bouts
the horizon occurred; and in general there was here, too, that
before-mentioned preternatural inversion of light and shade which
attends the prospect when the garish brightness commonly in the sky
is found on the earth, and the shades of earth are in the sky. Over
the west hung the wasting moon, now dull and greenish-yellow, like
tarnished brass.

Boldwood was listlessly noting how the frost had hardened and glazed
the surface of the snow, till it shone in the red eastern light with
the polish of marble; how, in some portions of the slope, withered
grass-bents, encased in icicles, bristled through the smooth wan
coverlet in the twisted and curved shapes of old Venetian glass; and
how the footprints of a few birds, which had hopped over the snow
whilst it lay in the state of a soft fleece, were now frozen to a
short permanency. A half-muffled noise of light wheels interrupted
him. Boldwood turned back into the road. It was the mail-cart--a
crazy, two-wheeled vehicle, hardly heavy enough to resist a puff of
wind. The driver held out a letter. Boldwood seized it and opened
it, expecting another anonymous one--so greatly are people's ideas of
probability a mere sense that precedent will repeat itself.

"I don't think it is for you, sir," said the man, when he saw
Boldwood's action. "Though there is no name, I think it is for your
shepherd."

Boldwood looked then at the address--

To the New Shepherd,
Weatherbury Farm,
Near Casterbridge

"Oh--what a mistake!--it is not mine. Nor is it for my shepherd. It
is for Miss Everdene's. You had better take it on to him--Gabriel
Oak--and say I opened it in mistake."

At this moment, on the ridge, up against the blazing sky, a figure
was visible, like the black snuff in the midst of a candle-flame.
Then it moved and began to bustle about vigorously from place to
place, carrying square skeleton masses, which were riddled by the
same rays. A small figure on all fours followed behind. The tall
form was that of Gabriel Oak; the small one that of George; the
articles in course of transit were hurdles.

"Wait," said Boldwood. "That's the man on the hill. I'll take the
letter to him myself."

To Boldwood it was now no longer merely a letter to another man. It
was an opportunity. Exhibiting a face pregnant with intention, he
entered the snowy field.

Gabriel, at that minute, descended the hill towards the right. The
glow stret