things."

"That proves her to be worthy. I have never yet supported what is
bad. And I do not care only for her. I care for you and for myself,
and for anything that is good. When a woman once dislikes another she
is merciless!"

"O Clym! please don't go setting down as my fault what is your
obstinate wrong-headedness. If you wished to connect yourself with an
unworthy person why did you come home here to do it? Why didn't you
do it in Paris?--it is more the fashion there. You have come only to
distress me, a lonely woman, and shorten my days! I wish that you
would bestow your presence where you bestow your love!"

Clym said huskily, "You are my mother. I will say no more--beyond
this, that I beg your pardon for having thought this my home. I will
no longer inflict myself upon you; I'll go." And he went out with
tears in his eyes.

It was a sunny afternoon at the beginning of summer, and the moist
hollows of the heath had passed from their brown to their green stage.
Yeobright walked to the edge of the basin which extended down from
Mistover and Rainbarrow. By this time he was calm, and he looked
over the landscape. In the minor valleys, between the hillocks which
diversified the contour of the vale, the fresh young ferns were
luxuriantly growing up, ultimately to reach a height of five or six
feet. He descended a little way, flung himself down in a spot where a
path emerged from one of the small hollows, and waited. Hither it was
that he had promised Eustacia to bring his mother this afternoon, that
they might meet and be friends. His attempt had utterly failed.

He was in a nest of vivid green. The ferny vegetation round him,
though so abundant, was quite uniform: it was a grove of machine-made
foliage, a world of green triangles with saw-edges, and not a single
flower. The air was warm with a vaporous warmth, and the stillness
was unbroken. Lizards, grasshoppers, and ants were the only living
things to be beheld. The scene seemed to belong to the ancient world
of the carboniferous period, when the forms of plants were few, and of
the fern kind; when there was neither bud nor blossom, nothing but a
monotonous extent of leafage, amid which no bird sang.

When he had reclined for some considerable time, gloomily pondering,
he discerned above the ferns a drawn bonnet of white silk approaching
from the left, and Yeobright knew directly that it covered the head of
her he loved. His heart awoke from its apathy to a w