prompt:
Chapter: As Adam was going homeward, on Wednesday evening, in the six o'clock
sunlight, he saw in the distance the last load of barley winding its way
towards the yard-gate of the Hall Farm, and heard the chant of "Harvest
Home!" rising and sinking like a wave. Fainter and fainter, and more
musical through the growing distance, the falling dying sound still
reached him, as he neared the Willow Brook. The low westering sun shone
right on the shoulders of the old Binton Hills, turning the unconscious
sheep into bright spots of light; shone on the windows of the cottage
too, and made them a-flame with a glory beyond that of amber or
amethyst. It was enough to make Adam feel that he was in a great temple,
and that the distant chant was a sacred song.

"It's wonderful," he thought, "how that sound goes to one's heart almost
like a funeral bell, for all it tells one o' the joyfullest time o' the
year, and the time when men are mostly the thankfullest. I suppose it's
a bit hard to us to think anything's over and gone in our lives; and
there's a parting at the root of all our joys. It's like what I feel
about Dinah. I should never ha' come to know that her love 'ud be the
greatest o' blessings to me, if what I counted a blessing hadn't been
wrenched and torn away from me, and left me with a greater need, so as I
could crave and hunger for a greater and a better comfort."

He expected to see Dinah again this evening, and get leave to accompany
her as far as Oakbourne; and then he would ask her to fix some time when
he might go to Snowfield, and learn whether the last best hope that had
been born to him must be resigned like the rest. The work he had to do
at home, besides putting on his best clothes, made it seven before he
was on his way again to the Hall Farm, and it was questionable whether,
with his longest and quickest strides, he should be there in time even
for the roast beef, which came after the plum pudding, for Mrs. Poyser's
supper would be punctual.

Great was the clatter of knives and pewter plates and tin cans when Adam
entered the house, but there was no hum of voices to this accompaniment:
the eating of excellent roast beef, provided free of expense, was too
serious a business to those good farm-labourers to be performed with
a divided attention, even if they had had anything to say to each
other--which they had not. And Mr. Poyser, at the head of the table, was
too busy with his carving to listen to Bartle Massey's or Mr. Craig's
ready talk.

"Here, Adam," said Mrs. Poyser, who was standing and looking on to see
that Molly and Nancy did their duty as waiters, "here's a place kept for
you between Mr. Massey and the boys. It's a poor tale you couldn't come
to see the pudding when it was whole."

Adam looked anxiously round for a fourth woman's figure, but Dinah
was not there. He was almost afraid of asking about her; besides, his
attention was claimed by greetings, and there remained the hope that
Dinah was in the house, though perhaps disinclined to festivities on the
eve of her departure.

It was a goodly sight--that table, with Martin Poyser's round
good-humoured face and large person at the head of it helping his
servants to the fragrant roast beef and pleased when the empty plates
came again. Martin, though usually blest with a good appetite, really
forgot to finish his own beef to-night--it was so pleasant to him to
look on in the intervals of carving and see how the others enjoyed their
supper; for were they not men who, on all the days of the year except
Christmas Day and Sundays, ate their cold dinner, in a makeshift manner,
under the hedgerows, and drank their beer out of wooden bottles--with
relish certainly, but with their mouths towards the zenith, after a
fashion more endurable to ducks than to human bipeds. Martin Poyser had
some faint conception of the flavour such men must find in hot roast
beef and fresh-drawn ale. He held his head on one side and screwed
up his mouth, as he nudged Bartle Massey, and watched half-witted Tom
Tholer, otherwise known as "Tom Saft," receiving his second plateful of
beef. A grin of delight broke over Tom's face as the plate was set down
before him, between his knife and fork, which he held erect, as if
they had been sacred tapers. But the delight was too strong to continue
smouldering in a grin--it burst out the next instant in a long-drawn
"haw, haw!" followed by a sudden collapse into utter gravity, as the
knife and fork darted down on the prey. Martin Poyser's large person
shook with his silent unctuous laugh. He turned towards Mrs. Poyser to
see if she too had been observant of Tom, and the eyes of husband and
wife met in a glance of good-natured amusement.

"Tom Saft" was a great favourite on the farm, where he played the part
of the old jester, and made up for his practical deficiencies by his
success in repartee. His hits, I imagine, were those of the flail, which
falls quite at random, but nevertheless smashes an insect now and then.
They were much quoted at sheep-shearing and haymaking times, but I
refrain from recording them here, lest Tom's wit should prove to be
like that of many other bygone jesters eminent in their day--rather of a
temporary nature, not dealing with the deeper and more lasting relations
of things.

Tom excepted, Martin Poyser had some pride in his servants and
labourers, thinking with satisfaction that they were the best worth
their pay of any set on the estate. There was Kester Bale, for example
(Beale, probably, if the truth were known, but he was called Bale, and
was not conscious of any claim to a fifth letter), the old man with the
close leather cap and the network of wrinkles on his sun-browned face.
Was there any man in Loamshire who knew better the "natur" of all
farming work? He was one of those invaluable labourers who can not only
turn their hand to everything, but excel in everything they turn their
hand to. It is true Kester's knees were much bent outward by this time,
and he walked with a perpetual curtsy, as if he were among the most
reverent of men. And so he was; but I am obliged to admit that the
object of his reverence was his own skill, towards which he performed
some rather affecting acts of worship. He always thatched the ricks--for
if anything were his forte more than another, it was thatching--and when
the last touch had been put to the last beehive rick, Kester, whose home
lay at some distance from the farm, would take a walk to the rick-yard
in his best clothes on a Sunday morning and stand in the lane, at a due
distance, to contemplate his own thatching, walking about to get each
rick from the proper point of view. As he curtsied along, with his eyes
upturned to the straw knobs imitative of golden globes at the summits
of the beehive ricks, which indeed were gold of the best sort, you might
have imagined him to be engaged in some pagan act of adoration.
Kester was an old bachelor and reputed to have stockings full of coin,
concerning which his master cracked a joke with him every pay-night:
not a new unseasoned joke, but a good old one, that had been tried
many times before and had worn well. "Th' young measter's a merry mon,"
Kester frequently remarked; for having begun his career by frightening
away the crows under the last Martin Poyser but one, he could never
cease to account the reigning Martin a young master. I am not ashamed
of commemorating old Kester. You and I are indebted to the hard hands of
such men--hands that have long ago mingled with the soil they tilled so
faithfully, thriftily making the best they could of the earth's fruits,
and receiving the smallest share as their own wages.

Then, at the end of the table, opposite his master, there was Alick, the
shepherd and head-man, with the ruddy face and broad shoulders, not on
the best terms with old Kester; indeed, their intercourse was confined
to an occasional snarl, for though they probably differed little
concerning hedging and ditching and the treatment of ewes, there was a
profound difference of opinion between them as to their own respective
merits. When Tityrus and Meliboeus happen to be on the same farm, they
are not sentimentally polite to each other. Alick, indeed, was not by
any means a honeyed man. His speech had usually something of a snarl
in it, and his broad-shouldered aspect something of the bull-dog
expression--"Don't you meddle with me, and I won't meddle with you." But
he was honest even to the splitting of an oat-grain rather than he
would take beyond his acknowledged share, and as "close-fisted" with
his master's property as if it had been his own--throwing very small
handfuls of damaged barley to the chickens, because a large handful
affected his imagination painfully with a sense of profusion.
Good-tempered Tim, the waggoner, who loved his horses, had his grudge
against Alick in the matter of corn. They rarely spoke to each other,
and never looked at each other, even over their dish of cold potatoes;
but then, as this was their usual mode of behaviour towards all mankind,
it would be an unsafe conclusion that they had more than transient fits
of unfriendliness. The bucolic character at Hayslope, you perceive,
was not of that entirely genial, merry, broad-grinning sort, apparently
observed in most districts visited by artists. The mild radiance of a
smile was a rare sight on a field-labourer's face, and there was seldom
any gradation between bovine gravity and a laugh. Nor was every labourer
so honest as our friend Alick. At this very table, among Mr. Poyser's
men, there is that big Ben Tholoway, a very powerful thresher, but
detected more than once in carrying away his master's corn in his
pockets--an action which, as Ben was not a philosopher, could hardly be
ascribed to absence of mind. However, his master had forgiven him, and
continued to employ him, for the Tholoways had lived on the Common time
out of mind, and had always worked for the Poysers. And on the whole, I
daresay, society was not much the worse because Ben had not six months
of it at the treadmill, for his views of depredation were narrow, and
the House of Correction might have enlarged them. As it was, Ben ate his
roast beef to-night with a serene sense of having stolen nothing more
than a few peas and beans as seed for his garden since the last harvest
supper, and felt warranted in thinking that Alick's suspicious eye, for
ever upon him, was an injury to his innocence.

But NOW the roast beef was finished and the cloth was drawn, leaving
a fair large deal table for the bright drinking-cans, and the foaming
brown jugs, and the bright brass candlesticks, pleasant to behold. NOW,
the great ceremony of the evening was to begin--the harvest-song,
in which every man must join. He might be in tune, if he liked to be
singular, but he must not sit with closed lips. The movement was obliged
to be in triple time; the rest was ad libitum.

