y, and
then quickly back again in an impatient, restless manner, and was
within a few yards of the corner where they had parted, when
Hardy appeared again. He saw at a glance that something had
happened.

"What is it--she is not ill?" he said quickly.

"No; quite well, her aunt says."

"You didn't see her then?"

"No. The fact is she has gone home."

CHAPTER XXIII

THE ENGLEBOURN CONSTABLE

On the afternoon of a splendid day in the early part of June,
some four or five days after the Sunday on which the morning
service at Englebourn was interrupted by the fire at Farmer
Groves', David Johnson, tailor and constable of the parish, was
sitting at his work in a small erection, half shed, half
summer-house, which leaned against the back of his cottage. Not
that David had not a regular workshop, with a window looking into
the village street, and a regular counter close under it, on
which passersby might see him stitching, and from which he could
gossip with them easily, as was his wont. But although the
constable kept the king's peace and made garments of all kinds
for his livelihood--from the curate's frock down to the
ploughboy's fustians--he was addicted for his pleasure and solace
to the keeping of bees. The constable's bees inhabited a row of
hives in the narrow strip of garden which ran away at the back of
the cottage. This strip of garden was bordered along the whole of
one side by the rector's premises. Now honest David loved gossip
well, and considered it a part of his duty as constable to be
well up in all events and rumours which happened or arose within
his liberties. But he loved his bees better than gossip, and, as
he was now in hourly expectation that they would be swarming, was
working, as has been said, in his summer-house, that he might be
at hand at the critical moment. The rough table on which he was
seated commanded a view of the hives; his big scissors and some
shreds of velveteen lay near him on the table, also the
street-door key and an old shovel, of which the uses will appear
presently.

On his knees lay the black velveteen coat, the Sunday garment of
Harry Winburn, to which he was fitting new sleeves. In his
exertions at the top of the chimney in putting out the fire,
Harry had grievously damaged the garment in question. The farmer
had presented him with five shillings on the occasion, which sum
was quite inadequate to the purchase of a new coat, and Harry,
being too proud to call