known," said the performer on the clarionet solemnly,
"that 'twas meant for a living man, nothing should have drawn out of my
wynd-pipe the breath for that Psalm, so help me!

"Nor from mine," said the first singer. "But, thought I, as it was made
so long ago perhaps there isn't much in it, so I'll oblige a neighbour;
for there's nothing to be said against the tune."

"Ah, my boys, you've sung it," said Henchard triumphantly. "As for him,
it was partly by his songs that he got over me, and heaved me out....I
could double him up like that--and yet I don't." He laid the poker
across his knee, bent it as if it were a twig, flung it down, and came
away from the door.

It was at this time that Elizabeth-Jane, having heard where her
stepfather was, entered the room with a pale and agonized countenance.
The choir and the rest of the company moved off, in accordance with
their half-pint regulation. Elizabeth-Jane went up to Henchard, and
entreated him to accompany her home.

By this hour the volcanic fires of his nature had burnt down, and having
drunk no great quantity as yet he was inclined to acquiesce. She took
his arm, and together they went on. Henchard walked blankly, like a
blind man, repeating to himself the last words of the singers--

"And the next age his hated name
Shall utterly deface."

At length he said to her, "I am a man to my word. I have kept my oath
for twenty-one years; and now I can drink with a good conscience....If I
don't do for him--well, I am a fearful practical joker when I choose! He
has taken away everything from me, and by heavens, if I meet him I won't
answer for my deeds!"

These half-uttered words alarmed Elizabeth--all the more by reason of
the still determination of Henchard's mien.

"What will you do?" she asked cautiously, while trembling with
disquietude, and guessing Henchard's allusion only too well.

Henchard did not answer, and they went on till they had reached his
cottage. "May I come in?" she said.

"No, no; not to-day," said Henchard; and she went away; feeling that
to caution Farfrae was almost her duty, as it was certainly her strong
desire.

As on the Sunday, so on the week-days, Farfrae and Lucetta might have
been seen flitting about the town like two butterflies--or rather like
a bee and a butterfly in league for life. She seemed to take no pleasure
in going anywhere except in her husband's company; and hence when
business would not permit him t