even in name. “’Tis yours, Miss Graye,” says he.  “No, ’tis yours,” says she. “‘Tis’n’ mine,” says he.  The Crown had cast his eyes upon the case, thinken o’ forfeiture by felony—­but ’twas no such thing, and ’a gied it up, too.  Did you ever hear such a tale?—­three people, a man and a woman, and a Crown—­neither o’ em in a madhouse—­flingen an estate backwards and forwards like an apple or nut?  Well, it ended in this way.  Mr. Raunham took it:  young Springrove was had as agent and steward, and put to live in Knapwater House, close here at hand —­just as if ’twas his own.  He does just what he’d like—­Mr. Raunham never interferen—­and hither to-day he’s brought his new wife, Cytherea.  And a settlement ha’ been drawn up this very day, whereby their children, heirs, and cetrer, be to inherit after Mr. Raunham’s death.  Good fortune came at last.  Her brother, too, is doen well.  He came in first man in some architectural competition, and is about to move to London.  Here’s the house, look.  Stap out from these bushes, and you’ll get a clear sight o’t.’

They emerged from the shrubbery, breaking off towards the lake, and down the south slope.  When they arrived exactly opposite the centre of the mansion, they halted.

It was a magnificent picture of the English country-house.  The whole of the severe regular front, with its columns and cornices, was built of a white smoothly-faced freestone, which appeared in the rays of the moon as pure as Pentelic marble.  The sole objects in the scene rivalling the fairness of the facade were a dozen swans floating upon the lake.

At this moment the central door at the top of the steps was opened, and two figures advanced into the light.  Two contrasting figures were they.  A young lithe woman in an airy fairy dress—­Cytherea Springrove:  a young man in black stereotype raiment—­Edward, her husband.

They stood at the top of the steps together, looking at the moon, the water, and the general loveliness of the prospect.

’That’s the married man and wife—­there, I’ve illustrated my story by rale liven specimens,’ the clerk whispered.

‘To be sure, how close together they do stand!  You couldn’ slip a penny-piece between ’em—­that you couldn’!  Beautiful to see it, isn’t it—­beautiful! . . .  But this is a private path, and we won’t let ’em see us, as all the ringers be goen there to a supper and dance to-morrow night.’

The speaker and his companion softly moved on, passed through the wicket, and into the coach-road.  Arrived at the clerk’s house at the further boundary of the park, they paused to part.

‘Now for your half o’ the bargain,’ said Clerk Crickett.  ’What’s your line o’ life, and what d’ye come here for?’

’I’m the reporter to the Casterbridge Chronicle, and I come to pick up the news.  Good-night.’

Meanwhile Edward and Cytherea, after lingering on the steps for several minutes, slowly descended the slope to the lake.  The skiff was lying alongside.