seated on a small table, drawn up to the
side of the massive oak board reserved for the churchmen, a few of
whom nodded to him as they took their places and said, "How be ye, Mr.
Henchard? Quite a stranger here."

Henchard did not take the trouble to reply for a few moments, and his
eyes rested on his stretched-out legs and boots. "Yes," he said at
length; "that's true. I've been down in spirit for weeks; some of
ye know the cause. I am better now, but not quite serene. I want you
fellows of the choir to strike up a tune; and what with that and this
brew of Stannidge's, I am in hopes of getting altogether out of my minor
key."

"With all my heart," said the first fiddle. "We've let back our strings,
that's true, but we can soon pull 'em up again. Sound A, neighbours, and
give the man a stave."

"I don't care a curse what the words be," said Henchard. "Hymns,
ballets, or rantipole rubbish; the Rogue's March or the cherubim's
warble--'tis all the same to me if 'tis good harmony, and well put out."

"Well--heh, heh--it may be we can do that, and not a man among us that
have sat in the gallery less than twenty year," said the leader of the
band. "As 'tis Sunday, neighbours, suppose we raise the Fourth Psa'am,
to Samuel Wakely's tune, as improved by me?"

"Hang Samuel Wakely's tune, as improved by thee!" said Henchard. "Chuck
across one of your psalters--old Wiltshire is the only tune worth
singing--the psalm-tune that would make my blood ebb and flow like the
sea when I was a steady chap. I'll find some words to fit en." He took
one of the psalters and began turning over the leaves.

Chancing to look out of the window at that moment he saw a flock of
people passing by, and perceived them to be the congregation of the
upper church, now just dismissed, their sermon having been a longer
one than that the lower parish was favoured with. Among the rest of the
leading inhabitants walked Mr. Councillor Farfrae with Lucetta upon his
arm, the observed and imitated of all the smaller tradesmen's womankind.
Henchard's mouth changed a little, and he continued to turn over the
leaves.

"Now then," he said, "Psalm the Hundred-and-Ninth, to the tune of
Wiltshire: verses ten to fifteen. I gi'e ye the words:

"His seed shall orphans be, his wife
A widow plunged in grief;
His vagrant children beg their bread
Where none can give relief.

His ill-got riches shall be made
To usure