As to the origin of this song--whether it came in its actual state from
the brain of a single rhapsodist, or was gradually perfected by a school
or succession of rhapsodists, I am ignorant. There is a stamp of
unity, of individual genius upon it, which inclines me to the former
hypothesis, though I am not blind to the consideration that this unity
may rather have arisen from that consensus of many minds which was a
condition of primitive thought, foreign to our modern consciousness.
Some will perhaps think that they detect in the first quatrain
an indication of a lost line, which later rhapsodists, failing in
imaginative vigour, have supplied by the feeble device of iteration.
Others, however, may rather maintain that this very iteration is an
original felicity, to which none but the most prosaic minds can be
insensible.

The ceremony connected with the song was a drinking ceremony. (That
is perhaps a painful fact, but then, you know, we cannot reform our
forefathers.) During the first and second quatrain, sung decidedly
forte, no can was filled.

     Here's a health unto our master,
     The founder of the feast;
     Here's a health unto our master
     And to our mistress!

     And may his doings prosper,
     Whate'er he takes in hand,
     For we are all his servants,
     And are at his command.

But now, immediately before the third quatrain or chorus, sung
fortissimo, with emphatic raps of the table, which gave the effect of
cymbals and drum together, Alick's can was filled, and he was bound to
empty it before the chorus ceased.

     Then drink, boys, drink!
     And see ye do not spill,
     For if ye do, ye shall drink two,
     For 'tis our master's will.

When Alick had gone successfully through this test of steady-handed
manliness, it was the turn of old Kester, at his right hand--and so on,
till every man had drunk his initiatory pint under the stimulus of the
chorus. Tom Saft--the rogue--took care to spill a little by accident;
but Mrs. Poyser (too officiously, Tom thought) interfered to prevent the
exaction of the penalty.

To any listener outside the door it would have been the reverse of
obvious why the "Drink, boys, drink!" should have such an immediate and
often-repeated encore; but once entered, he would have seen that all
faces were at present sober, and most of them serious--it was the
regular and respectable thing for those excellent farm-labourers to do,
as much as for elegant ladies and gentlemen to smirk and bow over their
wine-glasses. Bartle Massey, whose ears were rather sensitive, had
gone out to see what sort of evening it was at an early stage in the
ceremony, and had not finished his contemplation until a silence of
five minutes declared that "Drink, boys, drink!" was not likely to
begin again for the next twelvemonth. Much to the regret of the boys
and Totty: on them the stillness fell rather flat, after that glorious
thumping of the table, towards which Totty, seated on her father's knee,
contributed with her small might and small fist.

When Bartle re-entered, however, there appeared to be a general desire
for solo music after the choral. Nancy declared that Tim the waggoner
knew a song and was "allays singing like a lark i' the stable,"
whereupon Mr. Poyser said encouragingly, "Come, Tim, lad, let's hear
it." Tim looked sheepish, tucked down his head, and said he couldn't
sing, but this encouraging invitation of the master's was echoed all
round the table. It was a conversational opportunity: everybody could
say, "Come, Tim," except Alick, who never relaxed into the frivolity of
unnecessary speech. At last, Tim's next neighbour, Ben Tholoway, began
to give emphasis to his speech by nudges, at which Tim, growing rather
savage, said, "Let me alooan, will ye? Else I'll ma' ye sing a toon ye
wonna like." A good-tempered waggoner's patience has limits, and Tim was
not to be urged further.

"Well, then, David, ye're the lad to sing," said Ben, willing to show
that he was not discomfited by this check. "Sing 'My loove's a roos
wi'out a thorn.'"

The amatory David was a young man of an unconscious abstracted
expression, which was due probably to a squint of superior intensity
rather than to any mental characteristic; for he was not indifferent to
Ben's invitation, but blushed and laughed and rubbed his sleeve over his
mouth in a way that was regarded as a symptom of yielding. And for some
time the company appeared to be much in earnest about the desire to hear
David's song. But in vain. The lyricism of the evening was in the cellar
at present, and was not to be drawn from that retreat just yet.

Meanwhile the conversation at the head of the table had taken a
political turn. Mr. Craig was not above talking politics occasionally,
though he piqued himself rather on a wise insight than on specific
information. He saw so far beyond the mere facts of a case that really
it was superfluous to know them.

"I'm no reader o' the paper myself," he observed to-night, as he filled
his pipe, "though I might read it fast enough if I liked, for there's
Miss Lyddy has 'em and 's done with 'em i' no time. But there's Mills,
now, sits i' the chimney-corner and reads the paper pretty nigh
from morning to night, and when he's got to th' end on't he's more
addle-headed than he was at the beginning. He's full o' this peace now,
as they talk on; he's been reading and reading, and thinks he's got to
the bottom on't. 'Why, Lor' bless you, Mills,' says I, 'you see no more
into this thing nor you can see into the middle of a potato. I'll tell
you what it is: you think it'll be a fine thing for the country. And I'm
not again' it--mark my words--I'm not again' it. But it's my opinion as
there's them at the head o' this country as are worse enemies to us
nor Bony and all the mounseers he's got at 's back; for as for the
mounseers, you may skewer half-a-dozen of 'em at once as if they war
frogs.'"

"Aye, aye," said Martin Poyser, listening with an air of much
intelligence and edification, "they ne'er ate a bit o' beef i' their
lives. Mostly sallet, I reckon."

"And says I to Mills," continued Mr. Craig, "'Will you try to make me
believe as furriners like them can do us half th' harm them ministers
do with their bad government? If King George 'ud turn 'em all away and
govern by himself, he'd see everything righted. He might take on Billy
Pitt again if he liked; but I don't see myself what we want wi' anybody
besides King and Parliament. It's that nest o' ministers does the
mischief, I tell you.'"

"Ah, it's fine talking," observed Mrs. Poyser, who was now seated near
her husband, with Totty on her lap--"it's fine talking. It's hard work
to tell which is Old Harry when everybody's got boots on."

"As for this peace," said Mr. Poyser, turning his head on one side in
a dubitative manner and giving a precautionary puff to his pipe between
each sentence, "I don't know. Th' war's a fine thing for the country,
an' how'll you keep up prices wi'out it? An' them French are a wicked
sort o' folks, by what I can make out. What can you do better nor fight
'em?"

"Ye're partly right there, Poyser," said Mr. Craig, "but I'm not again'
the peace--to make a holiday for a bit. We can break it when we like,
an' I'm in no fear o' Bony, for all they talk so much o' his cliverness.
That's what I says to Mills this morning. Lor' bless you, he sees no
more through Bony!...why, I put him up to more in three minutes than he
gets from's paper all the year round. Says I, 'Am I a gardener as knows
his business, or arn't I, Mills? Answer me that.' 'To be sure y' are,
Craig,' says he--he's not a bad fellow, Mills isn't, for a butler, but
weak i' the head. 'Well,' says I, 'you talk o' Bony's cliverness; would
it be any use my being a first-rate gardener if I'd got nought but a
quagmire to work on?' 'No,' says he. 'Well,' I says, 'that's just
what it is wi' Bony. I'll not deny but he may be a bit cliver--he's
no Frenchman born, as I understand--but what's he got at's back but
mounseers?'"

Mr. Craig paused a moment with an emphatic stare after this triumphant
specimen of Socratic argument, and then added, thumping the table rather
fiercely, "Why, it's a sure thing--and there's them 'ull bear witness
to't--as i' one regiment where there was one man a-missing, they put
the regimentals on a big monkey, and they fit him as the shell fits the
walnut, and you couldn't tell the monkey from the mounseers!"

"Ah! Think o' that, now!" said Mr. Poyser, impressed at once with the
political bearings of the fact and with its striking interest as an
anecdote in natural history.

"Come, Craig," said Adam, "that's a little too strong. You don't believe
that. It's all nonsense about the French being such poor sticks. Mr.
Irwine's seen 'em in their own country, and he says they've plenty o'
fine fellows among 'em. And as for knowledge, and contrivances, and
manufactures, there's a many things as we're a fine sight behind 'em in.
It's poor foolishness to run down your enemies. Why, Nelson and the
rest of 'em 'ud have no merit i' beating 'em, if they were such offal as
folks pretend."

Mr. Poyser looked doubtfully at Mr. Craig, puzzled by this opposition of
authorities. Mr. Irwine's testimony was not to be disputed; but, on the
other hand, Craig was a knowing fellow, and his view was less startling.
Martin had never "heard tell" of the French being good for much. Mr.
Craig had found no answer but such as was implied in taking a long
draught of ale and then looking down fixedly at the proportions of his
own leg, which he turned a little outward for that purpose, when Bartle
Massey returned from the fireplace, where he had been smoking his
first pipe in quiet, and broke the silence by saying, as he thrust his
forefinger into the canister, "Why, Adam, how happened you not to be at
church on Sunday? Answer me that, you rascal. The anthem went limping
without you. Are you going to disgrace your schoolmaster in his old
age?"

