It was a great relief when, early in the afternoon, Thomasin paid her an unexpected visit.  This was not the first meeting between the relatives since Thomasin’s marriage; and past blunders having been in a rough way rectified, they could always greet each other with pleasure and ease.

The oblique band of sunlight which followed her through the door became the young wife well.  It illuminated her as her presence illuminated the heath.  In her movements, in her gaze, she reminded the beholder of the feathered creatures who lived around her home.  All similes and allegories concerning her began and ended with birds.  There was as much variety in her motions as in their flight.  When she was musing she was a kestrel, which hangs in the air by an invisible motion of its wings.  When she was in a high wind her light body was blown against trees and banks like a heron’s.  When she was frightened she darted noiselessly like a kingfisher.  When she was serene she skimmed like a swallow, and that is how she was moving now.

“You are looking very blithe, upon my word, Tamsie,” said Mrs. Yeobright, with a sad smile.  “How is Damon?”

“He is very well.”

“Is he kind to you, Thomasin?” And Mrs. Yeobright observed her narrowly.

“Pretty fairly.”

“Is that honestly said?”

“Yes, aunt.  I would tell you if he were unkind.”  She added, blushing, and with hesitation, “He—­I don’t know if I ought to complain to you about this, but I am not quite sure what to do.  I want some money, you know, aunt—­some to buy little things for myself—­and he doesn’t give me any.  I don’t like to ask him; and yet, perhaps, he doesn’t give it me because he doesn’t know.  Ought I to mention it to him, aunt?”

“Of course you ought.  Have you never said a word on the matter?”

“You see, I had some of my own,” said Thomasin evasively, “and I have not wanted any of his until lately.  I did just say something about it last week; but he seems—­not to remember.”

“He must be made to remember.  You are aware that I have a little box full of spade-guineas, which your uncle put into my hands to divide between yourself and Clym whenever I chose.  Perhaps the time has come when it should be done.  They can be turned into sovereigns at any moment.”

“I think I should like to have my share—­that is, if you don’t mind.”

“You shall, if necessary.  But it is only proper that you should first tell your husband distinctly that you are without any, and see what he will do.”

“Very well, I will...  Aunt, I have heard about Clym.  I know you are in trouble about him, and that’s why I have come.”

Mrs. Yeobright turned away, and her features worked in her attempt to conceal her feelings.  Then she ceased to make any attempt, and said, weeping, “O Thomasin, do you think he hates me?  How can he bear to grieve me so, when I have lived only for him through all these years?”