what, except--that you are not the whole world to me that
you used to be, my dear. But you are a pleasant lady to know, and nice
to meet, and I dare say as sweet as ever--almost."

Eustacia was silent, and she turned from him, till she said, in a
voice of suspended mightiness, "I am for a walk, and this is my way."

"Well, I can do worse than follow you."

"You know you can't do otherwise, for all your moods and changes!"
she answered defiantly. "Say what you will; try as you may; keep away
from me all that you can--you will never forget me. You will love me
all your life long. You would jump to marry me!"

"So I would!" said Wildeve. "Such strange thoughts as I've had from
time to time, Eustacia; and they come to me this moment. You hate the
heath as much as ever; that I know."

"I do," she murmured deeply. "'Tis my cross, my shame, and will be my
death!"

"I abhor it too," said he. "How mournfully the wind blows round us
now!"

She did not answer. Its tone was indeed solemn and pervasive.
Compound utterances addressed themselves to their senses, and it was
possible to view by ear the features of the neighbourhood. Acoustic
pictures were returned from the darkened scenery; they could hear
where the tracts of heather began and ended; where the furze was
growing stalky and tall; where it had been recently cut; in what
direction the fir-clump lay, and how near was the pit in which the
hollies grew; for these differing features had their voices no less
than their shapes and colours.

"God, how lonely it is!" resumed Wildeve. "What are picturesque
ravines and mists to us who see nothing else? Why should we stay
here? Will you go with me to America? I have kindred in Wisconsin."

"That wants consideration."

"It seems impossible to do well here, unless one were a wild bird or a
landscape-painter. Well?"

"Give me time," she softly said, taking his hand. "America is so far
away. Are you going to walk with me a little way?"

As Eustacia uttered the latter words she retired from the base of the
barrow, and Wildeve followed her, so that the reddleman could hear no
more.

He lifted the turves and arose. Their black figures sank and
disappeared from against the sky. They were as two horns which the
sluggish heath had put forth from its crown, like a mollusc, and had
now again drawn in.

The reddleman's walk across the vale, and over into the next where his
cart lay, was not sprightly for a slim young fellow of