prompt:
Chapter: DINAH, who had risen when the gentlemen came in, but still kept hold of
the sheet she was mending, curtsied respectfully when she saw Mr. Irwine
looking at her and advancing towards her. He had never yet spoken to
her, or stood face to face with her, and her first thought, as her eyes
met his, was, "What a well-favoured countenance! Oh that the good seed
might fall on that soil, for it would surely flourish." The agreeable
impression must have been mutual, for Mr. Irwine bowed to her with a
benignant deference, which would have been equally in place if she had
been the most dignified lady of his acquaintance.

"You are only a visitor in this neighbourhood, I think?" were his first
words, as he seated himself opposite to her.

"No, sir, I come from Snowfield, in Stonyshire. But my aunt was very
kind, wanting me to have rest from my work there, because I'd been ill,
and she invited me to come and stay with her for a while."

"Ah, I remember Snowfield very well; I once had occasion to go there.
It's a dreary bleak place. They were building a cotton-mill there; but
that's many years ago now. I suppose the place is a good deal changed by
the employment that mill must have brought."

"It IS changed so far as the mill has brought people there, who get a
livelihood for themselves by working in it, and make it better for the
tradesfolks. I work in it myself, and have reason to be grateful, for
thereby I have enough and to spare. But it's still a bleak place, as you
say, sir--very different from this country."

"You have relations living there, probably, so that you are attached to
the place as your home?"

"I had an aunt there once; she brought me up, for I was an orphan. But
she was taken away seven years ago, and I have no other kindred that I
know of, besides my Aunt Poyser, who is very good to me, and would
have me come and live in this country, which to be sure is a good land,
wherein they eat bread without scarceness. But I'm not free to leave
Snowfield, where I was first planted, and have grown deep into it, like
the small grass on the hill-top."

"Ah, I daresay you have many religious friends and companions there; you
are a Methodist--a Wesleyan, I think?"

"Yes, my aunt at Snowfield belonged to the Society, and I have cause
to be thankful for the privileges I have had thereby from my earliest
childhood."

"And have you been long in the habit of preaching? For I understand you
preached at Hayslope last night."

"I first took to the work four years since, when I was twenty-one."

"Your Society sanctions women's preaching, then?"

"It doesn't forbid them, sir, when they've a clear call to the work,
and when their ministry is owned by the conversion of sinners and the
strengthening of God's people. Mrs. Fletcher, as you may have heard
about, was the first woman to preach in the Society, I believe, before
she was married, when she was Miss Bosanquet; and Mr. Wesley approved
of her undertaking the work. She had a great gift, and there are many
others now living who are precious fellow-helpers in the work of the
ministry. I understand there's been voices raised against it in the
Society of late, but I cannot but think their counsel will come to
nought. It isn't for men to make channels for God's Spirit, as they
make channels for the watercourses, and say, 'Flow here, but flow not
there.'"

"But don't you find some danger among your people--I don't mean to say
that it is so with you, far from it--but don't you find sometimes that
both men and women fancy themselves channels for God's Spirit, and are
quite mistaken, so that they set about a work for which they are unfit
and bring holy things into contempt?"

"Doubtless it is so sometimes; for there have been evil-doers among us
who have sought to deceive the brethren, and some there are who deceive
their own selves. But we are not without discipline and correction to
put a check upon these things. There's a very strict order kept among
us, and the brethren and sisters watch for each other's souls as they
that must give account. They don't go every one his own way and say, 'Am
I my brother's keeper?'"

"But tell me--if I may ask, and I am really interested in knowing
it--how you first came to think of preaching?"

"Indeed, sir, I didn't think of it at all--I'd been used from the time
I was sixteen to talk to the little children, and teach them, and
sometimes I had had my heart enlarged to speak in class, and was much
drawn out in prayer with the sick. But I had felt no call to preach, for
when I'm not greatly wrought upon, I'm too much given to sit still and
keep by myself. It seems as if I could sit silent all day long with the
thought of God overflowing my soul--as the pebbles lie bathed in the
Willow Brook. For thoughts are so great--aren't they, sir? They seem to
lie upon us like a deep flood; and it's my besetment to forget where
I am and everything about me, and lose myself in thoughts that I could
give no account of, for I could neither make a beginning nor ending of
them in words. That was my way as long as I can remember; but sometimes
it seemed as if speech came to me without any will of my own, and words
were given to me that came out as the tears come, because our hearts
are full and we can't help it. And those were always times of great
blessing, though I had never thought it could be so with me before
a congregation of people. But, sir, we are led on, like the little
children, by a way that we know not. I was called to preach quite
suddenly, and since then I have never been left in doubt about the work
that was laid upon me."

"But tell me the circumstances--just how it was, the very day you began
to preach."

"It was one Sunday I walked with brother Marlowe, who was an aged
man, one of the local preachers, all the way to Hetton-Deeps--that's a
village where the people get their living by working in the lead-mines,
and where there's no church nor preacher, but they live like sheep
without a shepherd. It's better than twelve miles from Snowfield, so
we set out early in the morning, for it was summertime; and I had a
wonderful sense of the Divine love as we walked over the hills, where
there's no trees, you know, sir, as there is here, to make the sky look
smaller, but you see the heavens stretched out like a tent, and you feel
the everlasting arms around you. But before we got to Hetton, brother
Marlowe was seized with a dizziness that made him afraid of falling, for
he overworked himself sadly, at his years, in watching and praying,
and walking so many miles to speak the Word, as well as carrying on his
trade of linen-weaving. And when we got to the village, the people were
expecting him, for he'd appointed the time and the place when he was
there before, and such of them as cared to hear the Word of Life were
assembled on a spot where the cottages was thickest, so as others might
be drawn to come. But he felt as he couldn't stand up to preach, and
he was forced to lie down in the first of the cottages we came to. So I
went to tell the people, thinking we'd go into one of the houses, and I
would read and pray with them. But as I passed along by the cottages and
saw the aged and trembling women at the doors, and the hard looks of the
men, who seemed to have their eyes no more filled with the sight of the
Sabbath morning than if they had been dumb oxen that never looked up to
the sky, I felt a great movement in my soul, and I trembled as if I
was shaken by a strong spirit entering into my weak body. And I went to
where the little flock of people was gathered together, and stepped on
the low wall that was built against the green hillside, and I spoke the
words that were given to me abundantly. And they all came round me out
of all the cottages, and many wept over their sins, and have since been
joined to the Lord. That was the beginning of my preaching, sir, and
I've preached ever since."

Dinah had let her work fall during this narrative, which she uttered in
her usual simple way, but with that sincere articulate, thrilling treble
by which she always mastered her audience. She stooped now to gather up
her sewing, and then went on with it as before. Mr. Irwine was deeply
interested. He said to himself, "He must be a miserable prig who would
act the pedagogue here: one might as well go and lecture the trees for
growing in their own shape."

"And you never feel any embarrassment from the sense of your youth--that
you are a lovely young woman on whom men's eyes are fixed?" he said
aloud.

"No, I've no room for such feelings, and I don't believe the people ever
take notice about that. I think, sir, when God makes His presence felt
through us, we are like the burning bush: Moses never took any heed
what sort of bush it was--he only saw the brightness of the Lord. I've
preached to as rough ignorant people as can be in the villages about
Snowfield--men that looked very hard and wild--but they never said an
uncivil word to me, and often thanked me kindly as they made way for me
to pass through the midst of them."

"THAT I can believe--that I can well believe," said Mr. Irwine,
emphatically. "And what did you think of your hearers last night, now?
Did you find them quiet and attentive?"

"Very quiet, sir, but I saw no signs of any great work upon them, except
in a young girl named Bessy Cranage, towards whom my heart yearned
greatly, when my eyes first fell on her blooming youth, given up
to folly and vanity. I had some private talk and prayer with her
afterwards, and I trust her heart is touched. But I've noticed that
in these villages where the people lead a quiet life among the green
pastures and the still waters, tilling the ground and tending the
cattle, there's a strange deadness to the Word, as different as can
be from the great towns, like Leeds, where I once went to visit a holy
woman who preaches there. It's wonderful how rich is the harvest of
souls up those high-walled streets, where you seemed to walk as in a
prison-yard, and the ear is deafened with the sounds of worldly toil.
I think maybe it is because the promise is sweeter when this life is so
dark and weary, and the soul gets more hungry when the body is ill at
ease."

"Why, yes, our farm-labourers are not easily roused. They take life
almost as slowly as the sheep and cows. But we have some intelligent
workmen about here. I daresay you know the Bedes; Seth Bede, by the by,
is a Methodist."

"Yes, I know Seth well, and his brother Adam a little. Seth is a
gracious young man--sincere and without offence; and Adam is like the
patriarch Joseph, for his great skill and knowledge and the kindness he
shows to his brother and his parents."

"Perhaps you don't know the trouble that has just happened to them?
Their father, Matthias Bede, was drowned in the Willow Brook last night,
not far from his own door. I'm going now to see Adam."

"Ah, their poor aged mother!" said Dinah, dropping her hands and looking
before her with pitying eyes, as if she saw the object of her sympathy.
"She will mourn heavily, for Seth has told me she's of an anxious,
troubled heart. I must go and see if I can give her any help."

