ight　at　least　have　borne　her　misery　without　the　possibility　of　being　seen。　　Tracing　mile　after　mile　along　between　the　dying　ferns　and　the　wet　white　spiders’　webs；　she　at　length　turned　her　steps　towards　her　grandfather’s　house。　　She　found　the　front　door　closed　and　locked。　　Mechanically　she　went　round　to　the　end　where　the　stable　was；　and　on　looking　in　at　the　stable　door　she　saw　Charley　standing　within。
  “Captain　Vye　is　not　at　home？”　she　said。
  “No；　ma’am；”　said　the　lad　in　a　flutter　of　feeling；
  “he’s　gone　to　Weatherbury；　and　won’t　be　home　till　night。　　And　the　servant　is　gone　home　for　a　holiday。　　So　the　house　is　locked　up。”
  Eustacia’s　face　was　not　visible　to　Charley　as　she　stood　at　the　doorway；　her　back　being　to　the　sky；　and　the　stable　but　indifferently　lighted；　but　the　wildness　of　her　manner　arrested　his　attention。　　She　turned　and　walked　away　across　the　enclosure　to　the　gate；　and　was　hidden　by　the　bank。
  When　she　had　disappeared　Charley；　with　misgiving　in　his　eyes；　slowly　came　from　the　stable　door；　and　going　to　another　point　in　the　bank　he　looked　over。　　Eustacia　was　leaning　against　it　on　the　outside；　her　face　covered　with　her　hands；　and　her　head　pressing　the　dewy　heather　which　bearded　the　bank’s　outer　side。　　She　appeared　to　be　utterly　indifferent　to　the　circumstance　that　her　bonnet；　hair；　and　garments　were　being　wet　and　disarranged　by　the　moisture　of　her　cold；　harsh　pillow。　　Clearly　something　was　wrong。
  Charley　had　always　regarded　Eustacia　as　Eustacia　had　regarded　Clym　when　she　first　beheld　him—as　a　romantic　and　sweet　vision；　scarcely　incarnate。　　He　had　been　so　shut　off　from　her　by　the　dignity　of　her　look　and　the　pride　of　her　speech；　except　at　that　one　blissful　interval　when　he　was　allowed　to　hold　her　hand；　that　he　had　hardly　deemed　her　a　woman；　wingless　and　earthly；　subject　to　household　conditions　and　domestic　jars。　　The　inner　details　of　her　life　he　had　only　conjectured。　　She　had　been　a　lovely　wonder；　predestined　to　an　orbit　in　which　the　whole　of　his　own　was　but　a　point；　and　this　sight　of　her　leaning　like　a　helpless；　despairing　creature　against　a　wild　wet　bank　filled　him　with　an　amazed　horror。　　He　could　no　longer　remain　where　he　was。　　Leaping　over；　he　came　up；　touched　her　with　his　finger；　and　said　tenderly；　“You　are　poorly；　ma’am。　What　can　I　do？”
  Eustacia　started　up；　and　said；　“Ah；　Charley—you　have　followed　me。　　You　did　not　think　when　I　left　home　in　the　summer　that　I　should　e　back　like　this！”
  “I　did　not；　dear　ma’am。　Can　I　help　you　now？”
  “I　am　afraid　not。　　I　wish　I　could　get　into　the　house。
  I　feel　giddy—that’s　all。”
  “Lean　on　my　arm；　ma’am；　till　we　get　to　the　porch；　and　I　will　try　to　open　the　door。”
  He　supported　her　to　the　porch；　and　there　depositing　her　on　a　seat　hastened　to　the　back；　climbed　to　a　window　by　the　help　of　a　ladder；　and　descending　inside　opened　the　door。　　Next　he　assisted　her　into　the　room；　where　there　was　an　old…fashioned　horsehair　settee　as　large　as　a　donkey　wagon。　　She　lay　down　here；　and　Charley　covered　her　with　a　cloak　he　found　in　the　hall。
  “Shall　I　get　you　something　to　eat　and　drink？”　he　said。
