Tess knew the name.  It was the woman who had been destined for Angel’s life-companion by his and her parents, and whom he probably would have married but for her intrusive self.  She would have known as much without previous information if she had waited a moment, for one of the brothers proceeded to say:  “Ah! poor Angel, poor Angel!  I never see that nice girl without more and more regretting his precipitancy in throwing himself away upon a dairymaid, or whatever she may be.  It is a queer business, apparently.  Whether she has joined him yet or not I don’t know; but she had not done so some months ago when I heard from him.”

“I can’t say.  He never tells me anything nowadays.  His ill-considered marriage seems to have completed that estrangement from me which was begun by his extraordinary opinions.”

Tess beat up the long hill still faster; but she could not outwalk them without exciting notice.  At last they outsped her altogether, and passed her by.  The young lady still further ahead heard their footsteps and turned.  Then there was a greeting and a shaking of hands, and the three went on together.

They soon reached the summit of the hill, and, evidently intending this point to be the limit of their promenade, slackened pace and turned all three aside to the gate whereat Tess had paused an hour before that time to reconnoitre the town before descending into it.  During their discourse one of the clerical brothers probed the hedge carefully with his umbrella, and dragged something to light.

“Here’s a pair of old boots,” he said.  “Thrown away, I suppose, by some tramp or other.”

“Some imposter who wished to come into the town barefoot, perhaps, and so excite our sympathies,” said Miss Chant.  “Yes, it must have been, for they are excellent walking-boots—­by no means worn out.  What a wicked thing to do!  I’ll carry them home for some poor person.”

Cuthbert Clare, who had been the one to find them, picked them up for her with the crook of his stick; and Tess’s boots were appropriated.

She, who had heard this, walked past under the screen of her woollen veil till, presently looking back, she perceived that the church party had left the gate with her boots and retreated down the hill.

Thereupon our heroine resumed her walk.  Tears, blinding tears, were running down her face.  She knew that it was all sentiment, all baseless impressibility, which had caused her to read the scene as her own condemnation; nevertheless she could not get over it; she could not contravene in her own defenceless person all those untoward omens.  It was impossible to think of returning to the Vicarage.  Angel’s wife felt almost as if she had been hounded up that hill like a scorned thing by those—­to her—­superfine clerics.  Innocently as the slight had been inflicted, it was somewhat unfortunate that she had encountered the sons and not the father, who, despite his narrowness, was far less starched and ironed than they, and had to the full the gift of charity.  As she again thought of her dusty boots she almost pitied those habiliments for the quizzing to which they had been subjected, and felt how hopeless life was for their owner.