As she rose and was beginning to fold up her work, Captain Donnithorne,
having exhausted all plausible pretexts for remaining among the
milk-pans, came out of the dairy, followed by Mrs. Poyser. Mr. Irwine
now rose also, and, advancing towards Dinah, held out his hand, and
said, "Good-bye. I hear you are going away soon; but this will not be
the last visit you will pay your aunt--so we shall meet again, I hope."

His cordiality towards Dinah set all Mrs. Poyser's anxieties at rest,
and her face was brighter than usual, as she said, "I've never asked
after Mrs. Irwine and the Miss Irwines, sir; I hope they're as well as
usual."

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Poyser, except that Miss Anne has one of her bad
headaches to-day. By the by, we all liked that nice cream-cheese you
sent us--my mother especially."

"I'm very glad, indeed, sir. It is but seldom I make one, but I
remembered Mrs. Irwine was fond of 'em. Please to give my duty to her,
and to Miss Kate and Miss Anne. They've never been to look at my poultry
this long while, and I've got some beautiful speckled chickens, black
and white, as Miss Kate might like to have some of amongst hers."

"Well, I'll tell her; she must come and see them. Good-bye," said the
rector, mounting his horse.

"Just ride slowly on, Irwine," said Captain Donnithorne, mounting also.
"I'll overtake you in three minutes. I'm only going to speak to the
shepherd about the whelps. Good-bye, Mrs. Poyser; tell your husband I
shall come and have a long talk with him soon."

Mrs. Poyser curtsied duly, and watched the two horses until they had
disappeared from the yard, amidst great excitement on the part of the
pigs and the poultry, and under the furious indignation of the bull-dog,
who performed a Pyrrhic dance, that every moment seemed to threaten the
breaking of his chain. Mrs. Poyser delighted in this noisy exit; it was
a fresh assurance to her that the farm-yard was well guarded, and that
no loiterers could enter unobserved; and it was not until the gate had
closed behind the captain that she turned into the kitchen again, where
Dinah stood with her bonnet in her hand, waiting to speak to her aunt,
before she set out for Lisbeth Bede's cottage.

Mrs. Poyser, however, though she noticed the bonnet, deferred remarking
on it until she had disburdened herself of her surprise at Mr. Irwine's
behaviour.

"Why, Mr. Irwine wasn't angry, then? What did he say to you, Dinah?
Didn't he scold you for preaching?"

"No, he was not at all angry; he was very friendly to me. I was quite
drawn out to speak to him; I hardly know how, for I had always thought
of him as a worldly Sadducee. But his countenance is as pleasant as the
morning sunshine."

"Pleasant! And what else did y' expect to find him but pleasant?" said
Mrs. Poyser impatiently, resuming her knitting. "I should think his
countenance is pleasant indeed! And him a gentleman born, and's got a
mother like a picter. You may go the country round and not find such
another woman turned sixty-six. It's summat-like to see such a man as
that i' the desk of a Sunday! As I say to Poyser, it's like looking at
a full crop o' wheat, or a pasture with a fine dairy o' cows in it; it
makes you think the world's comfortable-like. But as for such creaturs
as you Methodisses run after, I'd as soon go to look at a lot o'
bare-ribbed runts on a common. Fine folks they are to tell you what's
right, as look as if they'd never tasted nothing better than bacon-sword
and sour-cake i' their lives. But what did Mr. Irwine say to you about
that fool's trick o' preaching on the Green?"

"He only said he'd heard of it; he didn't seem to feel any displeasure
about it. But, dear aunt, don't think any more about that. He told me
something that I'm sure will cause you sorrow, as it does me. Thias Bede
was drowned last night in the Willow Brook, and I'm thinking that the
aged mother will be greatly in need of comfort. Perhaps I can be of use
to her, so I have fetched my bonnet and am going to set out."

"Dear heart, dear heart! But you must have a cup o' tea first, child,"
said Mrs. Poyser, falling at once from the key of B with five sharps to
the frank and genial C. "The kettle's boiling--we'll have it ready in
a minute; and the young uns 'ull be in and wanting theirs directly. I'm
quite willing you should go and see th' old woman, for you're one as
is allays welcome in trouble, Methodist or no Methodist; but, for the
matter o' that, it's the flesh and blood folks are made on as makes the
difference. Some cheeses are made o' skimmed milk and some o' new milk,
and it's no matter what you call 'em, you may tell which is which by the
look and the smell. But as to Thias Bede, he's better out o' the way nor
in--God forgi' me for saying so--for he's done little this ten year but
make trouble for them as belonged to him; and I think it 'ud be well
for you to take a little bottle o' rum for th' old woman, for I daresay
she's got never a drop o' nothing to comfort her inside. Sit down,
child, and be easy, for you shan't stir out till you've had a cup o'
tea, and so I tell you."

During the latter part of this speech, Mrs. Poyser had been reaching
down the tea-things from the shelves, and was on her way towards
the pantry for the loaf (followed close by Totty, who had made her
appearance on the rattling of the tea-cups), when Hetty came out of
the dairy relieving her tired arms by lifting them up, and clasping her
hands at the back of her head.

"Molly," she said, rather languidly, "just run out and get me a bunch of
dock-leaves: the butter's ready to pack up now."

"D' you hear what's happened, Hetty?" said her aunt.

"No; how should I hear anything?" was the answer, in a pettish tone.

"Not as you'd care much, I daresay, if you did hear; for you're too
feather-headed to mind if everybody was dead, so as you could stay
upstairs a-dressing yourself for two hours by the clock. But anybody
besides yourself 'ud mind about such things happening to them as think
a deal more of you than you deserve. But Adam Bede and all his kin might
be drownded for what you'd care--you'd be perking at the glass the next
minute."

"Adam Bede--drowned?" said Hetty, letting her arms fall and looking
rather bewildered, but suspecting that her aunt was as usual
exaggerating with a didactic purpose.

"No, my dear, no," said Dinah kindly, for Mrs. Poyser had passed on to
the pantry without deigning more precise information. "Not Adam. Adam's
father, the old man, is drowned. He was drowned last night in the Willow
Brook. Mr. Irwine has just told me about it."

"Oh, how dreadful!" said Hetty, looking serious, but not deeply
affected; and as Molly now entered with the dock-leaves, she took them
silently and returned to the dairy without asking further questions.

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

completion: Last chapter, we had something vaguely like love at first sight. This chapter, we've got a Methodism versus Church of England smackdown. In the one corner, Dinah "The Lady Preacher" Morris. In the other, Reverend "The Reverend" Adolphus Irwine. Wait, hold on, what's this? They're talking politely? Oh. When things start off, Dinah is impressed with Irwine's "well-favoured countenance," and Irwine bows to her with "benignant deference" . Mr. Irwine starts off by asking Dinah about her hometown, Snowfield. Dinah responds with some pleasantries about her Aunt and the Snowfield Methodists. And now things heat up a bit. Irwine brings up "women's preaching," always a touchy subject . Touchy, sure, but Dinah believes that her preaching is about purity and inspiration--not about being a rabble-rouser. Mr. Irwine wants to hear more. So Dinah tells him how she first came to preach. Once "brother Marlowe, who as an aged man," was taken with a fit of dizziness right before a sermon . Instead of sending everyone home, Dinah gave a sermon of her own. How's that for an understudy? Since then, there's been no going back. Dinah isn't daunted by her gender or her youth, and even an unresponsive crowd doesn't get to her. Irwine won't be swaying Dinah from her preaching. Heck, it doesn't seem like he wanted to anyway. Instead, he tells her about "the trouble that has just happened" to the Bedes . He's talking about Thias drowning in the brook. A few kind words to Mrs. Poyser, and Mr. Irwine and Arthur decide to hit the road. Once they're gone, Mrs. Poyser wants all the juicy details of Dinah's meeting. Some line about how Mr. Irwine's "countenance is as pleasant as the morning sun" is all Dinah has for her . That's that, apparently. Still, not everyone knows the news of Thias Bede's death. Mrs. Poyser never had much affection for the old tippler, but she feels compelled to tell Hetty of Thias's demise. This elicits an "Oh, how dreadful!" from the pretty dairymaid . Otherwise, Hetty could not care less about Thias Bede. Must run in the family.


prompt:
Chapter: WHILE she adjusted the broad leaves that set off the pale fragrant
butter as the primrose is set off by its nest of green I am afraid Hetty
was thinking a great deal more of the looks Captain Donnithorne had cast
at her than of Adam and his troubles. Bright, admiring glances from
a handsome young gentleman with white hands, a gold chain, occasional
regimentals, and wealth and grandeur immeasurable--those were the
warm rays that set poor Hetty's heart vibrating and playing its little
foolish tunes over and over again. We do not hear that Memnon's statue
gave forth its melody at all under the rushing of the mightiest wind,
or in response to any other influence divine or human than certain
short-lived sunbeams of morning; and we must learn to accommodate
ourselves to the discovery that some of those cunningly fashioned
instruments called human souls have only a very limited range of music,
and will not vibrate in the least under a touch that fills others with
tremulous rapture or quivering agony.