  “If　you　please；　Charley。　　But　I　suppose　there　is　no　fire？”
  “I　can　light　it；　ma’am。”
  He　vanished；　and　she　heard　a　splitting　of　wood　and　a　blowing　of　bellows；　and　presently　he　returned；　saying；　“I　have　lighted　a　fire　in　the　kitchen；　and　now　I’ll　light　one　here。”
  He　lit　the　fire；　Eustacia　dreamily　observing　him　from　her　couch。　　When　it　was　blazing　up　he　said；　“Shall　I　wheel　you　round　in　front　of　it；　ma’am；　as　the　morning　is　chilly？”
  “Yes；　if　you　like。”
  “Shall　I　go　and　bring　the　victuals　now？”
  “Yes；　do；”　she　murmured　languidly。
  When　he　had　gone；　and　the　dull　sounds　occasionally　reached　her　ears　of　his　movements　in　the　kitchen；　she　forgot　where　she　was；　and　had　for　a　moment　to　consider　by　an　effort　what　the　sounds　meant。　　After　an　interval　which　seemed　short　to　her　whose　thoughts　were　elsewhere；　he　came　in　with　a　tray　on　which　steamed　tea　and　toast；　though　it　was　nearly　lunch…time。
  “Place　it　on　the　table；”　she　said。　　“I　shall　be　ready　soon。”
  He　did　so；　and　retired　to　the　door；　when；　however；　he　perceived　that　she　did　not　move　he　came　back　a　few　steps。
  “Let　me　hold　it　to　you；　if　you　don’t　wish　to　get　up；”　said　Charley。　　He　brought　the　tray　to　the　front　of　the　couch；　where　he　knelt　down；　adding；　“I　will　hold　it　for　you。”
  Eustacia　sat　up　and　poured　out　a　cup　of　tea。　　“You　are　very　kind　to　me；　Charley；”　she　murmured　as　she　sipped。
  “Well；　I　ought　to　be；”　said　he　diffidently；　taking　great　trouble　not　to　rest　his　eyes　upon　her；　though　this　was　their　only　natural　position；　Eustacia　being　immediately　before　him。　　“You　have　been　kind　to　me。”
  “How　have　I？”　said　Eustacia。
  “You　let　me　hold　your　hand　when　you　were　a　maiden　at　home。”
  “Ah；　so　I　did。　　Why　did　I　do　that？　　My　mind　is　lost—it　had　to　do　with　the　mumming；　had　it　not？”
  “Yes；　you　wanted　to　go　in　my　place。”
  “I　remember。　　I　do　indeed　remember—too　well！”
  She　again　became　utterly　downcast；　and　Charley；　seeing　that　she　was　not　going　to　eat　or　drink　any　more；　took　away　the　tray。
  Afterwards　he　occasionally　came　in　to　see　if　the　fire　was　burning；　to　ask　her　if　she　wanted　anything；　to　tell　her　that　the　wind　had　shifted　from　south　to　west；　to　ask　her　if　she　would　like　him　to　gather　her　some　blackberries；　to　all　which　inquiries　she　replied　in　the　negative　or　with　indifference。
  She　remained　on　the　settee　some　time　longer；　when　she　aroused　herself　and　went　upstairs。　　The　room　in　which　she　had　formerly　slept　still　remained　much　as　she　had　left　it；　and　the　recollection　that　this　forced　upon　her　of　her　own　greatly　changed　and　infinitely　worsened　situation　again　set　on　her　face　the　undetermined　and　formless　misery　which　it　had　worn　on　her　first　arrival。　　She　peeped　into　her　grandfather’s　room；　through　which　the　fresh　autumn　air　was　blowing　from　the　open　window。　　Her　eye　was　arrested　by　what　was　a　familiar　sight　enough；　though　it　broke　upon　her　now　with　a　new　significance。
