down one globular root and taking up another with automatic regularity, the pensive contour of the mere fieldwoman alone marking her.
'But it is not that I came to say,' D'Urberville went on. 'My circumstances are these. I have lost my mother since you were at Trantridge, and the place is my own. But I intend to sell it, and devote myself to missionary work in Africa, either as an ordained deacon or as an outside worker—I care very little which. Now, what I want to ask you is, will you put it in my power to do my duty—to make the only reparation I can make for the wrong I did you that is, will you be my wife, and go with me? . . . I have already obtained this, to save time.'
He drew a piece of parchment from his pocket.
'What is it?' said she.
'A marriage licence.'
'O no, sir—no!' she said quickly, starting back.
'You will not? Why is that?'
And as he asked the question a disappointment which was not entirely the disappointment of thwarted duty crossed D'Urberville's face. It was unmistakably a symptom that something of
