nearest man in that direction.
"Safe now—leastwise I think so. If this rick had gone the barn would have followed. 'Tis that bold shepherd up there that has done the most good—he sitting on the top o' rick, whizzing his great long arms about like a windmill."
"He does work hard," said the young woman on horseback, looking up at Gabriel through her thick woollen veil. "I wish he was shepherd here. Don't any of you know his name?"
"Never heard the man's name in my life, or seen his form afore."
The fire began to get worsted, and Gabriel's elevated position being no longer required of him, he made as if to descend.
"Maryann," said the girl on horseback, "go to him as he comes down, and say that the farmer wishes to thank him for the great service he has done."
Maryann stalked off towards the rick and met Oak at the foot of the ladder. She delivered her message.
"Where is your master the farmer?" asked Gabriel, kindling with the idea of getting employment that seemed to strike him now.
"'Tisn't a master; 'tis a mistress, shepherd."
"A woman farmer?"
"Ay, 'a b'lieve, and a rich one too!" said a bystander. "Lately 'a came here from a distance. Took on her uncle's farm, who died suddenly. Used to measure his money in half-pint cups. They say now that she've business in every bank in Casterbridge, and thinks no more of playing pitch-and-toss-sovereign than you and I do pitch-halfpenny—not a bit in the world, shepherd."
"That's she, back there upon the pony," said Maryann; "wi' her face a-covered up in a cloth with holes in it."
Oak, his features black, grimy, and undiscoverable from the smoke and heat, his smock-frock burnt into holes, dripping with water, the ash-stem of his sheep-crook charred six inches shorter than it had been, advanced with the humility stern adversity had thrust upon him up to the slight female form in the saddle. He lifted his hat with respect, and not without gallantry: stepping close to her hanging feet, he said in a hesitating voice,—
"Do you happen to want a shepherd, ma'am?"
She lifted the Shetland veil tied round her face, and looked all astonishment. Gabriel and his cold-hearted darling, Bathsheba Everdene, were face to face.
Bathsheba did not speak, and he mechanically repeated in an abashed and sad voice,—
"Do you want a shepherd, ma'am?"
CHAPTER VII.
RECOGNITION—A TIMID GIRL
Bathsheba withdrew into the shade. She scarcely knew whether most to be amused at the singularity of the meeting, or to be concerned at its awkwardness. There was room for a little pity, also for a very little exultation: the former at his position, the latter at her own. Embarrassed she was not, and she remembered Gabriel's declaration of love to her at Norcombe only to think she had nearly forgotten it.
"Yes," she murmured, putting on an 

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