It happened that to-day there rose in the midst of them all two or three tall apple-trees standing as if they grew on the spot; till it was perceived that they were held by men from the cider-districts who came here to sell them, bringing the clay of their county on their boots.  Elizabeth-Jane, who had often observed them, said, “I wonder if the same trees come every week?”

“What trees?” said Lucetta, absorbed in watching for Henchard.

Elizabeth replied vaguely, for an incident checked her.  Behind one of the trees stood Farfrae, briskly discussing a sample-bag with a farmer.  Henchard had come up, accidentally encountering the young man, whose face seemed to inquire, “Do we speak to each other?”

She saw her stepfather throw a shine into his eye which answered “No!” Elizabeth-Jane sighed.

“Are you particularly interested in anybody out there?” said Lucetta.

“O, no,” said her companion, a quick red shooting over her face.

Luckily Farfrae’s figure was immediately covered by the apple-tree.

Lucetta looked hard at her.  “Quite sure?” she said.

“O yes,” said Elizabeth-Jane.

Again Lucetta looked out.  “They are all farmers, I suppose?” she said.

“No.  There’s Mr. Bulge—­he’s a wine merchant; there’s Benjamin Brownlet—­a horse dealer; and Kitson, the pig breeder; and Yopper, the auctioneer; besides maltsters, and millers—­and so on.”  Farfrae stood out quite distinctly now; but she did not mention him.

The Saturday afternoon slipped on thus desultorily.  The market changed from the sample-showing hour to the idle hour before starting homewards, when tales were told.  Henchard had not called on Lucetta though he had stood so near.  He must have been too busy, she thought.  He would come on Sunday or Monday.

The days came but not the visitor, though Lucetta repeated her dressing with scrupulous care.  She got disheartened.  It may at once be declared that Lucetta no longer bore towards Henchard all that warm allegiance which had characterized her in their first acquaintance, the then unfortunate issue of things had chilled pure love considerably.  But there remained a conscientious wish to bring about her union with him, now that there was nothing to hinder it—­to right her position—­which in itself was a happiness to sigh for.  With strong social reasons on her side why their marriage should take place there had ceased to be any worldly reason on his why it should be postponed, since she had succeeded to fortune.

Tuesday was the great Candlemas fair.  At breakfast she said to Elizabeth-Jane quite coolly:  “I imagine your father may call to see you to-day.  I suppose he stands close by in the market-place with the rest of the corn-dealers?”

She shook her head.  “He won’t come.”

“Why?”

“He has taken against me,” she said in a husky voice.

“You have quarreled more deeply than I know of.”