"No, Mr. Massey," said Adam. "Mr. and Mrs. Poyser can tell you where I
was. I was in no bad company."

"She's gone, Adam--gone to Snowfield," said Mr. Poyser, reminded of
Dinah for the first time this evening. "I thought you'd ha' persuaded
her better. Nought 'ud hold her, but she must go yesterday forenoon. The
missis has hardly got over it. I thought she'd ha' no sperrit for th'
harvest supper."

Mrs. Poyser had thought of Dinah several times since Adam had come in,
but she had had "no heart" to mention the bad news.

"What!" said Bartle, with an air of disgust. "Was there a woman
concerned? Then I give you up, Adam."

"But it's a woman you'n spoke well on, Bartle," said Mr. Poyser. "Come
now, you canna draw back; you said once as women wouldna ha' been a bad
invention if they'd all been like Dinah."

"I meant her voice, man--I meant her voice, that was all," said Bartle.
"I can bear to hear her speak without wanting to put wool in my ears. As
for other things, I daresay she's like the rest o' the women--thinks
two and two 'll come to make five, if she cries and bothers enough about
it."

"Aye, aye!" said Mrs. Poyser; "one 'ud think, an' hear some folks talk,
as the men war 'cute enough to count the corns in a bag o' wheat wi'
only smelling at it. They can see through a barn-door, they can. Perhaps
that's the reason THEY can see so little o' this side on't."

Martin Poyser shook with delighted laughter and winked at Adam, as much
as to say the schoolmaster was in for it now.

"Ah!" said Bartle sneeringly, "the women are quick enough--they're quick
enough. They know the rights of a story before they hear it, and can
tell a man what his thoughts are before he knows 'em himself."

"Like enough," said Mrs. Poyser, "for the men are mostly so slow, their
thoughts overrun 'em, an' they can only catch 'em by the tail. I can
count a stocking-top while a man's getting's tongue ready an' when he
outs wi' his speech at last, there's little broth to be made on't. It's
your dead chicks take the longest hatchin'. Howiver, I'm not denyin' the
women are foolish: God Almighty made 'em to match the men."

"Match!" said Bartle. "Aye, as vinegar matches one's teeth. If a man
says a word, his wife 'll match it with a contradiction; if he's a
mind for hot meat, his wife 'll match it with cold bacon; if he laughs,
she'll match him with whimpering. She's such a match as the horse-fly
is to th' horse: she's got the right venom to sting him with--the right
venom to sting him with."

"Yes," said Mrs. Poyser, "I know what the men like--a poor soft, as 'ud
simper at 'em like the picture o' the sun, whether they did right or
wrong, an' say thank you for a kick, an' pretend she didna know which
end she stood uppermost, till her husband told her. That's what a man
wants in a wife, mostly; he wants to make sure o' one fool as 'ull tell
him he's wise. But there's some men can do wi'out that--they think so
much o' themselves a'ready. An' that's how it is there's old bachelors."

"Come, Craig," said Mr. Poyser jocosely, "you mun get married pretty
quick, else you'll be set down for an old bachelor; an' you see what the
women 'ull think on you."

"Well," said Mr. Craig, willing to conciliate Mrs. Poyser and setting a
high value on his own compliments, "I like a cleverish woman--a woman o'
sperrit--a managing woman."

"You're out there, Craig," said Bartle, dryly; "you're out there. You
judge o' your garden-stuff on a better plan than that. You pick the
things for what they can excel in--for what they can excel in. You don't
value your peas for their roots, or your carrots for their flowers. Now,
that's the way you should choose women. Their cleverness 'll never come
to much--never come to much--but they make excellent simpletons, ripe
and strong-flavoured."

"What dost say to that?" said Mr. Poyser, throwing himself back and
looking merrily at his wife.

"Say!" answered Mrs. Poyser, with dangerous fire kindling in her
eye. "Why, I say as some folks' tongues are like the clocks as run
on strikin', not to tell you the time o' the day, but because there's
summat wrong i' their own inside..."

Mrs. Poyser would probably have brought her rejoinder to a further
climax, if every one's attention had not at this moment been called to
the other end of the table, where the lyricism, which had at first only
manifested itself by David's sotto voce performance of "My love's a rose
without a thorn," had gradually assumed a rather deafening and complex
character. Tim, thinking slightly of David's vocalization, was impelled
to supersede that feeble buzz by a spirited commencement of "Three Merry
Mowers," but David was not to be put down so easily, and showed himself
capable of a copious crescendo, which was rendering it doubtful whether
the rose would not predominate over the mowers, when old Kester, with
an entirely unmoved and immovable aspect, suddenly set up a quavering
treble--as if he had been an alarum, and the time was come for him to go
off.

The company at Alick's end of the table took this form of vocal
entertainment very much as a matter of course, being free from musical
prejudices; but Bartle Massey laid down his pipe and put his fingers in
his ears; and Adam, who had been longing to go ever since he had heard
Dinah was not in the house, rose and said he must bid good-night.

"I'll go with you, lad," said Bartle; "I'll go with you before my ears
are split."

"I'll go round by the Common and see you home, if you like, Mr. Massey,"
said Adam.

"Aye, aye!" said Bartle; "then we can have a bit o' talk together. I
never get hold of you now."

"Eh! It's a pity but you'd sit it out," said Martin Poyser. "They'll all
go soon, for th' missis niver lets 'em stay past ten."

But Adam was resolute, so the good-nights were said, and the two friends
turned out on their starlight walk together.

"There's that poor fool, Vixen, whimpering for me at home," said Bartle.
"I can never bring her here with me for fear she should be struck with
Mrs. Poyser's eye, and the poor bitch might go limping for ever after."

"I've never any need to drive Gyp back," said Adam, laughing. "He always
turns back of his own head when he finds out I'm coming here."

"Aye, aye," said Bartle. "A terrible woman!--made of needles, made of
needles. But I stick to Martin--I shall always stick to Martin. And
he likes the needles, God help him! He's a cushion made on purpose for
'em."

"But she's a downright good-natur'd woman, for all that," said Adam,
"and as true as the daylight. She's a bit cross wi' the dogs when they
offer to come in th' house, but if they depended on her, she'd take care
and have 'em well fed. If her tongue's keen, her heart's tender: I've
seen that in times o' trouble. She's one o' those women as are better
than their word."

"Well, well," said Bartle, "I don't say th' apple isn't sound at the
core; but it sets my teeth on edge--it sets my teeth on edge."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The Harvest Supper It is the time of country harvest, with the barley rolling by on the loaded wagons. The beauty of the country strikes Adam "like a funeral-bell" for "there's a parting at the root of all our joys" . It is the time of thanksgiving, though, and he realizes that out of the sorrow of Hetty came the joy of Dinah, an even greater love. He goes to the harvest supper at the Hall Farm, hoping Dinah has not yet left. He does not see her there but does not learn until later that she is already gone to Snowfield. Meanwhile, the ritual of the feast is presided over by Martin Poyser, who is proud to serve the beer and roast beef to family, friends, and farm hands. There is singing and toasting, as the reader is introduced to various colorful farm workers. A comic political discussion about Bonaparte and the French illustrates the ignorance of the country folk about the greater world affairs. The comic highlight, however, is an exchange of wit between Bartle Massey and Mrs. Poyser on the difference between men and women, Bartle denouncing women, and Mrs. Poyser denouncing men. Finally Adam and Bartle Massey walk home together, and Adam says that even though Mrs. Poyser has a sharp tongue, she is a woman better than her word, who is there in time of need and trouble.


prompt:
Chapter: ADAM understood Dinah's haste to go away, and drew hope rather than
discouragement from it. She was fearful lest the strength of her feeling
towards him should hinder her from waiting and listening faithfully for
the ultimate guiding voice from within.

"I wish I'd asked her to write to me, though," he thought. "And yet even
that might disturb her a bit, perhaps. She wants to be quite quiet
in her old way for a while. And I've no right to be impatient and
interrupting her with my wishes. She's told me what her mind is,
and she's not a woman to say one thing and mean another. I'll wait
patiently."

That was Adam's wise resolution, and it throve excellently for the first
two or three weeks on the nourishment it got from the remembrance of
Dinah's confession that Sunday afternoon. There is a wonderful amount
of sustenance in the first few words of love. But towards the middle
of October the resolution began to dwindle perceptibly, and showed
dangerous symptoms of exhaustion. The weeks were unusually long: Dinah
must surely have had more than enough time to make up her mind. Let a
woman say what she will after she has once told a man that she loves
him, he is a little too flushed and exalted with that first draught she
offers him to care much about the taste of the second. He treads the
earth with a very elastic step as he walks away from her, and makes
light of all difficulties. But that sort of glow dies out: memory gets
sadly diluted with time, and is not strong enough to revive us. Adam
was no longer so confident as he had been. He began to fear that perhaps
Dinah's old life would have too strong a grasp upon her for any new
feeling to triumph. If she had not felt this, she would surely have
written to him to give him some comfort; but it appeared that she held
it right to discourage him. As Adam's confidence waned, his patience
waned with it, and he thought he must write himself. He must ask Dinah
not to leave him in painful doubt longer than was needful. He sat up
late one night to write her a letter, but the next morning he burnt it,
afraid of its effect. It would be worse to have a discouraging answer
by letter than from her own lips, for her presence reconciled him to her
will.

