he had in his mind was, of course, the death of
Mrs. Henchard.

As requested, he sealed up Lucetta's letters, and put the parcel aside
till the day she had appointed; this plan of returning them by hand
being apparently a little ruse of the young lady for exchanging a word
or two with him on past times. He would have preferred not to see her;
but deeming that there could be no great harm in acquiescing thus far,
he went at dusk and stood opposite the coach-office.

The evening was chilly, and the coach was late. Henchard crossed over to
it while the horses were being changed; but there was no Lucetta
inside or out. Concluding that something had happened to modify her
arrangements he gave the matter up and went home, not without a sense of
relief. Meanwhile Mrs. Henchard was weakening visibly. She could not
go out of doors any more. One day, after much thinking which seemed to
distress her, she said she wanted to write something. A desk was put
upon her bed with pen and paper, and at her request she was left alone.
She remained writing for a short time, folded her paper carefully,
called Elizabeth-Jane to bring a taper and wax, and then, still refusing
assistance, sealed up the sheet, directed it, and locked it in her desk.
She had directed it in these words:--

"MR. MICHAEL HENCHARD. NOT TO BE OPENED TILL ELIZABETH-JANE'S
WEDDING-DAY."

The latter sat up with her mother to the utmost of her strength night
after night. To learn to take the universe seriously there is no quicker
way than to watch--to be a "waker," as the country-people call it.
Between the hours at which the last toss-pot went by and the first
sparrow shook himself, the silence in Casterbridge--barring the rare
sound of the watchman--was broken in Elizabeth's ear only by the
time-piece in the bedroom ticking frantically against the clock on the
stairs; ticking harder and harder till it seemed to clang like a gong;
and all this while the subtle-souled girl asking herself why she was
born, why sitting in a room, and blinking at the candle; why things
around her had taken the shape they wore in preference to every other
possible shape. Why they stared at her so helplessly, as if waiting
for the touch of some wand that should release them from terrestrial
constraint; what that chaos called consciousness, which spun in her at
this moment like a top, tended to, and began in. Her eyes fell together;
she was awake, yet she was asleep.

A word from her mothe