Hetty was quite used to the thought that people liked to look at her.
She was not blind to the fact that young Luke Britton of Broxton came to
Hayslope Church on a Sunday afternoon on purpose that he might see her;
and that he would have made much more decided advances if her uncle
Poyser, thinking but lightly of a young man whose father's land was so
foul as old Luke Britton's, had not forbidden her aunt to encourage him
by any civilities. She was aware, too, that Mr. Craig, the gardener at
the Chase, was over head and ears in love with her, and had lately made
unmistakable avowals in luscious strawberries and hyperbolical peas.
She knew still better, that Adam Bede--tall, upright, clever, brave Adam
Bede--who carried such authority with all the people round about, and
whom her uncle was always delighted to see of an evening, saying that
"Adam knew a fine sight more o' the natur o' things than those as
thought themselves his betters"--she knew that this Adam, who was often
rather stern to other people and not much given to run after the lasses,
could be made to turn pale or red any day by a word or a look from
her. Hetty's sphere of comparison was not large, but she couldn't help
perceiving that Adam was "something like" a man; always knew what to say
about things, could tell her uncle how to prop the hovel, and had mended
the churn in no time; knew, with only looking at it, the value of the
chestnut-tree that was blown down, and why the damp came in the walls,
and what they must do to stop the rats; and wrote a beautiful hand
that you could read off, and could do figures in his head--a degree
of accomplishment totally unknown among the richest farmers of that
countryside. Not at all like that slouching Luke Britton, who, when
she once walked with him all the way from Broxton to Hayslope, had only
broken silence to remark that the grey goose had begun to lay. And as
for Mr. Craig, the gardener, he was a sensible man enough, to be sure,
but he was knock-kneed, and had a queer sort of sing-song in his talk;
moreover, on the most charitable supposition, he must be far on the way
to forty.

Hetty was quite certain her uncle wanted her to encourage Adam, and
would be pleased for her to marry him. For those were times when there
was no rigid demarcation of rank between the farmer and the respectable
artisan, and on the home hearth, as well as in the public house, they
might be seen taking their jug of ale together; the farmer having
a latent sense of capital, and of weight in parish affairs, which
sustained him under his conspicuous inferiority in conversation. Martin
Poyser was not a frequenter of public houses, but he liked a friendly
chat over his own home-brewed; and though it was pleasant to lay down
the law to a stupid neighbour who had no notion how to make the best
of his farm, it was also an agreeable variety to learn something from
a clever fellow like Adam Bede. Accordingly, for the last three
years--ever since he had superintended the building of the new
barn--Adam had always been made welcome at the Hall Farm, especially of
a winter evening, when the whole family, in patriarchal fashion, master
and mistress, children and servants, were assembled in that glorious
kitchen, at well-graduated distances from the blazing fire. And for the
last two years, at least, Hetty had been in the habit of hearing her
uncle say, "Adam Bede may be working for wage now, but he'll be a
master-man some day, as sure as I sit in this chair. Mester Burge is
in the right on't to want him to go partners and marry his daughter, if
it's true what they say; the woman as marries him 'ull have a good take,
be't Lady day or Michaelmas," a remark which Mrs. Poyser always followed
up with her cordial assent. "Ah," she would say, "it's all very fine
having a ready-made rich man, but mayhappen he'll be a ready-made fool;
and it's no use filling your pocket full o' money if you've got a hole
in the corner. It'll do you no good to sit in a spring-cart o' your own,
if you've got a soft to drive you: he'll soon turn you over into the
ditch. I allays said I'd never marry a man as had got no brains; for
where's the use of a woman having brains of her own if she's tackled
to a geck as everybody's a-laughing at? She might as well dress herself
fine to sit back'ards on a donkey."

These expressions, though figurative, sufficiently indicated the bent of
Mrs. Poyser's mind with regard to Adam; and though she and her husband
might have viewed the subject differently if Hetty had been a daughter
of their own, it was clear that they would have welcomed the match with
Adam for a penniless niece. For what could Hetty have been but a servant
elsewhere, if her uncle had not taken her in and brought her up as a
domestic help to her aunt, whose health since the birth of Totty had not
been equal to more positive labour than the superintendence of servants
and children? But Hetty had never given Adam any steady encouragement.
Even in the moments when she was most thoroughly conscious of his
superiority to her other admirers, she had never brought herself to
think of accepting him. She liked to feel that this strong, skilful,
keen-eyed man was in her power, and would have been indignant if he had
shown the least sign of slipping from under the yoke of her coquettish
tyranny and attaching himself to the gentle Mary Burge, who would have
been grateful enough for the most trifling notice from him. "Mary Burge,
indeed! Such a sallow-faced girl: if she put on a bit of pink ribbon,
she looked as yellow as a crow-flower and her hair was as straight as a
hank of cotton." And always when Adam stayed away for several weeks from
the Hall Farm, and otherwise made some show of resistance to his passion
as a foolish one, Hetty took care to entice him back into the net by
little airs of meekness and timidity, as if she were in trouble at his
neglect. But as to marrying Adam, that was a very different affair!
There was nothing in the world to tempt her to do that. Her cheeks never
grew a shade deeper when his name was mentioned; she felt no thrill
when she saw him passing along the causeway by the window, or advancing
towards her unexpectedly in the footpath across the meadow; she felt
nothing, when his eyes rested on her, but the cold triumph of knowing
that he loved her and would not care to look at Mary Burge. He could no
more stir in her the emotions that make the sweet intoxication of young
love than the mere picture of a sun can stir the spring sap in the
subtle fibres of the plant. She saw him as he was--a poor man with old
parents to keep, who would not be able, for a long while to come, to
give her even such luxuries as she shared in her uncle's house. And
Hetty's dreams were all of luxuries: to sit in a carpeted parlour, and
always wear white stockings; to have some large beautiful ear-rings,
such as were all the fashion; to have Nottingham lace round the top of
her gown, and something to make her handkerchief smell nice, like
Miss Lydia Donnithorne's when she drew it out at church; and not to be
obliged to get up early or be scolded by anybody. She thought, if Adam
had been rich and could have given her these things, she loved him well
enough to marry him.

But for the last few weeks a new influence had come over Hetty--vague,
atmospheric, shaping itself into no self-confessed hopes or prospects,
but producing a pleasant narcotic effect, making her tread the ground
and go about her work in a sort of dream, unconscious of weight or
effort, and showing her all things through a soft, liquid veil, as if
she were living not in this solid world of brick and stone, but in a
beatified world, such as the sun lights up for us in the waters. Hetty
had become aware that Mr. Arthur Donnithorne would take a good deal of
trouble for the chance of seeing her; that he always placed himself at
church so as to have the fullest view of her both sitting and standing;
that he was constantly finding reason for calling at the Hall Farm, and
always would contrive to say something for the sake of making her speak
to him and look at him. The poor child no more conceived at present the
idea that the young squire could ever be her lover than a baker's pretty
daughter in the crowd, whom a young emperor distinguishes by an imperial
but admiring smile, conceives that she shall be made empress. But the
baker's daughter goes home and dreams of the handsome young emperor, and
perhaps weighs the flour amiss while she is thinking what a heavenly lot
it must be to have him for a husband. And so, poor Hetty had got a face
and a presence haunting her waking and sleeping dreams; bright, soft
glances had penetrated her, and suffused her life with a strange, happy
languor. The eyes that shed those glances were really not half so
fine as Adam's, which sometimes looked at her with a sad, beseeching
tenderness, but they had found a ready medium in Hetty's little
silly imagination, whereas Adam's could get no entrance through that
atmosphere. For three weeks, at least, her inward life had consisted of
little else than living through in memory the looks and words Arthur had
directed towards her--of little else than recalling the sensations with
which she heard his voice outside the house, and saw him enter, and
became conscious that his eyes were fixed on her, and then became
conscious that a tall figure, looking down on her with eyes that seemed
to touch her, was coming nearer in clothes of beautiful texture with an
odour like that of a flower-garden borne on the evening breeze. Foolish
thoughts! But all this happened, you must remember, nearly sixty years
ago, and Hetty was quite uneducated--a simple farmer's girl, to whom
a gentleman with a white hand was dazzling as an Olympian god. Until
to-day, she had never looked farther into the future than to the next
time Captain Donnithorne would come to the Farm, or the next Sunday when
she should see him at church; but now she thought, perhaps he would try
to meet her when she went to the Chase to-morrow--and if he should
speak to her, and walk a little way, when nobody was by! That had never
happened yet; and now her imagination, instead of retracing the past,
was busy fashioning what would happen to-morrow--whereabout in the
Chase she should see him coming towards her, how she should put her new
rose-coloured ribbon on, which he had never seen, and what he would say
to her to make her return his glance--a glance which she would be living
through in her memory, over and over again, all the rest of the day.

In this state of mind, how could Hetty give any feeling to Adam's
troubles, or think much about poor old Thias being drowned? Young souls,
in such pleasant delirium as hers are as unsympathetic as butterflies
sipping nectar; they are isolated from all appeals by a barrier of
dreams--by invisible looks and impalpable arms.

While Hetty's hands were busy packing up the butter, and her head filled
with these pictures of the morrow, Arthur Donnithorne, riding by Mr.
Irwine's side towards the valley of the Willow Brook, had also certain
indistinct anticipations, running as an undercurrent in his mind while
he was listening to Mr. Irwine's account of Dinah--indistinct, yet
strong enough to make him feel rather conscious when Mr. Irwine suddenly
said, "What fascinated you so in Mrs. Poyser's dairy, Arthur? Have you
become an amateur of damp quarries and skimming dishes?"

