ing, as it might be, Mister Yeobright, in the middle of
the path to Mistover, and your mother came up, looking as pale--"

"Yes, when was that?"

"Last summer, in my dream."

"Pooh! Who's the man?"

"Diggory, the reddleman. He called upon her and sat with her the
evening before she set out to see you. I hadn't gone home from work
when he came up to the gate."

"I must see Venn--I wish I had known it before," said Clym anxiously.
"I wonder why he has not come to tell me?"

"He went out of Egdon Heath the next day, so would not be likely to
know you wanted him."

"Christian," said Clym, "you must go and find Venn. I am otherwise
engaged, or I would go myself. Find him at once, and tell him I want
to speak to him."

"I am a good hand at hunting up folk by day," said Christian, looking
dubiously round at the declining light; "but as to nighttime, never
is such a bad hand as I, Mister Yeobright."

"Search the heath when you will, so that you bring him soon. Bring
him tomorrow, if you can."

Christian then departed. The morrow came, but no Venn. In the
evening Christian arrived, looking very weary. He had been searching
all day, and had heard nothing of the reddleman.

"Inquire as much as you can tomorrow without neglecting your work,"
said Yeobright. "Don't come again till you have found him."

The next day Yeobright set out for the old house at Blooms-End, which,
with the garden, was now his own. His severe illness had hindered all
preparations for his removal thither; but it had become necessary
that he should go and overlook its contents, as administrator to his
mother's little property; for which purpose he decided to pass the
next night on the premises.

He journeyed onward, not quickly or decisively, but in the slow walk
of one who has been awakened from a stupefying sleep. It was early
afternoon when he reached the valley. The expression of the place,
the tone of the hour, were precisely those of many such occasions in
days gone by; and these antecedent similarities fostered the illusion
that she, who was there no longer, would come out to welcome him.
The garden gate was locked and the shutters were closed, just as he
himself had left them on the evening after the funeral. He unlocked
the gate, and found that a spider had already constructed a large web,
tying the door to the lintel, on the supposition that it was never
to be opened again. When he had entered the house and flung back
the shutters he