early youth
led her present heart to belie her yesterday's words to him, and she
longed to see him again.

The next day she walked out early, thinking she might meet him in the
street. The growing beauty of her romance absorbed her, and she went
from the street to the fields, and from the fields to the shore, without
any consciousness of distance, till reminded by her weariness that she
could go no further. He had nowhere appeared. In the evening she took a
step which under the circumstances seemed justifiable; she wrote a note
to him at the hotel, inviting him to tea with her at six precisely, and
signing her note 'Lucy.'

In a quarter of an hour the messenger came back. Mr. Barnet had left the
hotel early in the morning of the day before, but he had stated that he
would probably return in the course of the week.

The note was sent back, to be given to him immediately on his arrival.

There was no sign from the inn that this desired event had occurred,
either on the next day or the day following. On both nights she had been
restless, and had scarcely slept half-an-hour.

On the Saturday, putting off all diffidence, Lucy went herself to the
Black-Bull, and questioned the staff closely.

Mr. Barnet had cursorily remarked when leaving that he might return on
the Thursday or Friday, but they were directed not to reserve a room for
him unless he should write.

He had left no address.

Lucy sorrowfully took back her note went home, and resolved to wait.

She did wait--years and years--but Barnet never reappeared.

April 1880.

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP

CHAPTER I

The north road from Casterbridge is tedious and lonely, especially in
winter-time. Along a part of its course it connects with Long-Ash Lane,
a monotonous track without a village or hamlet for many miles, and with
very seldom a turning. Unapprized wayfarers who are too old, or too
young, or in other respects too weak for the distance to be traversed,
but who, nevertheless, have to walk it, say, as they look wistfully
ahead, 'Once at the top of that hill, and I must surely see the end of
Long-Ash Lane!' But they reach the hilltop, and Long-Ash Lane stretches
in front as mercilessly as before.

Some few years ago a certain farmer was riding through this lane in the
gloom of a winter evening. The farmer's friend, a dairyman, was riding
beside him. A few paces in the rear rode the farmer's man. All three
were well horsed on strong,