Arthur knew the rector too well to suppose that a clever invention would
be of any use, so he said, with his accustomed frankness, "No, I went to
look at the pretty butter-maker Hetty Sorrel. She's a perfect Hebe; and
if I were an artist, I would paint her. It's amazing what pretty girls
one sees among the farmers' daughters, when the men are such clowns.
That common, round, red face one sees sometimes in the men--all cheek
and no features, like Martin Poyser's--comes out in the women of the
family as the most charming phiz imaginable."

"Well, I have no objection to your contemplating Hetty in an artistic
light, but I must not have you feeding her vanity and filling her little
noddle with the notion that she's a great beauty, attractive to fine
gentlemen, or you will spoil her for a poor man's wife--honest Craig's,
for example, whom I have seen bestowing soft glances on her. The little
puss seems already to have airs enough to make a husband as miserable
as it's a law of nature for a quiet man to be when he marries a beauty.
Apropos of marrying, I hope our friend Adam will get settled, now the
poor old man's gone. He will only have his mother to keep in future, and
I've a notion that there's a kindness between him and that nice modest
girl, Mary Burge, from something that fell from old Jonathan one day
when I was talking to him. But when I mentioned the subject to Adam he
looked uneasy and turned the conversation. I suppose the love-making
doesn't run smooth, or perhaps Adam hangs back till he's in a better
position. He has independence of spirit enough for two men--rather an
excess of pride, if anything."

"That would be a capital match for Adam. He would slip into old Burge's
shoes and make a fine thing of that building business, I'll answer for
him. I should like to see him well settled in this parish; he would be
ready then to act as my grand-vizier when I wanted one. We could plan
no end of repairs and improvements together. I've never seen the girl,
though, I think--at least I've never looked at her."

"Look at her next Sunday at church--she sits with her father on the
left of the reading-desk. You needn't look quite so much at Hetty Sorrel
then. When I've made up my mind that I can't afford to buy a tempting
dog, I take no notice of him, because if he took a strong fancy to
me and looked lovingly at me, the struggle between arithmetic and
inclination might become unpleasantly severe. I pique myself on my
wisdom there, Arthur, and as an old fellow to whom wisdom had become
cheap, I bestow it upon you."

"Thank you. It may stand me in good stead some day though I don't
know that I have any present use for it. Bless me! How the brook has
overflowed. Suppose we have a canter, now we're at the bottom of the
hill."

That is the great advantage of dialogue on horseback; it can be merged
any minute into a trot or a canter, and one might have escaped from
Socrates himself in the saddle. The two friends were free from the
necessity of further conversation till they pulled up in the lane behind
Adam's cottage.

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

completion: Now, we've just spent chapters on the Bede family's troubles, but how much do these troubles matter to Hetty? Answer : 0%. The truth is, "Hetty was thinking a great deal more of the looks Captain Donnithorne had cast at her than of Adam and his troubles" . Okay then... What are we supposed to make of Hetty? Loathe her? Despise her? Not quite. She's not a heroic type, but she isn't a terrible person. Instead, she thinks a lot about the many, many men who have crushes on her. These men include a slouching, silent fellow named Luke Britton and a flowery gardener named Mr. Craig. And Adam, who's a real catch, and who's the one the Poysers want her to pursue. Adam spends a lot of time lingering around the Hall Farm, but "Hetty had never given Adam any steady encouragement" . He just doesn't have that "special something" she wants. But now she's found somebody who does--Arthur Donnithorne. Until now, Hetty and Arthur have always been at a distance from each other. True, Hetty sometimes helps out around the Donnithorne mansion. But today Arthur spoke to her. And Hetty--who dreams of carriage rides, and fine clothes, and getting the heck off the Hall Farm--is forming a fantasy: she'll be the love of Arthur's life. Meanwhile, Arthur Donnithorne has had a revelation or two of his own. He and Mr. Irwine are just riding along, minding their own business, when Irwine asks: "What so fascinated you in Mrs. Poyser's dairy, Arthur?" . Arthur can't help admitting that this "fascination" was Hetty. Mr. Irwine has no problem with this, so long as Arthur simply contemplates Hetty "in an artistic light" . And what other light is there, for our favorite Donnithorne? Arthur believes that Hetty would be "a capital match for Adam" . So we can assume that he'll just continue with his "artistic" contemplation, right?


prompt:
Chapter: AT five o'clock Lisbeth came downstairs with a large key in her hand:
it was the key of the chamber where her husband lay dead. Throughout the
day, except in her occasional outbursts of wailing grief, she had been
in incessant movement, performing the initial duties to her dead with
the awe and exactitude that belong to religious rites. She had brought
out her little store of bleached linen, which she had for long years
kept in reserve for this supreme use. It seemed but yesterday--that time
so many midsummers ago, when she had told Thias where this linen lay,
that he might be sure and reach it out for her when SHE died, for she
was the elder of the two. Then there had been the work of cleansing to
the strictest purity every object in the sacred chamber, and of removing
from it every trace of common daily occupation. The small window, which
had hitherto freely let in the frosty moonlight or the warm summer
sunrise on the working man's slumber, must now be darkened with a fair
white sheet, for this was the sleep which is as sacred under the bare
rafters as in ceiled houses. Lisbeth had even mended a long-neglected
and unnoticeable rent in the checkered bit of bed-curtain; for the
moments were few and precious now in which she would be able to do the
smallest office of respect or love for the still corpse, to which in all
her thoughts she attributed some consciousness. Our dead are never dead
to us until we have forgotten them: they can be injured by us, they can
be wounded; they know all our penitence, all our aching sense that their
place is empty, all the kisses we bestow on the smallest relic of their
presence. And the aged peasant woman most of all believes that her dead
are conscious. Decent burial was what Lisbeth had been thinking of for
herself through years of thrift, with an indistinct expectation that she
should know when she was being carried to the churchyard, followed by
her husband and her sons; and now she felt as if the greatest work of
her life were to be done in seeing that Thias was buried decently before
her--under the white thorn, where once, in a dream, she had thought she
lay in the coffin, yet all the while saw the sunshine above and smelt
the white blossoms that were so thick upon the thorn the Sunday she went
to be churched after Adam was born.

But now she had done everything that could be done to-day in the chamber
of death--had done it all herself, with some aid from her sons in
lifting, for she would let no one be fetched to help her from the
village, not being fond of female neighbours generally; and her
favourite Dolly, the old housekeeper at Mr. Burge's, who had come to
condole with her in the morning as soon as she heard of Thias's death,
was too dim-sighted to be of much use. She had locked the door, and now
held the key in her hand, as she threw herself wearily into a chair
that stood out of its place in the middle of the house floor, where in
ordinary times she would never have consented to sit. The kitchen had
had none of her attention that day; it was soiled with the tread of
muddy shoes and untidy with clothes and other objects out of place. But
what at another time would have been intolerable to Lisbeth's habits
of order and cleanliness seemed to her now just what should be: it was
right that things should look strange and disordered and wretched, now
the old man had come to his end in that sad way; the kitchen ought not
to look as if nothing had happened. Adam, overcome with the agitations
and exertions of the day after his night of hard work, had fallen asleep
on a bench in the workshop; and Seth was in the back kitchen making a
fire of sticks that he might get the kettle to boil, and persuade his
mother to have a cup of tea, an indulgence which she rarely allowed
herself.

There was no one in the kitchen when Lisbeth entered and threw herself
into the chair. She looked round with blank eyes at the dirt and
confusion on which the bright afternoon's sun shone dismally; it was
all of a piece with the sad confusion of her mind--that confusion which
belongs to the first hours of a sudden sorrow, when the poor human soul
is like one who has been deposited sleeping among the ruins of a vast
city, and wakes up in dreary amazement, not knowing whether it is
the growing or the dying day--not knowing why and whence came this
illimitable scene of desolation, or why he too finds himself desolate in
the midst of it.

At another time Lisbeth's first thought would have been, "Where is
Adam?" but the sudden death of her husband had restored him in
these hours to that first place in her affections which he had held
six-and-twenty years ago. She had forgotten his faults as we forget the
sorrows of our departed childhood, and thought of nothing but the young
husband's kindness and the old man's patience. Her eyes continued
to wander blankly until Seth came in and began to remove some of the
scattered things, and clear the small round deal table that he might set
out his mother's tea upon it.

"What art goin' to do?" she said, rather peevishly.

"I want thee to have a cup of tea, Mother," answered Seth, tenderly.
"It'll do thee good; and I'll put two or three of these things away, and
make the house look more comfortable."

"Comfortable! How canst talk o' ma'in' things comfortable? Let a-be, let
a-be. There's no comfort for me no more," she went on, the tears coming
when she began to speak, "now thy poor feyther's gone, as I'n washed for
and mended, an' got's victual for him for thirty 'ear, an' him allays
so pleased wi' iverything I done for him, an' used to be so handy an' do
the jobs for me when I war ill an' cumbered wi' th' babby, an' made me
the posset an' brought it upstairs as proud as could be, an' carried the
lad as war as heavy as two children for five mile an' ne'er grumbled,
all the way to Warson Wake, 'cause I wanted to go an' see my sister, as
war dead an' gone the very next Christmas as e'er come. An' him to be
drownded in the brook as we passed o'er the day we war married an'
come home together, an' he'd made them lots o' shelves for me to put my
plates an' things on, an' showed 'em me as proud as could be, 'cause he
know'd I should be pleased. An' he war to die an' me not to know, but to
be a-sleepin' i' my bed, as if I caredna nought about it. Eh! An' me to
live to see that! An' us as war young folks once, an' thought we should
do rarely when we war married. Let a-be, lad, let a-be! I wonna ha'
no tay. I carena if I ne'er ate nor drink no more. When one end o' th'
bridge tumbles down, where's th' use o' th' other stannin'? I may's well
die, an' foller my old man. There's no knowin' but he'll want me."