You perceive how it was: Adam was hungering for the sight of Dinah, and
when that sort of hunger reaches a certain stage, a lover is likely to
still it though he may have to put his future in pawn.

But what harm could he do by going to Snowfield? Dinah could not be
displeased with him for it. She had not forbidden him to go. She must
surely expect that he would go before long. By the second Sunday in
October this view of the case had become so clear to Adam that he was
already on his way to Snowfield, on horseback this time, for his hours
were precious now, and he had borrowed Jonathan Burge's good nag for the
journey.

What keen memories went along the road with him! He had often been to
Oakbourne and back since that first journey to Snowfield, but beyond
Oakbourne the greystone walls, the broken country, the meagre trees,
seemed to be telling him afresh the story of that painful past which he
knew so well by heart. But no story is the same to us after a lapse of
time--or rather, we who read it are no longer the same interpreters--and
Adam this morning brought with him new thoughts through that grey
country, thoughts which gave an altered significance to its story of the
past.

That is a base and selfish, even a blasphemous, spirit which rejoices
and is thankful over the past evil that has blighted or crushed another,
because it has been made a source of unforeseen good to ourselves. Adam
could never cease to mourn over that mystery of human sorrow which had
been brought so close to him; he could never thank God for another's
misery. And if I were capable of that narrow-sighted joy in Adam's
behalf, I should still know he was not the man to feel it for himself.
He would have shaken his head at such a sentiment and said, "Evil's
evil, and sorrow's sorrow, and you can't alter it's natur by wrapping
it up in other words. Other folks were not created for my sake, that I
should think all square when things turn out well for me."

But it is not ignoble to feel that the fuller life which a sad
experience has brought us is worth our own personal share of pain.
Surely it is not possible to feel otherwise, any more than it would be
possible for a man with cataract to regret the painful process by which
his dim blurred sight of men as trees walking had been exchanged for
clear outline and effulgent day. The growth of higher feeling within
us is like the growth of faculty, bringing with it a sense of added
strength. We can no more wish to return to a narrower sympathy than
a painter or a musician can wish to return to his cruder manner, or a
philosopher to his less complete formula.

Something like this sense of enlarged being was in Adam's mind this
Sunday morning, as he rode along in vivid recollection of the past. His
feeling towards Dinah, the hope of passing his life with her, had been
the distant unseen point towards which that hard journey from Snowfield
eighteen months ago had been leading him. Tender and deep as his love
for Hetty had been--so deep that the roots of it would never be torn
away--his love for Dinah was better and more precious to him, for it
was the outgrowth of that fuller life which had come to him from his
acquaintance with deep sorrow. "It's like as if it was a new strength to
me," he said to himself, "to love her and know as she loves me. I shall
look t' her to help me to see things right. For she's better than I
am--there's less o' self in her, and pride. And it's a feeling as gives
you a sort o' liberty, as if you could walk more fearless, when you've
more trust in another than y' have in yourself. I've always been
thinking I knew better than them as belonged to me, and that's a poor
sort o' life, when you can't look to them nearest to you t' help you
with a bit better thought than what you've got inside you a'ready."

It was more than two o'clock in the afternoon when Adam came in sight of
the grey town on the hill-side and looked searchingly towards the green
valley below, for the first glimpse of the old thatched roof near the
ugly red mill. The scene looked less harsh in the soft October sunshine
than it had in the eager time of early spring, and the one grand charm
it possessed in common with all wide-stretching woodless regions--that
it filled you with a new consciousness of the overarching sky--had a
milder, more soothing influence than usual, on this almost cloudless
day. Adam's doubts and fears melted under this influence as the delicate
weblike clouds had gradually melted away into the clear blue above him.
He seemed to see Dinah's gentle face assuring him, with its looks alone,
of all he longed to know.

He did not expect Dinah to be at home at this hour, but he got down from
his horse and tied it at the little gate, that he might ask where she
was gone to-day. He had set his mind on following her and bringing her
home. She was gone to Sloman's End, a hamlet about three miles off, over
the hill, the old woman told him--had set off directly after morning
chapel, to preach in a cottage there, as her habit was. Anybody at the
town would tell him the way to Sloman's End. So Adam got on his horse
again and rode to the town, putting up at the old inn and taking a
hasty dinner there in the company of the too chatty landlord, from whose
friendly questions and reminiscences he was glad to escape as soon as
possible and set out towards Sloman's End. With all his haste it was
nearly four o'clock before he could set off, and he thought that as
Dinah had gone so early, she would perhaps already be near returning.
The little, grey, desolate-looking hamlet, unscreened by sheltering
trees, lay in sight long before he reached it, and as he came near he
could hear the sound of voices singing a hymn. "Perhaps that's the last
hymn before they come away," Adam thought. "I'll walk back a bit and
turn again to meet her, farther off the village." He walked back till he
got nearly to the top of the hill again, and seated himself on a loose
stone, against the low wall, to watch till he should see the little
black figure leaving the hamlet and winding up the hill. He chose
this spot, almost at the top of the hill, because it was away from all
eyes--no house, no cattle, not even a nibbling sheep near--no presence
but the still lights and shadows and the great embracing sky.

She was much longer coming than he expected. He waited an hour at
least watching for her and thinking of her, while the afternoon shadows
lengthened and the light grew softer. At last he saw the little black
figure coming from between the grey houses and gradually approaching the
foot of the hill. Slowly, Adam thought, but Dinah was really walking at
her usual pace, with a light quiet step. Now she was beginning to wind
along the path up the hill, but Adam would not move yet; he would not
meet her too soon; he had set his heart on meeting her in this assured
loneliness. And now he began to fear lest he should startle her too
much. "Yet," he thought, "she's not one to be overstartled; she's always
so calm and quiet, as if she was prepared for anything."

What was she thinking of as she wound up the hill? Perhaps she had found
complete repose without him, and had ceased to feel any need of his
love. On the verge of a decision we all tremble: hope pauses with
fluttering wings.

But now at last she was very near, and Adam rose from the stone wall.
It happened that just as he walked forward, Dinah had paused and turned
round to look back at the village--who does not pause and look back in
mounting a hill? Adam was glad, for, with the fine instinct of a lover,
he felt that it would be best for her to hear his voice before she
saw him. He came within three paces of her and then said, "Dinah!" She
started without looking round, as if she connected the sound with no
place. "Dinah!" Adam said again. He knew quite well what was in her
mind. She was so accustomed to think of impressions as purely spiritual
monitions that she looked for no material visible accompaniment of the
voice.

But this second time she looked round. What a look of yearning love it
was that the mild grey eyes turned on the strong dark-eyed man! She did
not start again at the sight of him; she said nothing, but moved towards
him so that his arm could clasp her round.

And they walked on so in silence, while the warm tears fell. Adam was
content, and said nothing. It was Dinah who spoke first.

"Adam," she said, "it is the Divine Will. My soul is so knit to yours
that it is but a divided life I live without you. And this moment, now
you are with me, and I feel that our hearts are filled with the same
love. I have a fulness of strength to bear and do our heavenly Father's
Will that I had lost before."

Adam paused and looked into her sincere eyes.

"Then we'll never part any more, Dinah, till death parts us."

And they kissed each other with a deep joy.

What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they
are joined for life--to strengthen each other in all labour, to rest on
each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be
one with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of the
last parting?

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The Meeting on the Hill Adam is patient with Dinah's absence and silence for six weeks; after that, he feels he must go to Snowfield to get her answer. He borrows Jonathan Burge's horse so he can get there faster. As he travels there, he remembers the sad journey in search of Hetty, but his sorrow and experience have enlarged his perspective and make him appreciate in all humility the love for Dinah. He finds that Dinah is preaching in a small village a few miles off and goes there to wait for her. He chooses a spot on top of a nearby hill where she will pass on the way home so that he may speak to her in private. He waits an hour and then sees her figure winding up the hill. As Adam rises up to greet her, she turns to look at the village she has just left. He calls her name from behind. She does not answer at first, feeling it could be an inward voice, for she believes she is alone. He repeats her name, and she turns around. They move into each other's arms. She cries as they walk in silence. Finally, she tells Adam that she is living a divided life without him. She believes God wants her to be with him, and he says they will never part.


prompt:
Chapter: IN little more than a month after that meeting on the hill--on a rimy
morning in departing November--Adam and Dinah were married.

It was an event much thought of in the village. All Mr. Burge's men had
a holiday, and all Mr. Poyser's, and most of those who had a holiday
appeared in their best clothes at the wedding. I think there was hardly
an inhabitant of Hayslope specially mentioned in this history and still
resident in the parish on this November morning who was not either in
church to see Adam and Dinah married, or near the church door to greet
them as they came forth. Mrs. Irwine and her daughters were waiting at
the churchyard gates in their carriage (for they had a carriage now) to
shake hands with the bride and bridegroom and wish them well; and in the
absence of Miss Lydia Donnithorne at Bath, Mrs. Best, Mr. Mills, and
Mr. Craig had felt it incumbent on them to represent "the family" at the
Chase on the occasion. The churchyard walk was quite lined with familiar
faces, many of them faces that had first looked at Dinah when she
preached on the Green. And no wonder they showed this eager interest on
her marriage morning, for nothing like Dinah and the history which had
brought her and Adam Bede together had been known at Hayslope within the
memory of man.

