Maryann stalked off towards the rick and met Oak at the foot of the ladder. She delivered her message.
"Where is your master the farmer?" asked Gabriel, kindling with the idea of getting employment that seemed to strike him now.
"'Tisn't a master; 'tis a mistress, shepherd."
"A woman farmer?"
"Ay, 'a b'lieve, and a rich one too!" said a bystander. "Lately 'a come here from a distance. Took on her uncle's farm, who died suddenly. Used to measure his money in halfpint cups. They say now that she've business in every bank in Casterbridge, and thinks no more of playing pitch-and-toss-sovereign than you and I do pitch-halfpenny—not a bit in the world, shepherd."
"That's she, back there upon the pony," said Maryann; "wi' her face a-covered up in a cloth with holes in it."
Oak, his features black, grimy, and undiscoverable from the smoke and heat, his smockfrock burnt into holes, dripping with water, the ash-stem of his sheep-crook charred six inches shorter than it had been, advanced with the humility stern adversity had thrust upon him up to the slight female form in the saddle. He lifted his hat with respect, and not with-