Here Lisbeth broke from words into moans, swaying herself backwards and
forwards on her chair. Seth, always timid in his behaviour towards his
mother, from the sense that he had no influence over her, felt it was
useless to attempt to persuade or soothe her till this passion was past;
so he contented himself with tending the back kitchen fire and folding
up his father's clothes, which had been hanging out to dry since
morning--afraid to move about in the room where his mother was, lest he
should irritate her further.

But after Lisbeth had been rocking herself and moaning for some minutes,
she suddenly paused and said aloud to herself, "I'll go an' see arter
Adam, for I canna think where he's gotten; an' I want him to go upstairs
wi' me afore it's dark, for the minutes to look at the corpse is like
the meltin' snow."

Seth overheard this, and coming into the kitchen again, as his mother
rose from her chair, he said, "Adam's asleep in the workshop, mother.
Thee'dst better not wake him. He was o'erwrought with work and trouble."

"Wake him? Who's a-goin' to wake him? I shanna wake him wi' lookin' at
him. I hanna seen the lad this two hour--I'd welly forgot as he'd e'er
growed up from a babby when's feyther carried him."

Adam was seated on a rough bench, his head supported by his arm, which
rested from the shoulder to the elbow on the long planing-table in
the middle of the workshop. It seemed as if he had sat down for a few
minutes' rest and had fallen asleep without slipping from his first
attitude of sad, fatigued thought. His face, unwashed since yesterday,
looked pallid and clammy; his hair was tossed shaggily about his
forehead, and his closed eyes had the sunken look which follows upon
watching and sorrow. His brow was knit, and his whole face had an
expression of weariness and pain. Gyp was evidently uneasy, for he sat
on his haunches, resting his nose on his master's stretched-out leg, and
dividing the time between licking the hand that hung listlessly down and
glancing with a listening air towards the door. The poor dog was
hungry and restless, but would not leave his master, and was waiting
impatiently for some change in the scene. It was owing to this feeling
on Gyp's part that, when Lisbeth came into the workshop and advanced
towards Adam as noiselessly as she could, her intention not to awaken
him was immediately defeated; for Gyp's excitement was too great to find
vent in anything short of a sharp bark, and in a moment Adam opened his
eyes and saw his mother standing before him. It was not very unlike his
dream, for his sleep had been little more than living through again, in
a fevered delirious way, all that had happened since daybreak, and his
mother with her fretful grief was present to him through it all. The
chief difference between the reality and the vision was that in
his dream Hetty was continually coming before him in bodily
presence--strangely mingling herself as an actor in scenes with which
she had nothing to do. She was even by the Willow Brook; she made his
mother angry by coming into the house; and he met her with her smart
clothes quite wet through, as he walked in the rain to Treddleston, to
tell the coroner. But wherever Hetty came, his mother was sure to follow
soon; and when he opened his eyes, it was not at all startling to see
her standing near him.

"Eh, my lad, my lad!" Lisbeth burst out immediately, her wailing impulse
returning, for grief in its freshness feels the need of associating its
loss and its lament with every change of scene and incident, "thee'st
got nobody now but thy old mother to torment thee and be a burden to
thee. Thy poor feyther 'ull ne'er anger thee no more; an' thy mother
may's well go arter him--the sooner the better--for I'm no good to
nobody now. One old coat 'ull do to patch another, but it's good for
nought else. Thee'dst like to ha' a wife to mend thy clothes an' get thy
victual, better nor thy old mother. An' I shall be nought but cumber,
a-sittin' i' th' chimney-corner. (Adam winced and moved uneasily; he
dreaded, of all things, to hear his mother speak of Hetty.) But if
thy feyther had lived, he'd ne'er ha' wanted me to go to make room for
another, for he could no more ha' done wi'out me nor one side o' the
scissars can do wi'out th' other. Eh, we should ha' been both flung away
together, an' then I shouldna ha' seen this day, an' one buryin' 'ud ha'
done for us both."

Here Lisbeth paused, but Adam sat in pained silence--he could not speak
otherwise than tenderly to his mother to-day, but he could not help
being irritated by this plaint. It was not possible for poor Lisbeth to
know how it affected Adam any more than it is possible for a wounded
dog to know how his moans affect the nerves of his master. Like all
complaining women, she complained in the expectation of being soothed,
and when Adam said nothing, she was only prompted to complain more
bitterly.

"I know thee couldst do better wi'out me, for thee couldst go where thee
likedst an' marry them as thee likedst. But I donna want to say thee
nay, let thee bring home who thee wut; I'd ne'er open my lips to find
faut, for when folks is old an' o' no use, they may think theirsens well
off to get the bit an' the sup, though they'n to swallow ill words wi't.
An' if thee'st set thy heart on a lass as'll bring thee nought and waste
all, when thee mightst ha' them as 'ud make a man on thee, I'll say
nought, now thy feyther's dead an' drownded, for I'm no better nor an
old haft when the blade's gone."

Adam, unable to bear this any longer, rose silently from the bench and
walked out of the workshop into the kitchen. But Lisbeth followed him.

"Thee wutna go upstairs an' see thy feyther then? I'n done everythin'
now, an' he'd like thee to go an' look at him, for he war allays so
pleased when thee wast mild to him."

Adam turned round at once and said, "Yes, mother; let us go upstairs.
Come, Seth, let us go together."

They went upstairs, and for five minutes all was silence. Then the key
was turned again, and there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs. But
Adam did not come down again; he was too weary and worn-out to encounter
more of his mother's querulous grief, and he went to rest on his bed.
Lisbeth no sooner entered the kitchen and sat down than she threw her
apron over her head, and began to cry and moan and rock herself as
before. Seth thought, "She will be quieter by and by, now we have been
upstairs"; and he went into the back kitchen again, to tend his little
fire, hoping that he should presently induce her to have some tea.

Lisbeth had been rocking herself in this way for more than five minutes,
giving a low moan with every forward movement of her body, when she
suddenly felt a hand placed gently on hers, and a sweet treble voice
said to her, "Dear sister, the Lord has sent me to see if I can be a
comfort to you."

Lisbeth paused, in a listening attitude, without removing her apron from
her face. The voice was strange to her. Could it be her sister's spirit
come back to her from the dead after all those years? She trembled and
dared not look.

Dinah, believing that this pause of wonder was in itself a relief for
the sorrowing woman, said no more just yet, but quietly took off her
bonnet, and then, motioning silence to Seth, who, on hearing her voice,
had come in with a beating heart, laid one hand on the back of Lisbeth's
chair and leaned over her, that she might be aware of a friendly
presence.

Slowly Lisbeth drew down her apron, and timidly she opened her dim
dark eyes. She saw nothing at first but a face--a pure, pale face, with
loving grey eyes, and it was quite unknown to her. Her wonder increased;
perhaps it WAS an angel. But in the same instant Dinah had laid her hand
on Lisbeth's again, and the old woman looked down at it. It was a much
smaller hand than her own, but it was not white and delicate, for Dinah
had never worn a glove in her life, and her hand bore the traces of
labour from her childhood upwards. Lisbeth looked earnestly at the hand
for a moment, and then, fixing her eyes again on Dinah's face, said,
with something of restored courage, but in a tone of surprise, "Why,
ye're a workin' woman!"

"Yes, I am Dinah Morris, and I work in the cotton-mill when I am at
home."

"Ah!" said Lisbeth slowly, still wondering; "ye comed in so light, like
the shadow on the wall, an' spoke i' my ear, as I thought ye might be a
sperrit. Ye've got a'most the face o' one as is a-sittin' on the grave
i' Adam's new Bible."

"I come from the Hall Farm now. You know Mrs. Poyser--she's my aunt, and
she has heard of your great affliction, and is very sorry; and I'm come
to see if I can be any help to you in your trouble; for I know your sons
Adam and Seth, and I know you have no daughter; and when the clergyman
told me how the hand of God was heavy upon you, my heart went out
towards you, and I felt a command to come and be to you in the place of
a daughter in this grief, if you will let me."

"Ah! I know who y' are now; y' are a Methody, like Seth; he's tould
me on you," said Lisbeth fretfully, her overpowering sense of pain
returning, now her wonder was gone. "Ye'll make it out as trouble's a
good thing, like HE allays does. But where's the use o' talkin' to me
a-that'n? Ye canna make the smart less wi' talkin'. Ye'll ne'er make me
believe as it's better for me not to ha' my old man die in's bed, if he
must die, an' ha' the parson to pray by him, an' me to sit by him, an'
tell him ne'er to mind th' ill words I've gi'en him sometimes when I war
angered, an' to gi' him a bit an' a sup, as long as a bit an' a sup
he'd swallow. But eh! To die i' the cold water, an' us close to him, an'
ne'er to know; an' me a-sleepin', as if I ne'er belonged to him no more
nor if he'd been a journeyman tramp from nobody knows where!"

