"'Ye are to declare it,' was the parson's words," Fairway continued.
"And then up stood a woman at my side--a-touching of me. 'Well, be
damned if there isn't Mis'ess Yeobright a-standing up,' I said to
myself. Yes, neighbours, though I was in the temple of prayer that's
what I said. 'Tis against my conscience to curse and swear in company,
and I hope any woman here will overlook it. Still what I did say I did
say, and 'twould be a lie if I didn't own it."

"So 'twould, neighbour Fairway."

"'Be damned if there isn't Mis'ess Yeobright a-standing up,' I said,"
the narrator repeated, giving out the bad word with the same passionless
severity of face as before, which proved how entirely necessity and not
gusto had to do with the iteration. "And the next thing I heard was, 'I
forbid the banns,' from her. 'I'll speak to you after the service,'
said the parson, in quite a homely way--yes, turning all at once into a
common man no holier than you or I. Ah, her face was pale! Maybe you
can call to mind that monument in Weatherbury church--the cross-legged
soldier that have had his arm knocked away by the schoolchildren? Well,
he would about have matched that woman's face, when she said, 'I forbid
the banns.'"

The audience cleared their throats and tossed a few stalks into the
fire, not because these deeds were urgent, but to give themselves time
to weigh the moral of the story.

"I'm sure when I heard they'd been forbid I felt as glad as if anybody
had gied me sixpence," said an earnest voice--that of Olly Dowden, a
woman who lived by making heath brooms, or besoms. Her nature was to be