rfrae drove onward, and by
the afternoon reached the neighbourhood of some extension of the heath
to the north of Anglebury, a prominent feature of which, in the form of
a blasted clump of firs on a summit of a hill, they soon passed under.
That the road they were following had, up to this point, been Henchard's
track on foot they were pretty certain; but the ramifications which now
began to reveal themselves in the route made further progress in the
right direction a matter of pure guess-work, and Donald strongly advised
his wife to give up the search in person, and trust to other means for
obtaining news of her stepfather. They were now a score of miles at
least from home, but, by resting the horse for a couple of hours at a
village they had just traversed, it would be possible to get back to
Casterbridge that same day, while to go much further afield would reduce
them to the necessity of camping out for the night, "and that will make
a hole in a sovereign," said Farfrae. She pondered the position, and
agreed with him.

He accordingly drew rein, but before reversing their direction paused a
moment and looked vaguely round upon the wide country which the elevated
position disclosed. While they looked a solitary human form came from
under the clump of trees, and crossed ahead of them. The person was some
labourer; his gait was shambling, his regard fixed in front of him as
absolutely as if he wore blinkers; and in his hand he carried a few
sticks. Having crossed the road he descended into a ravine, where a
cottage revealed itself, which he entered.

"If it were not so far away from Casterbridge I should say that must be
poor Whittle. 'Tis just like him," observed Elizabeth-Jane.

"And it may be Whittle, for he's never been to the yard these three
weeks, going away without saying any word at all; and I owing him for
two days' work, without knowing who to pay it to."

The possibility led them to alight, and at least make an inquiry at the
cottage. Farfrae hitched the reins to the gate-post, and they approached
what was of humble dwellings surely the humblest. The walls, built of
kneaded clay originally faced with a trowel, had been worn by years of
rain-washings to a lumpy crumbling surface, channelled and sunken from
its plane, its gray rents held together here and there by a leafy strap
of ivy which could scarcely find substance enough for the purpose. The
rafters were sunken, and the thatch of the roof in ragged hol