Eustacia looked curiously at the singular man who spoke thus.  What a strange sort of love, to be entirely free from that quality of selfishness which is frequently the chief constituent of the passion, and sometimes its only one!  The reddleman’s disinterestedness was so well deserving of respect that it overshot respect by being barely comprehended; and she almost thought it absurd.

“Then we are both of one mind at last,” she said.

“Yes,” replied Venn gloomily.  “But if you would tell me, miss, why you take such an interest in her, I should be easier.  It is so sudden and strange.”

Eustacia appeared at a loss.  “I cannot tell you that, reddleman,” she said coldly.

Venn said no more.  He pocketed the letter, and, bowing to Eustacia, went away.

Rainbarrow had again become blended with night when Wildeve ascended the long acclivity at its base.  On his reaching the top a shape grew up from the earth immediately behind him.  It was that of Eustacia’s emissary.  He slapped Wildeve on the shoulder.  The feverish young innkeeper and ex-engineer started like Satan at the touch of Ithuriel’s spear.

“The meeting is always at eight o’clock, at this place,” said Venn, “and here we are—­we three.”

“We three?” said Wildeve, looking quickly round.

“Yes; you, and I, and she.  This is she.”  He held up the letter and parcel.

Wildeve took them wonderingly.  “I don’t quite see what this means,” he said.  “How do you come here?  There must be some mistake.”

“It will be cleared from your mind when you have read the letter.  Lanterns for one.”  The reddleman struck a light, kindled an inch of tallow-candle which he had brought, and sheltered it with his cap.

“Who are you?” said Wildeve, discerning by the candlelight an obscure rubicundity of person in his companion.  “You are the reddleman I saw on the hill this morning—­why, you are the man who—­”

“Please read the letter.”

“If you had come from the other one I shouldn’t have been surprised,” murmured Wildeve as he opened the letter and read.  His face grew serious.

   To Mr. Wildeve.

After some thought I have decided once and for all that we must hold no further communication.  The more I consider the matter the more I am convinced that there must be an end to our acquaintance.  Had you been uniformly faithful to me throughout these two years you might now have some ground for accusing me of heartlessness; but if you calmly consider what I bore during the period of your desertion, and how I passively put up with your courtship of another without once interfering, you will, I think, own that I have a right to consult my own feelings when you come back to me again.  That these are not what they were towards you may, perhaps, be a fault in me, but it is one which you can scarcely reproach me for when you remember how you left