Bessy Cranage, in her neatest cap and frock, was crying, though she did
not exactly know why; for, as her cousin Wiry Ben, who stood near her,
judiciously suggested, Dinah was not going away, and if Bessy was in low
spirits, the best thing for her to do was to follow Dinah's example and
marry an honest fellow who was ready to have her. Next to Bessy, just
within the church door, there were the Poyser children, peeping round
the corner of the pews to get a sight of the mysterious ceremony;
Totty's face wearing an unusual air of anxiety at the idea of seeing
cousin Dinah come back looking rather old, for in Totty's experience no
married people were young.

I envy them all the sight they had when the marriage was fairly ended
and Adam led Dinah out of church. She was not in black this morning,
for her Aunt Poyser would by no means allow such a risk of incurring bad
luck, and had herself made a present of the wedding dress, made all of
grey, though in the usual Quaker form, for on this point Dinah could not
give way. So the lily face looked out with sweet gravity from under
a grey Quaker bonnet, neither smiling nor blushing, but with lips
trembling a little under the weight of solemn feelings. Adam, as he
pressed her arm to his side, walked with his old erectness and his head
thrown rather backward as if to face all the world better. But it was
not because he was particularly proud this morning, as is the wont of
bridegrooms, for his happiness was of a kind that had little reference
to men's opinion of it. There was a tinge of sadness in his deep joy;
Dinah knew it, and did not feel aggrieved.

There were three other couples, following the bride and bridegroom:
first, Martin Poyser, looking as cheery as a bright fire on this rimy
morning, led quiet Mary Burge, the bridesmaid; then came Seth serenely
happy, with Mrs. Poyser on his arm; and last of all Bartle Massey, with
Lisbeth--Lisbeth in a new gown and bonnet, too busy with her pride in
her son and her delight in possessing the one daughter she had desired
to devise a single pretext for complaint.

Bartle Massey had consented to attend the wedding at Adam's earnest
request, under protest against marriage in general and the marriage of a
sensible man in particular. Nevertheless, Mr. Poyser had a joke against
him after the wedding dinner, to the effect that in the vestry he had
given the bride one more kiss than was necessary.

Behind this last couple came Mr. Irwine, glad at heart over this good
morning's work of joining Adam and Dinah. For he had seen Adam in the
worst moments of his sorrow; and what better harvest from that painful
seed-time could there be than this? The love that had brought hope and
comfort in the hour of despair, the love that had found its way to the
dark prison cell and to poor Hetty's darker soul--this strong gentle
love was to be Adam's companion and helper till death.

There was much shaking of hands mingled with "God bless you's" and other
good wishes to the four couples, at the churchyard gate, Mr. Poyser
answering for the rest with unwonted vivacity of tongue, for he had
all the appropriate wedding-day jokes at his command. And the women, he
observed, could never do anything but put finger in eye at a wedding.
Even Mrs. Poyser could not trust herself to speak as the neighbours
shook hands with her, and Lisbeth began to cry in the face of the very
first person who told her she was getting young again.

Mr. Joshua Rann, having a slight touch of rheumatism, did not join
in the ringing of the bells this morning, and, looking on with some
contempt at these informal greetings which required no official
co-operation from the clerk, began to hum in his musical bass, "Oh what
a joyful thing it is," by way of preluding a little to the effect he
intended to produce in the wedding psalm next Sunday.

"That's a bit of good news to cheer Arthur," said Mr. Irwine to his
mother, as they drove off. "I shall write to him the first thing when we
get home."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Marriage Bells One month later, Adam and Dinah are married. Mr. Burge's workers are given a holiday; Mrs. Irwine and her daughters are in a carriage to shake hands with bride and groom after Mr. Irwine marries them. From the Donnithorne household come Mrs. Best, Mr. Mills, and Mr. Craig. The Poysers are there and Bartle Massey. Mrs. Poyser makes Dinah take off her black dress and gives her a grey Quaker dress. Adam feels a slight sadness underneath his joy, and Dinah understands. In the bridal party are Mary Burge as the bridesmaid, and Seth with Mrs. Poyser; Bartle Massey takes Lisbeth's arm. Mr. Irwine sets off to write the good news to Arthur.


prompt:
Chapter: Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save
upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated
at the breakfast table. I stood upon the hearth-rug and picked up the
stick which our visitor had left behind him the night before. It was a
fine, thick piece of wood, bulbous-headed, of the sort which is known as
a "Penang lawyer." Just under the head was a broad silver band nearly
an inch across. "To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the
C.C.H.," was engraved upon it, with the date "1884." It was just such a
stick as the old-fashioned family practitioner used to carry--dignified,
solid, and reassuring.

"Well, Watson, what do you make of it?"

Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no sign of
my occupation.

"How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in the back
of your head."

"I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in front of
me," said he. "But, tell me, Watson, what do you make of our visitor's
stick? Since we have been so unfortunate as to miss him and have no
notion of his errand, this accidental souvenir becomes of importance.
Let me hear you reconstruct the man by an examination of it."

"I think," said I, following as far as I could the methods of my
companion, "that Dr. Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical man,
well-esteemed since those who know him give him this mark of their
appreciation."

"Good!" said Holmes. "Excellent!"

"I think also that the probability is in favour of his being a country
practitioner who does a great deal of his visiting on foot."

"Why so?"

"Because this stick, though originally a very handsome one has been so
knocked about that I can hardly imagine a town practitioner carrying it.
The thick-iron ferrule is worn down, so it is evident that he has done a
great amount of walking with it."

"Perfectly sound!" said Holmes.

"And then again, there is the 'friends of the C.C.H.' I should guess
that to be the Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose members he has
possibly given some surgical assistance, and which has made him a small
presentation in return."

"Really, Watson, you excel yourself," said Holmes, pushing back his
chair and lighting a cigarette. "I am bound to say that in all the
accounts which you have been so good as to give of my own small
achievements you have habitually underrated your own abilities. It may
be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of
light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of
stimulating it. I confess, my dear fellow, that I am very much in your
debt."

He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words gave
me keen pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his indifference to my
admiration and to the attempts which I had made to give publicity to
his methods. I was proud, too, to think that I had so far mastered his
system as to apply it in a way which earned his approval. He now took
the stick from my hands and examined it for a few minutes with his naked
eyes. Then with an expression of interest he laid down his cigarette,
and carrying the cane to the window, he looked over it again with a
convex lens.

"Interesting, though elementary," said he as he returned to his
favourite corner of the settee. "There are certainly one or two
indications upon the stick. It gives us the basis for several
deductions."

"Has anything escaped me?" I asked with some self-importance. "I trust
that there is nothing of consequence which I have overlooked?"

"I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were
erroneous. When I said that you stimulated me I meant, to be frank, that
in noting your fallacies I was occasionally guided towards the truth.
Not that you are entirely wrong in this instance. The man is certainly a
country practitioner. And he walks a good deal."

"Then I was right."

"To that extent."

"But that was all."

"No, no, my dear Watson, not all--by no means all. I would suggest, for
example, that a presentation to a doctor is more likely to come from a
hospital than from a hunt, and that when the initials 'C.C.' are placed
before that hospital the words 'Charing Cross' very naturally suggest
themselves."

"You may be right."

"The probability lies in that direction. And if we take this as a
working hypothesis we have a fresh basis from which to start our
construction of this unknown visitor."

"Well, then, supposing that 'C.C.H.' does stand for 'Charing Cross
Hospital,' what further inferences may we draw?"

"Do none suggest themselves? You know my methods. Apply them!"

"I can only think of the obvious conclusion that the man has practised
in town before going to the country."

"I think that we might venture a little farther than this. Look at it
in this light. On what occasion would it be most probable that such a
presentation would be made? When would his friends unite to give him
a pledge of their good will? Obviously at the moment when Dr. Mortimer
withdrew from the service of the hospital in order to start a practice
for himself. We know there has been a presentation. We believe there has
been a change from a town hospital to a country practice. Is it, then,
stretching our inference too far to say that the presentation was on the
occasion of the change?"

"It certainly seems probable."

"Now, you will observe that he could not have been on the staff of the
hospital, since only a man well-established in a London practice could
hold such a position, and such a one would not drift into the country.
What was he, then? If he was in the hospital and yet not on the staff he
could only have been a house-surgeon or a house-physician--little more
than a senior student. And he left five years ago--the date is on the
stick. So your grave, middle-aged family practitioner vanishes into
thin air, my dear Watson, and there emerges a young fellow under thirty,
amiable, unambitious, absent-minded, and the possessor of a favourite
dog, which I should describe roughly as being larger than a terrier and
smaller than a mastiff."

