She was seated in the garden, in the rustic chair which stood under the laurel-bushes--made of peeled oak-branches that came to Melbury's premises as refuse after barking-time.

The mass of full-juiced leafage on the heights around her was just swayed into faint gestures by a nearly spent wind which, even in its enfeebled state, did not reach her shelter.

All day she had expected Giles to call--to inquire how she had got home, or something or other; but he had not come.

And he still tantalized her by going athwart and across that orchard opposite.

She could see him as she sat.
A slight diversion was presently created by Creedle bringing him a letter.