“Sit down—­Elizabeth-Jane—­sit down,” he said, with a shake in his voice as he uttered her name, and sitting down himself he allowed his hands to hang between his knees while he looked upon the carpet.  “Your mother, then, is quite well?”

“She is rather worn out, sir, with travelling.”

“A sailor’s widow—­when did he die?”

“Father was lost last spring.”

Henchard winced at the word “father,” thus applied.  “Do you and she come from abroad—­America or Australia?” he asked.

“No.  We have been in England some years.  I was twelve when we came here from Canada.”

“Ah; exactly.”  By such conversation he discovered the circumstances which had enveloped his wife and her child in such total obscurity that he had long ago believed them to be in their graves.  These things being clear, he returned to the present.  “And where is your mother staying?”

“At the Three Mariners.”

“And you are her daughter Elizabeth-Jane?” repeated Henchard.  He arose, came close to her, and glanced in her face.  “I think,” he said, suddenly turning away with a wet eye, “you shall take a note from me to your mother.  I should like to see her....She is not left very well off by her late husband?” His eye fell on Elizabeth’s clothes, which, though a respectable suit of black, and her very best, were decidedly old-fashioned even to Casterbridge eyes.

“Not very well,” she said, glad that he had divined this without her being obliged to express it.

He sat down at the table and wrote a few lines, next taking from his pocket-book a five-pound note, which he put in the envelope with the letter, adding to it, as by an afterthought, five shillings.  Sealing the whole up carefully, he directed it to “Mrs. Newson, Three Mariners Inn,” and handed the packet to Elizabeth.

“Deliver it to her personally, please,” said Henchard.  “Well, I am glad to see you here, Elizabeth-Jane—­very glad.  We must have a long talk together—­but not just now.”

He took her hand at parting, and held it so warmly that she, who had known so little friendship, was much affected, and tears rose to her aerial-grey eyes.  The instant that she was gone Henchard’s state showed itself more distinctly; having shut the door he sat in his dining-room stiffly erect, gazing at the opposite wall as if he read his history there.

“Begad!” he suddenly exclaimed, jumping up.  “I didn’t think of that.  Perhaps these are impostors—­and Susan and the child dead after all!”

However, a something in Elizabeth-Jane soon assured him that, as regarded her, at least, there could be little doubt.  And a few hours would settle the question of her mother’s identity; for he had arranged in his note to see her that evening.

“It never rains but it pours!” said Henchard.  His keenly excited interest in his new friend the Scotchman was now eclipsed by this event, and Donald Farfrae saw so little of him during the rest of the day that he wondered at the suddenness of his employer’s moods.