The young girls formed, indeed, the majority of the band, and their heads of luxuriant hair reflected in the sunshine every tone of gold, and black, and brown.  Some had beautiful eyes, others a beautiful nose, others a beautiful mouth and figure:  few, if any, had all.  A difficulty of arranging their lips in this crude exposure to public scrutiny, an inability to balance their heads, and to dissociate self-consciousness from their features, was apparent in them, and showed that they were genuine country girls, unaccustomed to many eyes.

And as each and all of them were warmed without by the sun, so each had a private little sun for her soul to bask in; some dream, some affection, some hobby, at least some remote and distant hope which, though perhaps starving to nothing, still lived on, as hopes will.  They were all cheerful, and many of them merry.

They came round by The Pure Drop Inn, and were turning out of the high road to pass through a wicket-gate into the meadows, when one of the women said—­

“The Load-a-Lord!  Why, Tess Durbeyfield, if there isn’t thy father riding hwome in a carriage!”

A young member of the band turned her head at the exclamation.  She was a fine and handsome girl—­not handsomer than some others, possibly—­but her mobile peony mouth and large innocent eyes added eloquence to colour and shape.  She wore a red ribbon in her hair, and was the only one of the white company who could boast of such a pronounced adornment.  As she looked round Durbeyfield was seen moving along the road in a chaise belonging to The Pure Drop, driven by a frizzle-headed brawny damsel with her gown-sleeves rolled above her elbows.  This was the cheerful servant of that establishment, who, in her part of factotum, turned groom and ostler at times.  Durbeyfield, leaning back, and with his eyes closed luxuriously, was waving his hand above his head, and singing in a slow recitative—­

“I’ve-got-a-gr’t-family-vault-at-Kingsbere—­and knighted-forefathers-in-lead-coffins-there!”

The clubbists tittered, except the girl called Tess—­in whom a slow heat seemed to rise at the sense that her father was making himself foolish in their eyes.

“He’s tired, that’s all,” she said hastily, “and he has got a lift home, because our own horse has to rest to-day.”

“Bless thy simplicity, Tess,” said her companions.  “He’s got his market-nitch.  Haw-haw!”

“Look here; I won’t walk another inch with you, if you say any jokes about him!” Tess cried, and the colour upon her cheeks spread over her face and neck.  In a moment her eyes grew moist, and her glance drooped to the ground.  Perceiving that they had really pained her they said no more, and order again prevailed.  Tess’s pride would not allow her to turn her head again, to learn what her father’s meaning was, if he had any; and thus she moved on with the whole body to the enclosure where there was to be dancing on the green.  By the time the spot was reached she has recovered her equanimity, and tapped her neighbour with her wand and talked as usual.