a man returned round the corner of the house from thedirection the pursuers had taken. Peeping in at the door, andseeing nobody there, he entered leisurely. It was the stranger ofthe chimney-corner, who had gone out with the rest. The motive ofhis return was shown by his helping himself to a cut piece ofskimmer-cake that lay on a ledge beside where he had sat, and whichhe had apparently forgotten to take with him. He also poured outhalf a cup more mead from the quantity that remained, ravenouslyeating and drinking these as he stood. He had not finished whenanother figure came in just as quietly--his friend in cinder-gray.

　　'O--you here?' said the latter, smiling. 'I thought you had gone tohelp in the capture.' And this speaker also revealed the object ofhis return by looking solicitously round for the fascinating mug ofold mead.

　　'And I thought you had gone,' said the other, continuing hisskimmer-cake with some effort.

　　'Well, on second thoughts, I felt there were enough without me,'

　　said the first confidentially, 'and such a night as it is, too.

　　Besides, 'tis the business o' the Government to take care of itscriminals--not mine.'

　　'True; so it is. And I felt as you did, that there were enoughwithout me.'

　　'I don't want to break my limbs running over the humps and hollowsof this wild country.'

　　'Nor I neither, between you and me.'

　　'These shepherd-people are used to it--simple-minded souls, youknow, stirred up to anything in a moment. They'll have him readyfor me before the morning, and no trouble to me at all.'

　　'They'll have him, and we shall have saved ourselves all labour inthe matter.'

　　'True, true. Well, my way is to Casterbridge; and 'tis as much asmy legs will do to take me that far. Going the same way?'

　　'No, I am sorry to say! I have to get home over there' (he noddedindefinitely to the right), 'and I feel as you do, that it is quiteenough for my legs to do before bedtime.'

　　The other had by this time finished the mead in the mug, afterwhich, shaking hands heartily at the door, and wishing each otherwell, they went their several ways.

　　In the meantime the company of pursuers had reached the end of thehog's-back elevation which dominated this part of the down. Theyhad decided on no particular plan of action; and, finding that theman of the baleful trade was no longer in their company, they seemedquite unable to form any such plan now. They descended in alldirections down the hill, and straightway several of the party fellinto the snare set by Nature for all misguided midnight ramblersover this part of the cretaceous formation. The 'lanchets,' orflint slopes, which belted the escarpment at intervals of a dozenyards, took the less cautious ones unawares, and losing theirfooting on the rubbly steep they slid sharply downwards, thelanterns rolling from their hands to the bottom, and there lying ontheir sides till the horn was scorched through.

　　When they had again gathered themselves together, the shepherd, asthe man who knew the country best, took the lead, and guided themround these treacherous inclines. The lanterns, which seemed ratherto dazzle their eyes and warn the fugitive than to assist them inthe exploration, were extinguished, due silence was observed; and inthis more rational order they plunged into the vale. It was agrassy, briery, moist defile, affording some shelter to any personwho had sought it; but the party perambulated it in vain, andascended on the other side. Here they wandered apart, and after aninterval closed together again to report progress.

　　At the second time of closing in they found themselves near a lonelyash, the single tree on this part of the coomb, probably sown thereby a passing bird some fifty years before. And here, standing alittle to one side of the trunk, as motionless as the trunk itself;appeared the man they were in quest of; his outline being welldefined against the sky beyond. The band noiselessly drew up andfaced him.

　　'Your money or your life!' said the constable sternly to the stillfigure.

　　'No, no,' whispered John Pitcher. ''Tisn't our side ought to saythat. That's the doctrine of vagabonds like him, and we be on theside of the law.'

　　'Well, well,' replied the constable impatiently; 'I must saysomething, mustn't I? and if you had all the weight o' thisundertaking upon your mind, perhaps you'd say the wrong thing too!--Prisoner at the bar, surrender, in the name of the Father--theCrown, I mane!'

　　The man under the tree seemed now to notice them for the first time,and, giving them no opportunity whatever for exhibiting theircourage, he strolled slowly towards them. He was, indeed, thelittle man, the third stranger; but his trepidation had in a greatmeasure gone.

　　'Well, travellers,' he said, 'did I hear ye speak to me?'

　　'You did: you've got to come and be our prisoner at once!' said theconstable. 'We arrest 'ee on the charge of not biding inCasterbridge jail in a decent proper manner to be hung to-morrowmorning. Neighbours, do your duty, and seize the culpet!'

　　On hearing the charge, the man seemed enlightened, and, saying notanother word, resigned himself with preternatural civility to thesearch-party, who, with their staves in their hands, surrounded himon all sides, and marched him back towards the shepherd's cottage.

　　It was eleven o'clock by the time they arrived. The light shiningfrom the open door, a sound of men's voices within, proclaimed tothem as they approached the house that some new events had arisen intheir absence. On entering they discovered the shepherd's livingroom to be invaded by two officers from Casterbridge jail, and awell-known magistrate who lived at the nearest country-seat,intelligence of the escape having become generally circulated.

