Her grandfather had turned back again, and did not hear the boy’s reply.  As soon as the white-haired man had vanished she said in a tone of pique to the child, “Ungrateful little boy, how can you contradict me?  Never shall you have a bonfire again unless you keep it up now.  Come, tell me you like to do things for me, and don’t deny it.”

The repressed child said, “Yes, I do, miss,” and continued to stir the fire perfunctorily.

“Stay a little longer and I will give you a crooked six-pence,” said Eustacia, more gently.  “Put in one piece of wood every two or three minutes, but not too much at once.  I am going to walk along the ridge a little longer, but I shall keep on coming to you.  And if you hear a frog jump into the pond with a flounce like a stone thrown in, be sure you run and tell me, because it is a sign of rain.”

“Yes, Eustacia.”

“Miss Vye, sir.”

“Miss Vy—­stacia.”

“That will do.  Now put in one stick more.”

The little slave went on feeding the fire as before.  He seemed a mere automaton, galvanized into moving and speaking by the wayward Eustacia’s will.  He might have been the brass statue which Albertus Magnus is said to have animated just so far as to make it chatter, and move, and be his servant.

Before going on her walk again the young girl stood still on the bank for a few instants and listened.  It was to the full as lonely a place as Rainbarrow, though at rather a lower level; and it was more sheltered from wind and weather on account of the few firs to the north.  The bank which enclosed the homestead, and protected it from the lawless state of the world without, was formed of thick square clods, dug from the ditch on the outside, and built up with a slight batter or incline, which forms no slight defense where hedges will not grow because of the wind and the wilderness, and where wall materials are unattainable.  Otherwise the situation was quite open, commanding the whole length of the valley which reached to the river behind Wildeve’s house.  High above this to the right, and much nearer thitherward than the Quiet Woman Inn, the blurred contour of Rainbarrow obstructed the sky.

After her attentive survey of the wild slopes and hollow ravines a gesture of impatience escaped Eustacia.  She vented petulant words every now and then, but there were sighs between her words, and sudden listenings between her sighs.  Descending from her perch she again sauntered off towards Rainbarrow, though this time she did not go the whole way.

Twice she reappeared at intervals of a few minutes and each time she said—­

“Not any flounce into the pond yet, little man?”

“No, Miss Eustacia,” the child replied.

“Well,” she said at last, “I shall soon be going in, and then I will give you the crooked sixpence, and let you go home.”

“Thank’ee, Miss Eustacia,” said the tired stoker, breathing more easily.  And Eustacia again strolled away from the fire, but this time not towards Rainbarrow.  She skirted the bank and went round to the wicket before the house, where she stood motionless, looking at the scene.