Here Lisbeth began to cry and rock herself again; and Dinah said, "Yes,
dear friend, your affliction is great. It would be hardness of heart to
say that your trouble was not heavy to bear. God didn't send me to you
to make light of your sorrow, but to mourn with you, if you will let me.
If you had a table spread for a feast, and was making merry with your
friends, you would think it was kind to let me come and sit down and
rejoice with you, because you'd think I should like to share those
good things; but I should like better to share in your trouble and your
labour, and it would seem harder to me if you denied me that. You won't
send me away? You're not angry with me for coming?"

"Nay, nay; angered! who said I war angered? It war good on you to come.
An' Seth, why donna ye get her some tay? Ye war in a hurry to get some
for me, as had no need, but ye donna think o' gettin' 't for them as
wants it. Sit ye down; sit ye down. I thank you kindly for comin', for
it's little wage ye get by walkin' through the wet fields to see an old
woman like me....Nay, I'n got no daughter o' my own--ne'er had one--an'
I warna sorry, for they're poor queechy things, gells is; I allays
wanted to ha' lads, as could fend for theirsens. An' the lads 'ull be
marryin'--I shall ha' daughters eno', an' too many. But now, do ye make
the tay as ye like it, for I'n got no taste i' my mouth this day--it's
all one what I swaller--it's all got the taste o' sorrow wi't."

Dinah took care not to betray that she had had her tea, and accepted
Lisbeth's invitation very readily, for the sake of persuading the old
woman herself to take the food and drink she so much needed after a day
of hard work and fasting.

Seth was so happy now Dinah was in the house that he could not help
thinking her presence was worth purchasing with a life in which grief
incessantly followed upon grief; but the next moment he reproached
himself--it was almost as if he were rejoicing in his father's sad
death. Nevertheless the joy of being with Dinah WOULD triumph--it was
like the influence of climate, which no resistance can overcome. And the
feeling even suffused itself over his face so as to attract his mother's
notice, while she was drinking her tea.

"Thee may'st well talk o' trouble bein' a good thing, Seth, for thee
thriv'st on't. Thee look'st as if thee know'dst no more o' care an'
cumber nor when thee wast a babby a-lyin' awake i' th' cradle. For
thee'dst allays lie still wi' thy eyes open, an' Adam ne'er 'ud lie
still a minute when he wakened. Thee wast allays like a bag o' meal as
can ne'er be bruised--though, for the matter o' that, thy poor feyther
war just such another. But ye've got the same look too" (here Lisbeth
turned to Dinah). "I reckon it's wi' bein' a Methody. Not as I'm
a-findin' faut wi' ye for't, for ye've no call to be frettin', an'
somehow ye looken sorry too. Eh! Well, if the Methodies are fond o'
trouble, they're like to thrive: it's a pity they canna ha't all, an'
take it away from them as donna like it. I could ha' gi'en 'em plenty;
for when I'd gotten my old man I war worreted from morn till night; and
now he's gone, I'd be glad for the worst o'er again."

"Yes," said Dinah, careful not to oppose any feeling of Lisbeth's, for
her reliance, in her smallest words and deeds, on a divine guidance,
always issued in that finest woman's tact which proceeds from acute and
ready sympathy; "yes, I remember too, when my dear aunt died, I longed
for the sound of her bad cough in the nights, instead of the silence
that came when she was gone. But now, dear friend, drink this other cup
of tea and eat a little more."

"What!" said Lisbeth, taking the cup and speaking in a less querulous
tone, "had ye got no feyther and mother, then, as ye war so sorry about
your aunt?"

"No, I never knew a father or mother; my aunt brought me up from a baby.
She had no children, for she was never married and she brought me up as
tenderly as if I'd been her own child."

"Eh, she'd fine work wi' ye, I'll warrant, bringin' ye up from a babby,
an' her a lone woman--it's ill bringin' up a cade lamb. But I daresay
ye warna franzy, for ye look as if ye'd ne'er been angered i' your life.
But what did ye do when your aunt died, an' why didna ye come to live in
this country, bein' as Mrs. Poyser's your aunt too?"

Dinah, seeing that Lisbeth's attention was attracted, told her the story
of her early life--how she had been brought up to work hard, and
what sort of place Snowfield was, and how many people had a hard life
there--all the details that she thought likely to interest Lisbeth. The
old woman listened, and forgot to be fretful, unconsciously subject to
the soothing influence of Dinah's face and voice. After a while she was
persuaded to let the kitchen be made tidy; for Dinah was bent on this,
believing that the sense of order and quietude around her would help in
disposing Lisbeth to join in the prayer she longed to pour forth at her
side. Seth, meanwhile, went out to chop wood, for he surmised that Dinah
would like to be left alone with his mother.

Lisbeth sat watching her as she moved about in her still quick way, and
said at last, "Ye've got a notion o' cleanin' up. I wouldna mind ha'in
ye for a daughter, for ye wouldna spend the lad's wage i' fine clothes
an' waste. Ye're not like the lasses o' this countryside. I reckon folks
is different at Snowfield from what they are here."

"They have a different sort of life, many of 'em," said Dinah; "they
work at different things--some in the mill, and many in the mines, in
the villages round about. But the heart of man is the same everywhere,
and there are the children of this world and the children of light there
as well as elsewhere. But we've many more Methodists there than in this
country."

"Well, I didna know as the Methody women war like ye, for there's Will
Maskery's wife, as they say's a big Methody, isna pleasant to look at,
at all. I'd as lief look at a tooad. An' I'm thinkin' I wouldna mind if
ye'd stay an' sleep here, for I should like to see ye i' th' house i'
th' mornin'. But mayhappen they'll be lookin for ye at Mester Poyser's."

"No," said Dinah, "they don't expect me, and I should like to stay, if
you'll let me."

"Well, there's room; I'n got my bed laid i' th' little room o'er the
back kitchen, an' ye can lie beside me. I'd be glad to ha' ye wi' me to
speak to i' th' night, for ye've got a nice way o' talkin'. It puts me
i' mind o' the swallows as was under the thack last 'ear when they fust
begun to sing low an' soft-like i' th' mornin'. Eh, but my old man war
fond o' them birds! An' so war Adam, but they'n ne'er comed again this
'ear. Happen THEY'RE dead too."

"There," said Dinah, "now the kitchen looks tidy, and now, dear
Mother--for I'm your daughter to-night, you know--I should like you to
wash your face and have a clean cap on. Do you remember what David did,
when God took away his child from him? While the child was yet alive
he fasted and prayed to God to spare it, and he would neither eat nor
drink, but lay on the ground all night, beseeching God for the child.
But when he knew it was dead, he rose up from the ground and washed and
anointed himself, and changed his clothes, and ate and drank; and when
they asked him how it was that he seemed to have left off grieving now
the child was dead, he said, 'While the child was yet alive, I fasted
and wept; for I said, Who can tell whether God will be gracious to me,
that the child may live? But now he is dead, wherefore should I fast?
Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he shall not return
to me.'"

"Eh, that's a true word," said Lisbeth. "Yea, my old man wonna come back
to me, but I shall go to him--the sooner the better. Well, ye may do as
ye like wi' me: there's a clean cap i' that drawer, an' I'll go i' the
back kitchen an' wash my face. An' Seth, thee may'st reach down Adam's
new Bible wi' th' picters in, an' she shall read us a chapter. Eh, I
like them words--'I shall go to him, but he wonna come back to me.'"

Dinah and Seth were both inwardly offering thanks for the greater
quietness of spirit that had come over Lisbeth. This was what Dinah had
been trying to bring about, through all her still sympathy and absence
from exhortation. From her girlhood upwards she had had experience among
the sick and the mourning, among minds hardened and shrivelled through
poverty and ignorance, and had gained the subtlest perception of the
mode in which they could best be touched and softened into willingness
to receive words of spiritual consolation or warning. As Dinah expressed
it, "she was never left to herself; but it was always given her when to
keep silence and when to speak." And do we not all agree to call rapid
thought and noble impulse by the name of inspiration? After our subtlest
analysis of the mental process, we must still say, as Dinah did, that
our highest thoughts and our best deeds are all given to us.

And so there was earnest prayer--there was faith, love, and hope pouring
forth that evening in the little kitchen. And poor, aged, fretful
Lisbeth, without grasping any distinct idea, without going through any
course of religious emotions, felt a vague sense of goodness and love,
and of something right lying underneath and beyond all this sorrowing
life. She couldn't understand the sorrow; but, for these moments, under
the subduing influence of Dinah's spirit, she felt that she must be
patient and still.

