"Oh, that's it." said Oak, jumping up, and dimissing for the present his thoughts on poor Fanny. "You are a good boy to run and tell me, Cain, and you shall smell a large plum pudding some day as a treat. But, before we go, Cainy, bring the tarpot, and we'll mark this lot and have done with 'em."
Oak took from his illimitable pockets a marking iron, dipped it into the pot, and imprintcd on the buttocks of the infant sheep the initials of her he delighted to muse on -- "B. E.." which signified to all the region round that henceforth the lambs belonged to Farmer Bathsheba Everdene, and to no one else.
"Now, Cainy, shoulder your two, and off Good morning, Mr. Boldwood." The shepherd lifted the sixteen large legs and four small bodies he had himself brought, and vanished with them in the direction of the lambing field hard by -- their frames being now in a sleek and hopeful state, pleasantly contrasting with their death's-door plight of half an hour before.
Boldwood followed him a little way up the field, hesitated, and turned back. He followed him again with a last resolve, annihilating return. On approaching the nook in which the fold was constructed, the farmer drew out-his pocket-book, unfastened-it, and allowed it to lie open on his hand. A letter was revealed -- Bathsheba's.
"I was going to ask you, Oak." he said, with unreal carelessness, "if you know whose writing this is? "
Oak glanced into the book, and replied instantly, with a flushed face, " Miss Everdene's."
Oak had coloured simply at the consciousness of sounding her name. He now felt a strangely distressing qualm from a new thought." The letter could of course be no other than anonymous, or the inquiry would not have been necessary.
Boldwood mistook his confusion: sensitive persons are always ready with their "Is it I?" in preference to objective reasoning.
"The question was perfectly fair." he returned -- and there was something incongruous in the serious earnestness with which he applied himself to an argument on a valentine. "You know it is always expected that privy inquiries will be made: that's where the -- fun lies." If the word "fun" had been "torture." it could not have been uttered with a more constrained and restless countenance than was Boldwood's then."
Soon parting from Gabriel, the lonely and reserved man returned to his house to breakfast -- feeling twinges of shame and regret at having so far exposed his mood by those fevered questions to a stranger. He again placed the letter on the mantelpiece, and sat down to think of the circumstances attending it by the light of Gabriel's information.