"Can't ye fix your mind upon what was said by the London preacher to-day, and try to get rid of your wandering fancies that way?"
"I do. But my wicked heart will ramble off in spite of myself."
"Well―I know what it is to have a wanton mind o' my own, too! If you only knew what I do dream sometimes o' nights quite against my wishes, you'd say I had my struggles!" (Anny, too, had grown rather serious of late, her lover having jilted her.)
"What shall I do about it?" urged Arabella, morbidly.
"You could take a lock of your late-lost husband's hair, and have it made into a mourning brooch, and look at it every hour of the day."
"I haven't a morsel!―and if I had 'twould be no good.... After all that's said about the comforts of this religion. I wish I had Jude back again!"
"You must fight valiant against the feeling, since he's another's. And I've heard that another good thing for it when it afflicts volupshious widows, is to go to your husband's grave in the dusk of evening, and stand a long while a-bowed down."
"Pooh! I know as well as you what I must do; only I don't do it!"
They drove in silence along the straight road till they were within the horizon of Marygreen, which lay not far to the left of their route. They came to the junction of the highway and the cross-lane leading to that village, whose church-tower could be seen athwart the hollow. When they got yet farther on, and were passing the lonely house in which Arabella and Jude had lived during the first months of their marriage, and where the pig-killing had taken place, she could control herself no longer.
"He's more mine than hers!" she burst out. "What right has she to him, I should like to know! I'd take him from her if I could!"