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

completion: Decent day for Hetty and Arthur, awful day for Lisbeth Bede. Since morning, poor Lisbeth has been making arrangements for Thias's last rights. Oh yeah, and suffering from "occasional outbursts of wailing grief" . Girls like Hetty just want to have fun. Girls like Lisbeth--fun is the last thing they're having. Lisbeth has worked hard to prepare Thias for his funeral. But the rest of the house is a mess, "soiled with the tread of muddy shoes and untidy clothes and other objects out of place" . You can't grieve and run a home worthy of Martha Stewart. Lisbeth is sitting in her kitchen, missing Thias mightily, when Seth walks in. He offers her a cup of tea. But all Lisbeth can do is wail over her loss. Finally, she composes herself enough to go check on Adam. How is that coffin coming? Adam has been working away, working away, and has decided to catch a very few z's. He dreams that he is with Hetty only to open his eyes and find Lisbeth standing over him, wailing about death and loneliness and Adam's "poor feyther" . Talk about a rude awakening. Now, Adam is still plenty broken up about Thias. But he soldiers on; none of this anguished outburst stuff for him. He can't bear to listen to Lisbeth so he retreats upstairs and leaves her to wail away the livelong day. Lisbeth returns to the kitchen and returns to her crying. And she's just settling in for a good, long wail when a hand reaches out. But it isn't a ghost or a zombie or E.T. reaching out. It's Dinah Morris. Dinah is here to comfort Lisbeth. She's just the person for the job. After all, Dinah is "a workin' woman" like Lisbeth--not a pampered little thing like that Hetty . Though Lisbeth hasn't totally quieted down, she wants Dinah to stay with her. Seth is just as happy that Dinah is there. As he sees it, "her presence was worth purchasing with a life in which grief incessantly followed upon grief" . Dinah has known a lot of grief herself. As she tells Lisbeth, she never knew her parents, and now she ministers to the not-quite-happy working people of Snowfield. But Dinah is good for more than feeling Lisbeth's pain. She helps to tidy up around the house. The three of them--Dinah, Seth, and Lisbeth--finish up the night with a reading from "Adam's new Bible wi' th' picters in it," as Lisbeth calls it . Lisbeth has quieted down and made a new friend. So there's a silver lining to this gloomy stormcloud of a day.


prompt:
Chapter: IT was but half-past four the next morning when Dinah, tired of lying
awake listening to the birds and watching the growing light through the
little window in the garret roof, rose and began to dress herself very
quietly, lest she should disturb Lisbeth. But already some one else was
astir in the house, and had gone downstairs, preceded by Gyp. The dog's
pattering step was a sure sign that it was Adam who went down; but Dinah
was not aware of this, and she thought it was more likely to be Seth,
for he had told her how Adam had stayed up working the night before.
Seth, however, had only just awakened at the sound of the opening
door. The exciting influence of the previous day, heightened at last
by Dinah's unexpected presence, had not been counteracted by any bodily
weariness, for he had not done his ordinary amount of hard work; and so
when he went to bed; it was not till he had tired himself with hours of
tossing wakefulness that drowsiness came, and led on a heavier morning
sleep than was usual with him.

But Adam had been refreshed by his long rest, and with his habitual
impatience of mere passivity, he was eager to begin the new day and
subdue sadness by his strong will and strong arm. The white mist lay in
the valley; it was going to be a bright warm day, and he would start to
work again when he had had his breakfast.

"There's nothing but what's bearable as long as a man can work," he said
to himself; "the natur o' things doesn't change, though it seems as if
one's own life was nothing but change. The square o' four is sixteen,
and you must lengthen your lever in proportion to your weight, is as
true when a man's miserable as when he's happy; and the best o' working
is, it gives you a grip hold o' things outside your own lot."

As he dashed the cold water over his head and face, he felt completely
himself again, and with his black eyes as keen as ever and his thick
black hair all glistening with the fresh moisture, he went into the
workshop to look out the wood for his father's coffin, intending that
he and Seth should carry it with them to Jonathan Burge's and have the
coffin made by one of the workmen there, so that his mother might not
see and hear the sad task going forward at home.

He had just gone into the workshop when his quick ear detected a light
rapid foot on the stairs--certainly not his mother's. He had been in bed
and asleep when Dinah had come in, in the evening, and now he wondered
whose step this could be. A foolish thought came, and moved him
strangely. As if it could be Hetty! She was the last person likely to
be in the house. And yet he felt reluctant to go and look and have the
clear proof that it was some one else. He stood leaning on a plank he
had taken hold of, listening to sounds which his imagination interpreted
for him so pleasantly that the keen strong face became suffused with a
timid tenderness. The light footstep moved about the kitchen, followed
by the sound of the sweeping brush, hardly making so much noise as the
lightest breeze that chases the autumn leaves along the dusty path; and
Adam's imagination saw a dimpled face, with dark bright eyes and roguish
smiles looking backward at this brush, and a rounded figure just leaning
a little to clasp the handle. A very foolish thought--it could not be
Hetty; but the only way of dismissing such nonsense from his head was
to go and see WHO it was, for his fancy only got nearer and nearer to
belief while he stood there listening. He loosed the plank and went to
the kitchen door.

"How do you do, Adam Bede?" said Dinah, in her calm treble, pausing from
her sweeping and fixing her mild grave eyes upon him. "I trust you feel
rested and strengthened again to bear the burden and heat of the day."

It was like dreaming of the sunshine and awaking in the moonlight. Adam
had seen Dinah several times, but always at the Hall Farm, where he was
not very vividly conscious of any woman's presence except Hetty's, and
he had only in the last day or two begun to suspect that Seth was in
love with her, so that his attention had not hitherto been drawn towards
her for his brother's sake. But now her slim figure, her plain black
gown, and her pale serene face impressed him with all the force that
belongs to a reality contrasted with a preoccupying fancy. For the
first moment or two he made no answer, but looked at her with the
concentrated, examining glance which a man gives to an object in which
he has suddenly begun to be interested. Dinah, for the first time in her
life, felt a painful self-consciousness; there was something in the dark
penetrating glance of this strong man so different from the mildness and
timidity of his brother Seth. A faint blush came, which deepened as she
wondered at it. This blush recalled Adam from his forgetfulness.

"I was quite taken by surprise; it was very good of you to come and see
my mother in her trouble," he said, in a gentle grateful tone, for his
quick mind told him at once how she came to be there. "I hope my mother
was thankful to have you," he added, wondering rather anxiously what had
been Dinah's reception.

"Yes," said Dinah, resuming her work, "she seemed greatly comforted
after a while, and she's had a good deal of rest in the night, by times.
She was fast asleep when I left her."

"Who was it took the news to the Hall Farm?" said Adam, his thoughts
reverting to some one there; he wondered whether SHE had felt anything
about it.

"It was Mr. Irwine, the clergyman, told me, and my aunt was grieved
for your mother when she heard it, and wanted me to come; and so is my
uncle, I'm sure, now he's heard it, but he was gone out to Rosseter all
yesterday. They'll look for you there as soon as you've got time to go,
for there's nobody round that hearth but what's glad to see you."

Dinah, with her sympathetic divination, knew quite well that Adam was
longing to hear if Hetty had said anything about their trouble; she was
too rigorously truthful for benevolent invention, but she had contrived
to say something in which Hetty was tacitly included. Love has a way
of cheating itself consciously, like a child who plays at solitary
hide-and-seek; it is pleased with assurances that it all the while
disbelieves. Adam liked what Dinah had said so much that his mind was
directly full of the next visit he should pay to the Hall Farm, when
Hetty would perhaps behave more kindly to him than she had ever done
before.

"But you won't be there yourself any longer?" he said to Dinah.

"No, I go back to Snowfield on Saturday, and I shall have to set out to
Treddleston early, to be in time for the Oakbourne carrier. So I must go
back to the farm to-night, that I may have the last day with my aunt and
her children. But I can stay here all to-day, if your mother would like
me; and her heart seemed inclined towards me last night."

"Ah, then, she's sure to want you to-day. If mother takes to people at
the beginning, she's sure to get fond of 'em; but she's a strange way of
not liking young women. Though, to be sure," Adam went on, smiling, "her
not liking other young women is no reason why she shouldn't like you."

Hitherto Gyp had been assisting at this conversation in motionless
silence, seated on his haunches, and alternately looking up in his
master's face to watch its expression and observing Dinah's movements
about the kitchen. The kind smile with which Adam uttered the last words
was apparently decisive with Gyp of the light in which the stranger
was to be regarded, and as she turned round after putting aside her
sweeping-brush, he trotted towards her and put up his muzzle against her
hand in a friendly way.

"You see Gyp bids you welcome," said Adam, "and he's very slow to
welcome strangers."

"Poor dog!" said Dinah, patting the rough grey coat, "I've a strange
feeling about the dumb things as if they wanted to speak, and it was a
trouble to 'em because they couldn't. I can't help being sorry for the
dogs always, though perhaps there's no need. But they may well have more
in them than they know how to make us understand, for we can't say half
what we feel, with all our words."

Seth came down now, and was pleased to find Adam talking with Dinah; he
wanted Adam to know how much better she was than all other women.
But after a few words of greeting, Adam drew him into the workshop to
consult about the coffin, and Dinah went on with her cleaning.

By six o'clock they were all at breakfast with Lisbeth in a kitchen as
clean as she could have made it herself. The window and door were open,
and the morning air brought with it a mingled scent of southernwood,
thyme, and sweet-briar from the patch of garden by the side of the
cottage. Dinah did not sit down at first, but moved about, serving the
others with the warm porridge and the toasted oat-cake, which she had
got ready in the usual way, for she had asked Seth to tell her just what
his mother gave them for breakfast. Lisbeth had been unusually silent
since she came downstairs, apparently requiring some time to adjust her
ideas to a state of things in which she came down like a lady to find
all the work done, and sat still to be waited on. Her new sensations
seemed to exclude the remembrance of her grief. At last, after tasting
the porridge, she broke silence:

"Ye might ha' made the parridge worse," she said to Dinah; "I can ate it
wi'out its turnin' my stomach. It might ha' been a trifle thicker an' no
harm, an' I allays putten a sprig o' mint in mysen; but how's ye t' know
that? The lads arena like to get folks as 'll make their parridge as I'n
made it for 'em; it's well if they get onybody as 'll make parridge at
all. But ye might do, wi' a bit o' showin'; for ye're a stirrin' body
in a mornin', an' ye've a light heel, an' ye've cleaned th' house well
enough for a ma'shift."