I laughed incredulously as Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his settee and
blew little wavering rings of smoke up to the ceiling.

"As to the latter part, I have no means of checking you," said I, "but
at least it is not difficult to find out a few particulars about the
man's age and professional career." From my small medical shelf I took
down the Medical Directory and turned up the name. There were several
Mortimers, but only one who could be our visitor. I read his record
aloud.

        "Mortimer, James, M.R.C.S., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon.
        House-surgeon, from 1882 to 1884, at Charing Cross Hospital.
        Winner of the Jackson prize for Comparative Pathology,
        with essay entitled 'Is Disease a Reversion?'  Corresponding
        member of the Swedish Pathological Society.  Author of
        'Some Freaks of Atavism' (Lancet 1882).  'Do We Progress?'
        (Journal of Psychology, March, 1883).  Medical Officer
        for the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, and High Barrow."

"No mention of that local hunt, Watson," said Holmes with a mischievous
smile, "but a country doctor, as you very astutely observed. I think
that I am fairly justified in my inferences. As to the adjectives, I
said, if I remember right, amiable, unambitious, and absent-minded.
It is my experience that it is only an amiable man in this world who
receives testimonials, only an unambitious one who abandons a London
career for the country, and only an absent-minded one who leaves his
stick and not his visiting-card after waiting an hour in your room."

"And the dog?"

"Has been in the habit of carrying this stick behind his master. Being a
heavy stick the dog has held it tightly by the middle, and the marks of
his teeth are very plainly visible. The dog's jaw, as shown in the space
between these marks, is too broad in my opinion for a terrier and not
broad enough for a mastiff. It may have been--yes, by Jove, it is a
curly-haired spaniel."

He had risen and paced the room as he spoke. Now he halted in the recess
of the window. There was such a ring of conviction in his voice that I
glanced up in surprise.

"My dear fellow, how can you possibly be so sure of that?"

"For the very simple reason that I see the dog himself on our very
door-step, and there is the ring of its owner. Don't move, I beg you,
Watson. He is a professional brother of yours, and your presence may be
of assistance to me. Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson, when
you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life, and you
know not whether for good or ill. What does Dr. James Mortimer, the man
of science, ask of Sherlock Holmes, the specialist in crime? Come in!"

The appearance of our visitor was a surprise to me, since I had expected
a typical country practitioner. He was a very tall, thin man, with a
long nose like a beak, which jutted out between two keen, gray eyes,
set closely together and sparkling brightly from behind a pair of
gold-rimmed glasses. He was clad in a professional but rather slovenly
fashion, for his frock-coat was dingy and his trousers frayed. Though
young, his long back was already bowed, and he walked with a forward
thrust of his head and a general air of peering benevolence. As he
entered his eyes fell upon the stick in Holmes's hand, and he ran
towards it with an exclamation of joy. "I am so very glad," said he.
"I was not sure whether I had left it here or in the Shipping Office. I
would not lose that stick for the world."

"A presentation, I see," said Holmes.

"Yes, sir."

"From Charing Cross Hospital?"

"From one or two friends there on the occasion of my marriage."

"Dear, dear, that's bad!" said Holmes, shaking his head.

Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in mild astonishment. "Why was
it bad?"

"Only that you have disarranged our little deductions. Your marriage,
you say?"

"Yes, sir. I married, and so left the hospital, and with it all hopes of
a consulting practice. It was necessary to make a home of my own."

"Come, come, we are not so far wrong, after all," said Holmes. "And now,
Dr. James Mortimer--"

"Mister, sir, Mister--a humble M.R.C.S."

"And a man of precise mind, evidently."

"A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells on the shores
of the great unknown ocean. I presume that it is Mr. Sherlock Holmes
whom I am addressing and not--"

"No, this is my friend Dr. Watson."

"Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name mentioned in connection
with that of your friend. You interest me very much, Mr. Holmes. I
had hardly expected so dolichocephalic a skull or such well-marked
supra-orbital development. Would you have any objection to my running my
finger along your parietal fissure? A cast of your skull, sir, until
the original is available, would be an ornament to any anthropological
museum. It is not my intention to be fulsome, but I confess that I covet
your skull."

Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair. "You are an
enthusiast in your line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am in
mine," said he. "I observe from your forefinger that you make your own
cigarettes. Have no hesitation in lighting one."

The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in the other
with surprising dexterity. He had long, quivering fingers as agile and
restless as the antennae of an insect.

Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me the interest
which he took in our curious companion. "I presume, sir," said he at
last, "that it was not merely for the purpose of examining my skull that
you have done me the honour to call here last night and again today?"

"No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had the opportunity of doing
that as well. I came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I recognized that I am
myself an unpractical man and because I am suddenly confronted with a
most serious and extraordinary problem. Recognizing, as I do, that you
are the second highest expert in Europe--"

"Indeed, sir! May I inquire who has the honour to be the first?" asked
Holmes with some asperity.

"To the man of precisely scientific mind the work of Monsieur Bertillon
must always appeal strongly."

"Then had you not better consult him?"

"I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind. But as a practical man
of affairs it is acknowledged that you stand alone. I trust, sir, that I
have not inadvertently--"

"Just a little," said Holmes. "I think, Dr. Mortimer, you would do
wisely if without more ado you would kindly tell me plainly what the
exact nature of the problem is in which you demand my assistance."

"I have in my pocket a manuscript," said Dr. James Mortimer.

"I observed it as you entered the room," said Holmes.

"It is an old manuscript."

"Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery."

"How can you say that, sir?"

"You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination all the time
that you have been talking. It would be a poor expert who could not give
the date of a document within a decade or so. You may possibly have read
my little monograph upon the subject. I put that at 1730."

"The exact date is 1742." Dr. Mortimer drew it from his breast-pocket.
"This family paper was committed to my care by Sir Charles Baskerville,
whose sudden and tragic death some three months ago created so much
excitement in Devonshire. I may say that I was his personal friend as
well as his medical attendant. He was a strong-minded man, sir, shrewd,
practical, and as unimaginative as I am myself. Yet he took this
document very seriously, and his mind was prepared for just such an end
as did eventually overtake him."

Holmes stretched out his hand for the manuscript and flattened it upon
his knee. "You will observe, Watson, the alternative use of the long s
and the short. It is one of several indications which enabled me to fix
the date."

I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded script. At
the head was written: "Baskerville Hall," and below in large, scrawling
figures: "1742."

"It appears to be a statement of some sort."

"Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the
Baskerville family."

"But I understand that it is something more modern and practical upon
which you wish to consult me?"

"Most modern. A most practical, pressing matter, which must be decided
within twenty-four hours. But the manuscript is short and is intimately
connected with the affair. With your permission I will read it to you."

Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips together, and
closed his eyes, with an air of resignation. Dr. Mortimer turned the
manuscript to the light and read in a high, cracking voice the following
curious, old-world narrative:

        "Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there
        have been many statements, yet as I come in a direct
        line from Hugo Baskerville, and as I had the story from
        my father, who also had it from his, I have set it down
        with all belief that it occurred even as is here set
        forth.  And I would have you believe, my sons, that the
        same Justice which punishes sin may also most graciously
        forgive it, and that no ban is so heavy but that by prayer
        and repentance it may be removed.  Learn then from this
        story not to fear the fruits of the past, but rather to
        be circumspect in the future, that those foul passions
        whereby our family has suffered so grievously may not
        again be loosed to our undoing.

        "Know then that in the time of the Great Rebellion (the
        history of which by the learned Lord Clarendon I most
        earnestly commend to your attention) this Manor of
        Baskerville was held by Hugo of that name, nor can it be
        gainsaid that he was a most wild, profane, and godless
        man.  This, in truth, his neighbours might have pardoned,
        seeing that saints have never flourished in those parts,
        but there was in him a certain wanton and cruel humour
        which made his name a by-word through the West.  It
        chanced that this Hugo came to love (if, indeed, so dark
        a passion may be known under so bright a name) the daughter
        of a yeoman who held lands near the Baskerville estate.
        But the young maiden, being discreet and of good repute,
        would ever avoid him, for she feared his evil name.  So
        it came to pass that one Michaelmas this Hugo, with five
        or six of his idle and wicked companions, stole down upon
        the farm and carried off the maiden, her father and
        brothers being from home, as he well knew.  When they had
        brought her to the Hall the maiden was placed in an upper
        chamber, while Hugo and his friends sat down to a long
        carouse, as was their nightly custom.  Now, the poor lass
        upstairs was like to have her wits turned at the singing
        and shouting and terrible oaths which came up to her from
        below, for they say that the words used by Hugo Baskerville,
        when he was in wine, were such as might blast the man who
        said them.  At last in the stress of her fear she did that
        which might have daunted the bravest or most active man,
        for by the aid of the growth of ivy which covered (and
        still covers) the south wall she came down from under the
        eaves, and so homeward across the moor, there being three
        leagues betwixt the Hall and her father's farm.