  It　was　a　brace　of　pistols；　hanging　near　the　head　of　her　grandfather’s　bed；　which　he　always　kept　there　loaded；　as　a　precaution　against　possible　burglars；　the　house　being　very　lonely。　　Eustacia　regarded　them　long；　as　if　they　were　the　page　of　a　book　in　which　she　read　a　new　and　a　strange　matter。　　Quickly；　like　one　afraid　of　herself；　she　returned　downstairs　and　stood　in　deep　thought。
  “If　I　could　only　do　it！”　she　said。　　“It　would　be　doing　much　good　to　myself　and　all　connected　with　me；　and　no　harm　to　a　single　one。”
  The　idea　seemed　to　gather　force　within　her；　and　she　remained　in　a　fixed　attitude　nearly　ten　minutes；　when　a　certain　finality　was　expressed　in　her　gaze；　and　no　longer　the　blankness　of　indecision。
  She　turned　and　went　up　the　second　time—softly　and　stealthily　now—and　entered　her　grandfather’s　room；　her　eyes　at　once　seeking　the　head　of　the　bed。　　The　pistols　were　gone。
  The　instant　quashing　of　her　purpose　by　their　absence　affected　her　brain　as　a　sudden　vacuum　affects　the　body—she　nearly　fainted。　　Who　had　done　this？　　There　was　only　one　person　on　the　premises　besides　herself。　　Eustacia　involuntarily　turned　to　the　open　window　which　overlooked　the　garden　as　far　as　the　bank　that　bounded　it。　　On　the　summit　of　the　latter　stood　Charley；　sufficiently　elevated　by　its　height　to　see　into　the　room。　　His　gaze　was　directed　eagerly　and　solicitously　upon　her。
  She　went　downstairs　to　the　door　and　beckoned　to　him。
  “You　have　taken　them　away？”
  “Yes；　ma’am。”
  “Why　did　you　do　it？”
  “I　saw　you　looking　at　them　too　long。”
  “What　has　that　to　do　with　it？”
  “You　have　been　heart…broken　all　the　morning；　as　if　you　did　not　want　to　live。”
  “Well？”
  “And　I　could　not　bear　to　leave　them　in　your　way。
  There　was　meaning　in　your　look　at　them。”
  “Where　are　they　now？”
  “Locked　up。”
  “Where？”
  “In　the　stable。”
  “Give　them　to　me。”
  “No；　ma’am。”
  “You　refuse？”
  “I　do。　　I　care　too　much　for　you　to　give　‘em　up。”
  She　turned　aside；　her　face　for　the　first　time　softening　from　the　stony　immobility　of　the　earlier　day；　and　the　corners　of　her　mouth　resuming　something　of　that　delicacy　of　cut　which　was　always　lost　in　her　moments　of　despair。　　At　last　she　confronted　him　again。
  “Why　should　I　not　die　if　I　wish？”　she　said　tremulously。　　“I　have　made　a　bad　bargain　with　life；　and　I　am　weary　of　it—weary。　And　now　you　have　hindered　my　escape。　　O；　why　did　you；　Charley！　What　makes　death　painful　except　the　thought　of　others’　grief？and　that　is　absent　in　my　case；　for　not　a　sigh　would　follow　me！”
  “Ah；　it　is　trouble　that　has　done　this！　I　wish　in　my　very　soul　that　he　who　brought　it　about　might　die　and　rot；　even　if　‘tis　transportation　to　say　it！”
  “Charley；　no　more　of　that。　　What　do　you　mean　to　do　about　this　you　have　seen？”
  “Keep　it　close　as　night；　if　you　promise　not　to　think　of　it　again。”
  “You　need　not　fear。　　The　moment　has　passed。　　I　promise。”
  She　then　went　away；　entered　the　house；　and　lay　down。
  Later　in　the　afternoon　her　grandfather　returned。　　He　was　about　to　question　her　categorically；　but　on　looking　at　her　he　withheld　his　words。
  “Yes；　it　is　too　bad　to　talk　of；”　she　slowly　returned　in　answer　to　his　glance。　　“Can　my　old　room　be　got　ready　for　me　tonight；　Grandfather？　　I　shall　want　to　occupy　it　again。”
  He　did　not　ask　w