"Makeshift, mother?" said Adam. "Why, I think the house looks beautiful.
I don't know how it could look better."

"Thee dostna know? Nay; how's thee to know? Th' men ne'er know whether
the floor's cleaned or cat-licked. But thee'lt know when thee gets thy
parridge burnt, as it's like enough to be when I'n gi'en o'er makin' it.
Thee'lt think thy mother war good for summat then."

"Dinah," said Seth, "do come and sit down now and have your breakfast.
We're all served now."

"Aye, come an' sit ye down--do," said Lisbeth, "an' ate a morsel; ye'd
need, arter bein' upo' your legs this hour an' half a'ready. Come,
then," she added, in a tone of complaining affection, as Dinah sat down
by her side, "I'll be loath for ye t' go, but ye canna stay much longer,
I doubt. I could put up wi' ye i' th' house better nor wi' most folks."

"I'll stay till to-night if you're willing," said Dinah. "I'd stay
longer, only I'm going back to Snowfield on Saturday, and I must be with
my aunt to-morrow."

"Eh, I'd ne'er go back to that country. My old man come from that
Stonyshire side, but he left it when he war a young un, an' i' the right
on't too; for he said as there war no wood there, an' it 'ud ha' been a
bad country for a carpenter."

"Ah," said Adam, "I remember father telling me when I was a little lad
that he made up his mind if ever he moved it should be south'ard. But
I'm not so sure about it. Bartle Massey says--and he knows the South--as
the northern men are a finer breed than the southern, harder-headed and
stronger-bodied, and a deal taller. And then he says in some o' those
counties it's as flat as the back o' your hand, and you can see nothing
of a distance without climbing up the highest trees. I couldn't abide
that. I like to go to work by a road that'll take me up a bit of a hill,
and see the fields for miles round me, and a bridge, or a town, or a bit
of a steeple here and there. It makes you feel the world's a big place,
and there's other men working in it with their heads and hands besides
yourself."

"I like th' hills best," said Seth, "when the clouds are over your head
and you see the sun shining ever so far off, over the Loamford way, as
I've often done o' late, on the stormy days. It seems to me as if that
was heaven where there's always joy and sunshine, though this life's
dark and cloudy."

"Oh, I love the Stonyshire side," said Dinah; "I shouldn't like to set
my face towards the countries where they're rich in corn and cattle, and
the ground so level and easy to tread; and to turn my back on the hills
where the poor people have to live such a hard life and the men spend
their days in the mines away from the sunlight. It's very blessed on a
bleak cold day, when the sky is hanging dark over the hill, to feel
the love of God in one's soul, and carry it to the lonely, bare, stone
houses, where there's nothing else to give comfort."

"Eh!" said Lisbeth, "that's very well for ye to talk, as looks welly
like the snowdrop-flowers as ha' lived for days an' days when I'n
gethered 'em, wi' nothin' but a drop o' water an' a peep o' daylight;
but th' hungry foulks had better leave th' hungry country. It makes less
mouths for the scant cake. But," she went on, looking at Adam, "donna
thee talk o' goin' south'ard or north'ard, an' leavin' thy feyther and
mother i' the churchyard, an' goin' to a country as they know nothin'
on. I'll ne'er rest i' my grave if I donna see thee i' the churchyard of
a Sunday."

"Donna fear, mother," said Adam. "If I hadna made up my mind not to go,
I should ha' been gone before now."

He had finished his breakfast now, and rose as he was speaking.

"What art goin' to do?" asked Lisbeth. "Set about thy feyther's coffin?"

"No, mother," said Adam; "we're going to take the wood to the village
and have it made there."

"Nay, my lad, nay," Lisbeth burst out in an eager, wailing tone; "thee
wotna let nobody make thy feyther's coffin but thysen? Who'd make it
so well? An' him as know'd what good work war, an's got a son as is the
head o' the village an' all Treddles'on too, for cleverness."

"Very well, mother, if that's thy wish, I'll make the coffin at home;
but I thought thee wouldstna like to hear the work going on."

"An' why shouldna I like 't? It's the right thing to be done. An' what's
liking got to do wi't? It's choice o' mislikings is all I'n got i' this
world. One morsel's as good as another when your mouth's out o' taste.
Thee mun set about it now this mornin' fust thing. I wonna ha' nobody to
touch the coffin but thee."

Adam's eyes met Seth's, which looked from Dinah to him rather wistfully.

"No, Mother," he said, "I'll not consent but Seth shall have a hand
in it too, if it's to be done at home. I'll go to the village this
forenoon, because Mr. Burge 'ull want to see me, and Seth shall stay at
home and begin the coffin. I can come back at noon, and then he can go."

"Nay, nay," persisted Lisbeth, beginning to cry, "I'n set my heart on't
as thee shalt ma' thy feyther's coffin. Thee't so stiff an' masterful,
thee't ne'er do as thy mother wants thee. Thee wast often angered wi'
thy feyther when he war alive; thee must be the better to him now he's
gone. He'd ha' thought nothin' on't for Seth to ma's coffin."

"Say no more, Adam, say no more," said Seth, gently, though his voice
told that he spoke with some effort; "Mother's in the right. I'll go to
work, and do thee stay at home."

He passed into the workshop immediately, followed by Adam; while
Lisbeth, automatically obeying her old habits, began to put away the
breakfast things, as if she did not mean Dinah to take her place any
longer. Dinah said nothing, but presently used the opportunity of
quietly joining the brothers in the workshop.

They had already got on their aprons and paper caps, and Adam was
standing with his left hand on Seth's shoulder, while he pointed with
the hammer in his right to some boards which they were looking at. Their
backs were turned towards the door by which Dinah entered, and she came
in so gently that they were not aware of her presence till they heard
her voice saying, "Seth Bede!" Seth started, and they both turned round.
Dinah looked as if she did not see Adam, and fixed her eyes on Seth's
face, saying with calm kindness, "I won't say farewell. I shall see you
again when you come from work. So as I'm at the farm before dark, it
will be quite soon enough."

"Thank you, Dinah; I should like to walk home with you once more. It'll
perhaps be the last time."

There was a little tremor in Seth's voice. Dinah put out her hand and
said, "You'll have sweet peace in your mind to-day, Seth, for your
tenderness and long-suffering towards your aged mother."

She turned round and left the workshop as quickly and quietly as she had
entered it. Adam had been observing her closely all the while, but she
had not looked at him. As soon as she was gone, he said, "I don't wonder
at thee for loving her, Seth. She's got a face like a lily."

Seth's soul rushed to his eyes and lips: he had never yet confessed his
secret to Adam, but now he felt a delicious sense of disburdenment,
as he answered, "Aye, Addy, I do love her--too much, I doubt. But she
doesna love me, lad, only as one child o' God loves another. She'll
never love any man as a husband--that's my belief."

"Nay, lad, there's no telling; thee mustna lose heart. She's made out
o' stuff with a finer grain than most o' the women; I can see that clear
enough. But if she's better than they are in other things, I canna think
she'll fall short of 'em in loving."

No more was said. Seth set out to the village, and Adam began his work
on the coffin.

"God help the lad, and me too," he thought, as he lifted the board.
"We're like enough to find life a tough job--hard work inside and out.
It's a strange thing to think of a man as can lift a chair with his
teeth and walk fifty mile on end, trembling and turning hot and cold
at only a look from one woman out of all the rest i' the world. It's a
mystery we can give no account of; but no more we can of the sprouting
o' the seed, for that matter."

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

completion: The next morning at "half-past four," Dinah is "lying awake listening to the birds and watching the growing light" . Ugh. Morning people are the worst. Anyway, Dinah decides to sneak out without making a peep. The Bedes did just lose their paterfamilias. Let them rest. But Adam, "with his habitual impatience of mere passivity," is also up at this unheard-of hour . He's sitting in his workshop when he hears "a light rapid foot on the stairs" . Who is it? His mother? Hetty ? Santa Claus? He goes to investigate... ...and finds Dinah in the kitchen. This isn't the first sight he's had of her, but love isn't always a first-sight thing. Adam looks at her with a "concentrated, examining glance." And Dinah, "for the first time in her life, felt a painful self-consciousness" . Once the awkwardness has passed, Adam and Dinah talk about Lisbeth, Thias, and all that other unpleasant business. But Adam finds a silver lining. He's hopeful that his mother will like and appreciate Dinah. Hey, even Adam's dog likes and appreciates Dinah. The good animal is already comfortable enough to "put up his muzzle against her hand in a friendly way" . Soon, Seth and Lisbeth come down for breakfast. Adam's mother can be a tough customer, but she's warming to Dinah. It should be a pleasant meal. But a few chance remarks about travel and faraway places set Lisbeth off. She's afraid that her ambitious Adam will move away and leave his "feyther and mother i' the churchyard" . Adam has no such intention. He even consents to make Thias's coffin himself--as a sign of forgiveness for, you know, all that drinking Thias did. So Seth sets off for Burge's workshop in Adam's stead. Dinah decides to walk along with him. And Adam stays home, building the coffin and feeling amazed that a man can turn "hot and cold at only a look from one woman out of all the rest i' the world" . It's called true love, Adam. Don't worry, you'll know it yourself--about three hundred pages from now.