        "It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his
        guests to carry food and drink--with other worse things,
        perchance--to his captive, and so found the cage empty
        and the bird escaped.  Then, as it would seem, he became
        as one that hath a devil, for, rushing down the stairs
        into the dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table,
        flagons and trenchers flying before him, and he cried
        aloud before all the company that he would that very
        night render his body and soul to the Powers of Evil if
        he might but overtake the wench.  And while the revellers
        stood aghast at the fury of the man, one more wicked or,
        it may be, more drunken than the rest, cried out that
        they should put the hounds upon her.  Whereat Hugo ran
        from the house, crying to his grooms that they should
        saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and giving the
        hounds a kerchief of the maid's, he swung them to the
        line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the moor.

        "Now, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable
        to understand all that had been done in such haste.  But
        anon their bemused wits awoke to the nature of the deed
        which was like to be done upon the moorlands.  Everything
        was now in an uproar, some calling for their pistols,
        some for their horses, and some for another flask of
        wine.  But at length some sense came back to their crazed
        minds, and the whole of them, thirteen in number, took
        horse and started in pursuit.  The moon shone clear above
        them, and they rode swiftly abreast, taking that course
        which the maid must needs have taken if she were to reach
        her own home.

        "They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the
        night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to
        him to know if he had seen the hunt.  And the man, as
        the story goes, was so crazed with fear that he could
        scarce speak, but at last he said that he had indeed seen
        the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track.  'But
        I have seen more than that,' said he, 'for Hugo Baskerville
        passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind
        him such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at
        my heels.'  So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd
        and rode onward.  But soon their skins turned cold, for
        there came a galloping across the moor, and the black
        mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing
        bridle and empty saddle.  Then the revellers rode close
        together, for a great fear was on them, but they still
        followed over the moor, though each, had he been alone,
        would have been right glad to have turned his horse's
        head.  Riding slowly in this fashion they came at last
        upon the hounds.  These, though known for their valour
        and their breed, were whimpering in a cluster at the
        head of a deep dip or goyal, as we call it, upon the
        moor, some slinking away and some, with starting hackles
        and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them.

        "The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you
        may guess, than when they started.  The most of them
        would by no means advance, but three of them, the boldest,
        or it may be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal.
        Now, it opened into a broad space in which stood two of
        those great stones, still to be seen there, which were
        set by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old.
        The moon was shining bright upon the clearing, and there
        in the centre lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen,
        dead of fear and of fatigue.  But it was not the sight
        of her body, nor yet was it that of the body of Hugo
        Baskerville lying near her, which raised the hair upon
        the heads of these three dare-devil roysterers, but it
        was that, standing over Hugo, and plucking at his throat,
        there stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped
        like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal
        eye has rested upon.  And even as they looked the thing
        tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it
        turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the
        three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still
        screaming, across the moor.  One, it is said, died that
        very night of what he had seen, and the other twain were
        but broken men for the rest of their days.

        "Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound
        which is said to have plagued the family so sorely ever
        since.  If I have set it down it is because that which
        is clearly known hath less terror than that which is but
        hinted at and guessed.  Nor can it be denied that many
        of the family have been unhappy in their deaths, which
        have been sudden, bloody, and mysterious.  Yet may we
        shelter ourselves in the infinite goodness of Providence,
        which would not forever punish the innocent beyond that
        third or fourth generation which is threatened in Holy
        Writ.  To that Providence, my sons, I hereby commend
        you, and I counsel you by way of caution to forbear from
        crossing the moor in those dark hours when the powers of
        evil are exalted.

        "[This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John,
        with instructions that they say nothing thereof to their
        sister Elizabeth.]"

When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrative he pushed
his spectacles up on his forehead and stared across at Mr. Sherlock
Holmes. The latter yawned and tossed the end of his cigarette into the
fire.

"Well?" said he.

"Do you not find it interesting?"

"To a collector of fairy tales."

Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket.

"Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a little more recent. This
is the Devon County Chronicle of May 14th of this year. It is a short
account of the facts elicited at the death of Sir Charles Baskerville
which occurred a few days before that date."

My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became intent. Our
visitor readjusted his glasses and began:

        "The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose
        name has been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate
        for Mid-Devon at the next election, has cast a gloom over
        the county.  Though Sir Charles had resided at Baskerville
        Hall for a comparatively short period his amiability of
        character and extreme generosity had won the affection
        and respect of all who had been brought into contact with
        him.  In these days of nouveaux riches it is refreshing
        to find a case where the scion of an old county family
        which has fallen upon evil days is able to make his own
        fortune and to bring it back with him to restore the
        fallen grandeur of his line.  Sir Charles, as is well known,
        made large sums of money in South African speculation.
        More wise than those who go on until the wheel turns
        against them, he realized his gains and returned to England
        with them.  It is only two years since he took up his
        residence at Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk how
        large were those schemes of reconstruction and improvement
        which have been interrupted by his death.  Being himself
        childless, it was his openly expressed desire that the
        whole countryside should, within his own lifetime, profit
        by his good fortune, and many will have personal reasons
        for bewailing his untimely end.  His generous donations
        to local and county charities have been frequently
        chronicled in these columns.

        "The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charles
        cannot be said to have been entirely cleared up by the
        inquest, but at least enough has been done to dispose of
        those rumours to which local superstition has given rise.
        There is no reason whatever to suspect foul play, or to
        imagine that death could be from any but natural causes.
        Sir Charles was a widower, and a man who may be said to
        have been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind.
        In spite of his considerable wealth he was simple in his
        personal tastes, and his indoor servants at Baskerville
        Hall consisted of a married couple named Barrymore, the
        husband acting as butler and the wife as housekeeper.
        Their evidence, corroborated by that of several friends,
        tends to show that Sir Charles's health has for some time
        been impaired, and points especially to some affection
        of the heart, manifesting itself in changes of colour,
        breathlessness, and acute attacks of nervous depression.
        Dr. James Mortimer, the friend and medical attendant of
        the deceased, has given evidence to the same effect.

        "The facts of the case are simple.  Sir Charles Baskerville
        was in the habit every night before going to bed of walking
        down the famous yew alley of Baskerville Hall.  The evidence
        of the Barrymores shows that this had been his custom.
        On the fourth of May Sir Charles had declared his intention
        of starting next day for London, and had ordered Barrymore
        to prepare his luggage.  That night he went out as usual
        for his nocturnal walk, in the course of which he was in
        the habit of smoking a cigar.  He never returned.  At
        twelve o'clock Barrymore, finding the hall door still open,
        became alarmed, and, lighting a lantern, went in search
        of his master.  The day had been wet, and Sir Charles's
        footmarks were easily traced down the alley.  Halfway down
        this walk there is a gate which leads out on to the moor.
        There were indications that Sir Charles had stood for some
        little time here.  He then proceeded down the alley, and
        it was at the far end of it that his body was discovered.
        One fact which has not been explained is the statement
        of Barrymore that his master's footprints altered their
        character from the time that he passed the moor-gate, and
        that he appeared from thence onward to have been walking
        upon his toes.  One Murphy, a gipsy horse-dealer, was on
        the moor at no great distance at the time, but he appears
        by his own confession to have been the worse for drink.
        He declares that he heard cries but is unable to state
        from what direction they came.  No signs of violence were
        to be discovered upon Sir Charles's person, and though
        the doctor's evidence pointed to an almost incredible
        facial distortion--so great that Dr. Mortimer refused at
        first to believe that it was indeed his friend and patient
        who lay before him--it was explained that that is a symptom
        which is not unusual in cases of dyspnoea and death from
        cardiac exhaustion.  This explanation was borne out by
        the post-mortem examination, which showed long-standing
        organic disease, and the coroner's jury returned a
        verdict in accordance with the medical evidence.  It is
        well that this is so, for it is obviously of the utmost
        importance that Sir Charles's heir should settle at the
        Hall and continue the good work which has been so sadly
        interrupted.  Had the prosaic finding of the coroner not
        finally put an end to the romantic stories which have been
        whispered in connection with the affair, it might have been
        difficult to find a tenant for Baskerville Hall.  It is
        understood that the next of kin is Mr. Henry Baskerville,
        if he be still alive, the son of Sir Charles Baskerville's
        younger brother.  The young man when last heard of was
        in America, and inquiries are being instituted with a
        view to informing him of his good fortune."

Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced it in his pocket. "Those
are the public facts, Mr. Holmes, in connection with the death of Sir
Charles Baskerville."

"I must thank you," said Sherlock Holmes, "for calling my attention to a
case which certainly presents some features of interest. I had observed
some newspaper comment at the time, but I was exceedingly preoccupied
by that little affair of the Vatican cameos, and in my anxiety to oblige
the Pope I lost touch with several interesting English cases. This
article, you say, contains all the public facts?"

"It does."

"Then let me have the private ones." He leaned back, put his finger-tips
together, and assumed his most impassive and judicial expression.

"In doing so," said Dr. Mortimer, who had begun to show signs of some
strong emotion, "I am telling that which I have not confided to anyone.
My motive for withholding it from the coroner's inquiry is that a man of
science shrinks from placing himself in the public position of seeming
to indorse a popular superstition. I had the further motive that
Baskerville Hall, as the paper says, would certainly remain untenanted
if anything were done to increase its already rather grim reputation.
For both these reasons I thought that I was justified in telling rather
less than I knew, since no practical good could result from it, but with
you there is no reason why I should not be perfectly frank.

