Return of the Native

e boy, how can you contradict me? Never
shall you have a bonfire again unless you keep it up now. Come, tell me
you like to do things for me, and don't deny it."

The repressed child said, "Yes, I do, miss," and continued to stir the
fire perfunctorily.

"Stay a little longer and I will give you a crooked six-pence," said
Eustacia, more gently. "Put in one piece of wood every two or three
minutes, but not too much at once. I am going to walk along the ridge a
little longer, but I shall keep on coming to you. And if you hear a frog
jump into the pond with a flounce like a stone thrown in, be sure you
run and tell me, because it is a sign of rain."

"Yes, Eustacia."

"Miss Vye, sir."

"Miss Vy--stacia."

"That will do. Now put in one stick more."

The little slave went on feeding the fire as before. He seemed a mere
automaton, galvanized into moving and speaking by the wayward Eustacia's
will. He might have been the brass statue which Albertus Magnus is said
to have animated just so far as to make it chatter, and move, and be his
servant.

Before going on her walk again the young girl stood still on the bank
for a few instants and listened. It was to the full as lonely a place
as Rainbarrow, though at rather a lower level; and it was more sheltered
from wind and weather on account of the few firs to the north. The bank
which enclosed the homestead, and protected it from the lawless state of
the world without, was formed of thick square clods, dug from the ditch
on the outside, and built up with a slight batter or incline, which
forms no slight defense where hedges will not grow because of the wind
and the wilderness, and where wall materials are unattainable. Otherwise
the situation was quite open, commanding the whole length of the valley
which reached to the river behind Wildeve's house. High above this to
the right, and much nearer thitherward than the Quiet Woman Inn, the
blurred contour of Rainbarrow obstructed the sky.

After her attentive survey of the wild slopes an

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Thomas Hardy, OM (June 2, 1840 January 11, 1928) was an English novelist, short story writer, and poet of the naturalist movement, though he saw himself as a poet and wrote novels mainly for financial gain only. The bulk of his work, set mainly in the semi-imaginary county of Wessex, delineates characters struggling against their passions and circumstances. Hardys poetry, first published in his fifties, has come to be as well regarded as his novels, especially after The Movement of the 1950s and 1960s.