“Now the other side, for old acquaintance’ sake.”

She turned her head in the same passive way, as one might turn at the request of a sketcher or hairdresser, and he kissed the other side, his lips touching cheeks that were damp and smoothly chill as the skin of the mushrooms in the fields around.

“You don’t give me your mouth and kiss me back.  You never willingly do that—­you’ll never love me, I fear.”

“I have said so, often.  It is true.  I have never really and truly loved you, and I think I never can.”  She added mournfully, “Perhaps, of all things, a lie on this thing would do the most good to me now; but I have honour enough left, little as ’tis, not to tell that lie.  If I did love you, I may have the best o’ causes for letting you know it.  But I don’t.”

He emitted a laboured breath, as if the scene were getting rather oppressive to his heart, or to his conscience, or to his gentility.

“Well, you are absurdly melancholy, Tess.  I have no reason for flattering you now, and I can say plainly that you need not be so sad.  You can hold your own for beauty against any woman of these parts, gentle or simple; I say it to you as a practical man and well-wisher.  If you are wise you will show it to the world more than you do before it fades...  And yet, Tess, will you come back to me!  Upon my soul, I don’t like to let you go like this!”

“Never, never!  I made up my mind as soon as I saw—­what I ought to have seen sooner; and I won’t come.”

“Then good morning, my four months’ cousin—­good-bye!”

He leapt up lightly, arranged the reins, and was gone between the tall red-berried hedges.

Tess did not look after him, but slowly wound along the crooked lane.  It was still early, and though the sun’s lower limb was just free of the hill, his rays, ungenial and peering, addressed the eye rather than the touch as yet.  There was not a human soul near.  Sad October and her sadder self seemed the only two existences haunting that lane.

As she walked, however, some footsteps approached behind her, the footsteps of a man; and owing to the briskness of his advance he was close at her heels and had said “Good morning” before she had been long aware of his propinquity.  He appeared to be an artisan of some sort, and carried a tin pot of red paint in his hand.  He asked in a business-like manner if he should take her basket, which she permitted him to do, walking beside him.

“It is early to be astir this Sabbath morn!” he said cheerfully.

“Yes,” said Tess.

“When most people are at rest from their week’s work.”

She also assented to this.

“Though I do more real work to-day than all the week besides.”

“Do you?”

“All the week I work for the glory of man, and on Sunday for the glory of God.  That’s more real than the other—­hey?  I have a little to do here at this stile.”  The man turned, as he spoke, to an opening at the roadside leading into a pasture.  “If you’ll wait a moment,” he added, “I shall not be long.”