"The moor is very sparsely inhabited, and those who live near each other
are thrown very much together. For this reason I saw a good deal of
Sir Charles Baskerville. With the exception of Mr. Frankland, of Lafter
Hall, and Mr. Stapleton, the naturalist, there are no other men of
education within many miles. Sir Charles was a retiring man, but the
chance of his illness brought us together, and a community of interests
in science kept us so. He had brought back much scientific information
from South Africa, and many a charming evening we have spent together
discussing the comparative anatomy of the Bushman and the Hottentot.

"Within the last few months it became increasingly plain to me that
Sir Charles's nervous system was strained to the breaking point. He had
taken this legend which I have read you exceedingly to heart--so much
so that, although he would walk in his own grounds, nothing would induce
him to go out upon the moor at night. Incredible as it may appear to
you, Mr. Holmes, he was honestly convinced that a dreadful fate overhung
his family, and certainly the records which he was able to give of
his ancestors were not encouraging. The idea of some ghastly presence
constantly haunted him, and on more than one occasion he has asked me
whether I had on my medical journeys at night ever seen any strange
creature or heard the baying of a hound. The latter question he put
to me several times, and always with a voice which vibrated with
excitement.

"I can well remember driving up to his house in the evening some three
weeks before the fatal event. He chanced to be at his hall door. I had
descended from my gig and was standing in front of him, when I saw
his eyes fix themselves over my shoulder and stare past me with an
expression of the most dreadful horror. I whisked round and had just
time to catch a glimpse of something which I took to be a large black
calf passing at the head of the drive. So excited and alarmed was he
that I was compelled to go down to the spot where the animal had been
and look around for it. It was gone, however, and the incident appeared
to make the worst impression upon his mind. I stayed with him all the
evening, and it was on that occasion, to explain the emotion which he
had shown, that he confided to my keeping that narrative which I read to
you when first I came. I mention this small episode because it assumes
some importance in view of the tragedy which followed, but I was
convinced at the time that the matter was entirely trivial and that his
excitement had no justification.

"It was at my advice that Sir Charles was about to go to London. His
heart was, I knew, affected, and the constant anxiety in which he lived,
however chimerical the cause of it might be, was evidently having a
serious effect upon his health. I thought that a few months among the
distractions of town would send him back a new man. Mr. Stapleton, a
mutual friend who was much concerned at his state of health, was of the
same opinion. At the last instant came this terrible catastrophe.

"On the night of Sir Charles's death Barrymore the butler, who made
the discovery, sent Perkins the groom on horseback to me, and as I was
sitting up late I was able to reach Baskerville Hall within an hour of
the event. I checked and corroborated all the facts which were mentioned
at the inquest. I followed the footsteps down the yew alley, I saw the
spot at the moor-gate where he seemed to have waited, I remarked the
change in the shape of the prints after that point, I noted that there
were no other footsteps save those of Barrymore on the soft gravel, and
finally I carefully examined the body, which had not been touched until
my arrival. Sir Charles lay on his face, his arms out, his fingers dug
into the ground, and his features convulsed with some strong emotion to
such an extent that I could hardly have sworn to his identity. There was
certainly no physical injury of any kind. But one false statement was
made by Barrymore at the inquest. He said that there were no traces
upon the ground round the body. He did not observe any. But I did--some
little distance off, but fresh and clear."

"Footprints?"

"Footprints."

"A man's or a woman's?"

Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice sank
almost to a whisper as he answered.

"Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!"

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Mr. Sherlock Holmes Watson walks into Holmes's breakfast-room, where Sherlock Holmes is having breakfast. Watson examines a walking stick which a visitor, James Mortimer, had left behind the night before, after finding nobody there to receive him. Mortimer's name is engraved into the stick. Though his back is turned to Watson, Holmes sees his friend through the reflection in his coffee-pot. He surprises Watson by addressing him, and then asks him to deduce the character of James Mortimer from his stick. Based on the stick, Watson believes that Dr. Mortimer is an elderly, well-respected doctor who lives in the country. He further deduces that Mortimer has received this stick as a gift from a hunting club. Holmes initially compliments Watson's detective skills, but then clarifies that he is only complimenting the way that Watson has stimulated his own thought process. Holmes examines the stick himself, and concludes that Mortimer received the stick as a gift from a hospital, rather than from a hunting club. He deduces that Mortimer was a student at this hospital, not a physician, and that he must therefore be young, not old. Further, he believes that Mortimer has withdrawn from a town hospital to begin his own practice in the country. He adds that Mortimer must be absent-minded, amiable, unambitious and a dog owner. Astonished, Watson looks in his Medical Dictionary for public information about Mortimer. The book confirms that Mortimer is a young man who studied as Charing Cross Hospital. Holmes begins to explain how he deduced that Mortimer owned a dog, but sees a dog from his window and realizes that Dr. Mortimer has now returned to pay them a visit. Dr. Mortimer enters, and Watson describes him as a tall, thin man with bad posture, and dressed in a messy manner. Relieved that he left the stick there and did not lose it, Dr. Mortimer reveals that he received it not on the occasion of leaving Charing Cross, but for his wedding. First, Dr. Mortimer notes that he had heard of Holmes through his reputation for solving difficult problems. Strangely, Dr. Mortimer then compliments the shape of Holmes's skull, and tells him that it would be an "ornament to any anthropological museum" . He explains that he studies skull shapes. Holmes asks why Dr. Mortimer has called on him, and Mortimer tells him that he has a most serious and extraordinary problem. Chapter II: The Curse of the Baskervilles Dr. Mortimer explains that he has brought a manuscript, but Holmes has already observed it in his pocket, and surmises aloud that it is from the early eighteenth century. Confirming that observation, Dr. Mortimer explains that the manuscript was given to him by Sir Charles Baskerville, a close friend who had died three months earlier. Dr. Mortimer lives in Devonshire, which is out in the moor of England, and near the Baskerville estate. To best explain his purpose, Dr. Mortimer first reads the document, which details a legend about the Baskerville family. The writer of the story identifies himself as a Baskerville, and explains that this legend has been passed down in his family over several generations. During the Great Rebellion , the Baskerville estate was owned by Hugo Baskerville, a "wild, profane, and godless man" . When one young woman refused to return his advances, he trapped her an upper chamber of his house. She escaped one night while Hugo was entertaining friends, and Hugo declared that he would give his body and soul to "the Powers of Evil" if he could find her . One man suggested that they set the hounds after her, and Hugo took his advice before chasing her out into the moor on his black mare. Thirteen men followed Hugo, who was ahead of them. They encountered a shepherd who was "crazed with fear" - he had seen the maiden, but had also seen a "hound of hell" in fast pursuit of Hugo . Eventually, the men encountered Hugo's mare, alone and frothing at the mouth. Frightened, they persevered until they came across a trench, next to which the hounds were whimpering. In the trench, three of the men found the maiden, dead "of fear and of fatigue", and Hugo, dwarfed by a "great, black beast, shaped like a hound" . The giant hound tore Baskerville's throat out, at which point the men fled. One of the men died that night, while the other two remained "broken men" for the rest of their days . The writer concludes his story by insisting that the hound has plagued the Baskerville family even since, and warns his sons to never cross the moor at night. After finishing the letter, Dr. Mortimer is surprised to see Holmes yawn; he thinks the tale is only interesting to a "collector of fairytales" . Dr. Mortimer then gives Holmes a newspaper clipping detailing Sir Charles Baskerville's recent death. The newspaper story first describes Sir Charles Baskerville. At the time a probable candidate for the upcoming election, Baskerville had earned his fortune from South African speculation, and lived childless in the countryside, where he was involved in much philanthropy. The story then explains the circumstances of his death. When Sir Charles did not return from his usual nightly walk down an alley of trees behind Baskerville Hall, his servant Barrymore investigated to find his body. The mystery was increased because there were no signs of violence on his body, and because his footprints suggested he had been walking on his tip-toes. One witness, a gypsy horse-dealer named Murphy, had heard cries but admitted he was drunk. Authorities concluded that Sir Charles had died from cardiac exhaustion, ruling out any suggestions of mystical stories. Finally, the article identifies his next of kin as his nephew, Mr. Henry Baskerville, who is supposedly in America. More interested now, Holmes asks Dr. Mortimer for details not included in the article. Though he considers himself a man of science, Dr. Mortimer admits he has some strange suspicions. He considered Sir Charles a close friend, since they were two of the few intellectuals living out on the moor. The only other men of note are Stapleton and Mr. Frankland. In the days before the man's death, Dr. Mortimer noticed that Sir Charles was growing anxious over the legends of the hound. One night, after seeing a black shape cross their paths, Sir Charles admitted his fears, and Dr. Mortimer convinced him to escape to London. He died the night before he planned to leave. Finally, Dr. Mortimer adds that upon investigating the scene of Sir Charles's death, he found the footprints of a gigantic hound. He did not reveal this information to the press.