he preparations, and went home again. The
next morning, when Thomasin withdrew the curtains of her bedroom window,
there stood the Maypole in the middle of the green, its top cutting into
the sky. It had sprung up in the night, or rather early morning, like
Jack's bean-stalk. She opened the casement to get a better view of the
garlands and posies that adorned it. The sweet perfume of the flowers
had already spread into the surrounding air, which, being free from
every taint, conducted to her lips a full measure of the fragrance
received from the spire of blossom in its midst. At the top of the
pole were crossed hoops decked with small flowers; beneath these came a
milk-white zone of Maybloom; then a zone of bluebells, then of cowslips,
then of lilacs, then of ragged-robins, daffodils, and so on, till the
lowest stage was reached. Thomasin noticed all these, and was delighted
that the May revel was to be so near.

When afternoon came people began to gather on the green, and Yeobright
was interested enough to look out upon them from the open window of
his room. Soon after this Thomasin walked out from the door immediately
below and turned her eyes up to her cousin's face. She was dressed
more gaily than Yeobright had ever seen her dressed since the time of
Wildeve's death, eighteen months before; since the day of her marriage
even she had not exhibited herself to such advantage.

"How pretty you look today, Thomasin!" he said. "Is it because of the
Maypole?"

"Not altogether." And then she blushed and dropped her eyes, which he
did not specially observe, though her manner seemed to him to be rather
peculiar, considering that she was only addressing himself. Could it be
possible that she had put on her summer clothes to please him?

He recalled her conduct towards him throughout the last few weeks, when
they had often been working together in the garden, just as they had
formerly done when they were boy and girl under his mother's eye. What
if her interest in him were not so entirely that of a relative as it had
formerly been? To Yeobright any possibility of this sort was a serious
matter; and he almost felt troubled at the thought of it. Every pulse of
loverlike feeling which had not been stilled during Eustacia's lifetime
had gone into the grave with her. His passion for her had occurred too
far on in his manhood to leave fuel enough on hand for another fire
of that sort, as may happen with more boyish loves. Even sup