eing lost in cloudy masses
hanging round it, like wild locks of hair.

The chief members of Mellstock parish choir were standing in a group in
front of Mr. Penny's workshop in the lower village. They were all
brightly illuminated, and each was backed up by a shadow as long as a
steeple; the lowness of the source of light rendering the brims of their
hats of no use at all as a protection to the eyes.

Mr. Penny's was the last house in that part of the parish, and stood in a
hollow by the roadside so that cart-wheels and horses' legs were about
level with the sill of his shop-window. This was low and wide, and was
open from morning till evening, Mr. Penny himself being invariably seen
working inside, like a framed portrait of a shoemaker by some modern
Moroni. He sat facing the road, with a boot on his knees and the awl in
his hand, only looking up for a moment as he stretched out his arms and
bent forward at the pull, when his spectacles flashed in the passer's
face with a shine of flat whiteness, and then returned again to the boot
as usual. Rows of lasts, small and large, stout and slender, covered the
wall which formed the background, in the extreme shadow of which a kind
of dummy was seen sitting, in the shape of an apprentice with a string
tied round his hair (probably to keep it out of his eyes). He smiled at
remarks that floated in from without, but was never known to answer them
in Mr. Penny's presence. Outside the window the upper-leather of a
Wellington-boot was usually hung, pegged to a board as if to dry. No
sign was over his door; in fact--as with old banks and mercantile
houses--advertising in any shape was scorned, and it would have been felt
as beneath his dignity to paint up, for the benefit of strangers, the
name of an establishment whose trade came solely by connection based on
personal respect.

His visitors now came and stood on the outside of his window, sometimes
leaning against the sill, sometimes moving a pace or two backwards and
forwards in front of it. They talked with deliberate gesticulations to
Mr. Penny, enthroned in the shadow of the interior.

"I do like a man to stick to men who be in the same line o' life--o'
Sundays, anyway--that I do so."

"'Tis like all the doings of folk who don't know what a day's work is,
that's what I say."

"My belief is the man's not to blame; 'tis she--she's the bitter weed!"

"No, not altogether. He's a poor gawk-hammer. Look at his sermon