xplanation that she quite forgot
to lecture the girl, who glided silently away. Thomasin did not move
further than to turn her eyes upon the grass-plat where the Maypole
had stood. She remained thinking, then said to herself that she
would not go out that afternoon, but would work hard at the baby's
unfinished lovely plaid frock, cut on the cross in the newest fashion.
How she managed to work hard, and yet do no more than she had done at
the end of two hours, would have been a mystery to anyone not aware
that the recent incident was of a kind likely to divert her industry
from a manual to a mental channel.

Next day she went her ways as usual, and continued her custom of
walking in the heath with no other companion than little Eustacia, now
of the age when it is a matter of doubt with such characters whether
they are intended to walk through the world on their hands or on their
feet; so that they get into painful complications by trying both. It
was very pleasant to Thomasin, when she had carried the child to some
lonely place, to give her a little private practice on the green turf
and shepherd's-thyme, which formed a soft mat to fall headlong upon
when equilibrium was lost.

Once, when engaged in this system of training, and stooping to remove
bits of stick, fern-stalks, and other such fragments from the child's
path, that the journey might not be brought to an untimely end by some
insuperable barrier a quarter of an inch high, she was alarmed by
discovering that a man on horseback was almost close beside her, the
soft natural carpet having muffled the horse's tread. The rider, who
was Venn, waved his hat in the air and bowed gallantly.

"Diggory, give me my glove," said Thomasin, whose manner it was under
any circumstances to plunge into the midst of a subject which
engrossed her.

Venn immediately dismounted, put his hand in his breastpocket, and
handed the glove.

"Thank you. It was very good of you to take care of it."

"It is very good of you to say so."

"O no. I was quite glad to find you had it. Everybody gets so
indifferent that I was surprised to know you thought of me."

"If you had remembered what I was once you wouldn't have been
surprised."

"Ah, no," she said quickly. "But men of your character are mostly so
independent."

"What is my character?" he asked.

"I don't exactly know," said Thomasin simply, "except it is to cover
up your feelings under a practical manner, and only to show them