　　'Gentlemen,' said the constable, 'I have brought back your man--notwithout risk and danger; but every one must do his duty! He isinside this circle of able-bodied persons, who have lent me usefulaid, considering their ignorance of Crown work. Men, bring forwardyour prisoner!' And the third stranger was led to the light.

　　'Who is this?' said one of the officials.

　　'The man,' said the constable.

　　'Certainly not,' said the turnkey; and the first corroborated hisstatement.

　　'But how can it be otherwise?' asked the constable. 'Or why was heso terrified at sight o' the singing instrument of the law who satthere?' Here he related the strange behaviour of the third strangeron entering the house during the hangman's song.

　　'Can't understand it,' said the officer coolly. 'All I know is thatit is not the condemned man. He's quite a different character fromthis one; a gauntish fellow, with dark hair and eyes, rather good-looking, and with a musical bass voice that if you heard it onceyou'd never mistake as long as you lived.'

　　'Why, souls--'twas the man in the chimney-corner!'

　　'Hey--what?' said the magistrate, coming forward after inquiringparticulars from the shepherd in the background. 'Haven't you gotthe man after all?'

　　'Well, sir,' said the constable, 'he's the man we were in search of,that's true; and yet he's not the man we were in search of. For theman we were in search of was not the man we wanted, sir, if youunderstand my every-day way; for 'twas the man in the chimney-corner!'

　　'A pretty kettle of fish altogether!' said the magistrate. 'You hadbetter start for the other man at once.'

　　The prisoner now spoke for the first time. The mention of the manin the chimney-corner seemed to have moved him as nothing else coulddo. 'Sir,' he said, stepping forward to the magistrate, 'take nomore trouble about me. The time is come when I may as well speak.

　　I have done nothing; my crime is that the condemned man is mybrother. Early this afternoon I left home at Shottsford to tramp itall the way to Casterbridge jail to bid him farewell. I wasbenighted, and called here to rest and ask the way. When I openedthe door I saw before me the very man, my brother, that I thought tosee in the condemned cell at Casterbridge. He was in this chimney-corner; and jammed close to him, so that he could not have got outif he had tried, was the executioner who'd come to take his life,singing a song about it and not knowing that it was his victim whowas close by, joining in to save appearances. My brother looked aglance of agony at me, and I knew he meant, "Don't reveal what yousee; my life depends on it." I was so terror-struck that I couldhardly stand, and, not knowing what I did, I turned and hurriedaway.'

　　The narrator's manner and tone had the stamp of truth, and his storymade a great impression on all around. 'And do you know where yourbrother is at the present time?' asked the magistrate.

　　'I do not. I have never seen him since I closed this door.'

　　'I can testify to that, for we've been between ye ever since,' saidthe constable.

　　'Where does he think to fly to?--what is his occupation?'

　　'He's a watch-and-clock-maker, sir.'

　　''A said 'a was a wheelwright--a wicked rogue,' said the constable.

　　'The wheels of clocks and watches he meant, no doubt,' said ShepherdFennel. 'I thought his hands were palish for's trade.'

　　'Well, it appears to me that nothing can be gained by retaining thispoor man in custody,' said the magistrate; 'your business lies withthe other, unquestionably.'

　　And so the little man was released off-hand; but he looked nothingthe less sad on that account, it being beyond the power ofmagistrate or constable to raze out the written troubles in hisbrain, for they concerned another whom he regarded with moresolicitude than himself. When this was done, and the man had gonehis way, the night was found to be so far advanced that it wasdeemed useless to renew the search before the next morning.

　　Next day, accordingly, the quest for the clever sheep-stealer becamegeneral and keen, to all appearance at least. But the intendedpunishment was cruelly disproportioned to the transgression, and thesympathy of a great many country-folk in that district was stronglyon the side of the fugitive. Moreover, his marvellous coolness anddaring in hob-and-nobbing with the hangman, under the unprecedentedcircumstances of the shepherd's party, won their admiration. Sothat it may be questioned if all those who ostensibly madethemselves so busy in exploring woods and fields and lanes werequite so thorough when it came to the private examination of theirown lofts and outhouses. Stories were afloat of a mysterious figurebeing occasionally seen in some old overgrown trackway or other,remote from turnpike roads; but when a search was instituted in anyof these suspected quarters nobody was found. Thus the days andweeks passed without tidings.

　　In brief; the bass-voiced man of the chimney-corner was neverrecaptured. Some said that he went across the sea, others that hedid not, but buried himself in the depths of a populous city. Atany rate, the gentleman in cinder-gray never did his morning's workat Casterbridge, nor met anywhere at all, for business purposes, thegenial comrade with whom he had passed an hour of relaxation in thelonely house on the coomb.

　　The grass has long been green on the graves of Shepherd Fennel andhis frugal wife; the guests who made up the christening party havemainly followed their entertainers to the tomb; the baby in whosehonour they all had met is a matron in the sere and yellow leaf.

　　But the arrival of the three strangers at the shepherd's that night,and the details connected therewith, is a story as well known asever in the country about Higher Crowstairs.

　　March 1883.