prompt:
Chapter: "HETTY, Hetty, don't you know church begins at two, and it's gone half
after one a'ready? Have you got nothing better to think on this good
Sunday as poor old Thias Bede's to be put into the ground, and him
drownded i' th' dead o' the night, as it's enough to make one's back
run cold, but you must be 'dizening yourself as if there was a wedding
i'stid of a funeral?"

"Well, Aunt," said Hetty, "I can't be ready so soon as everybody else,
when I've got Totty's things to put on. And I'd ever such work to make
her stand still."

Hetty was coming downstairs, and Mrs. Poyser, in her plain bonnet and
shawl, was standing below. If ever a girl looked as if she had been made
of roses, that girl was Hetty in her Sunday hat and frock. For her hat
was trimmed with pink, and her frock had pink spots, sprinkled on a
white ground. There was nothing but pink and white about her, except
in her dark hair and eyes and her little buckled shoes. Mrs. Poyser
was provoked at herself, for she could hardly keep from smiling, as any
mortal is inclined to do at the sight of pretty round things. So she
turned without speaking, and joined the group outside the house door,
followed by Hetty, whose heart was fluttering so at the thought of some
one she expected to see at church that she hardly felt the ground she
trod on.

And now the little procession set off. Mr. Poyser was in his Sunday suit
of drab, with a red-and-green waistcoat and a green watch-ribbon having
a large cornelian seal attached, pendant like a plumb-line from that
promontory where his watch-pocket was situated; a silk handkerchief of a
yellow tone round his neck; and excellent grey ribbed stockings, knitted
by Mrs. Poyser's own hand, setting off the proportions of his leg. Mr.
Poyser had no reason to be ashamed of his leg, and suspected that the
growing abuse of top-boots and other fashions tending to disguise the
nether limbs had their origin in a pitiable degeneracy of the human
calf. Still less had he reason to be ashamed of his round jolly face,
which was good humour itself as he said, "Come, Hetty--come, little
uns!" and giving his arm to his wife, led the way through the causeway
gate into the yard.

The "little uns" addressed were Marty and Tommy, boys of nine and seven,
in little fustian tailed coats and knee-breeches, relieved by rosy
cheeks and black eyes, looking as much like their father as a very small
elephant is like a very large one. Hetty walked between them, and behind
came patient Molly, whose task it was to carry Totty through the yard
and over all the wet places on the road; for Totty, having speedily
recovered from her threatened fever, had insisted on going to church
to-day, and especially on wearing her red-and-black necklace outside her
tippet. And there were many wet places for her to be carried over this
afternoon, for there had been heavy showers in the morning, though now
the clouds had rolled off and lay in towering silvery masses on the
horizon.

You might have known it was Sunday if you had only waked up in the
farmyard. The cocks and hens seemed to know it, and made only crooning
subdued noises; the very bull-dog looked less savage, as if he would
have been satisfied with a smaller bite than usual. The sunshine seemed
to call all things to rest and not to labour. It was asleep itself on
the moss-grown cow-shed; on the group of white ducks nestling together
with their bills tucked under their wings; on the old black sow
stretched languidly on the straw, while her largest young one found an
excellent spring-bed on his mother's fat ribs; on Alick, the shepherd,
in his new smock-frock, taking an uneasy siesta, half-sitting,
half-standing on the granary steps. Alick was of opinion that church,
like other luxuries, was not to be indulged in often by a foreman who
had the weather and the ewes on his mind. "Church! Nay--I'n gotten
summat else to think on," was an answer which he often uttered in a tone
of bitter significance that silenced further question. I feel sure
Alick meant no irreverence; indeed, I know that his mind was not of a
speculative, negative cast, and he would on no account have missed going
to church on Christmas Day, Easter Sunday, and "Whissuntide." But he had
a general impression that public worship and religious ceremonies,
like other non-productive employments, were intended for people who had
leisure.

"There's Father a-standing at the yard-gate," said Martin Poyser. "I
reckon he wants to watch us down the field. It's wonderful what sight he
has, and him turned seventy-five."

"Ah, I often think it's wi' th' old folks as it is wi' the babbies,"
said Mrs. Poyser; "they're satisfied wi' looking, no matter what they're
looking at. It's God A'mighty's way o' quietening 'em, I reckon, afore
they go to sleep."

Old Martin opened the gate as he saw the family procession approaching,
and held it wide open, leaning on his stick--pleased to do this bit
of work; for, like all old men whose life has been spent in labour, he
liked to feel that he was still useful--that there was a better crop of
onions in the garden because he was by at the sowing--and that the cows
would be milked the better if he stayed at home on a Sunday afternoon
to look on. He always went to church on Sacrament Sundays, but not very
regularly at other times; on wet Sundays, or whenever he had a touch of
rheumatism, he used to read the three first chapters of Genesis instead.

"They'll ha' putten Thias Bede i' the ground afore ye get to the
churchyard," he said, as his son came up. "It 'ud ha' been better luck
if they'd ha' buried him i' the forenoon when the rain was fallin';
there's no likelihoods of a drop now; an' the moon lies like a boat
there, dost see? That's a sure sign o' fair weather--there's a many as
is false but that's sure."

"Aye, aye," said the son, "I'm in hopes it'll hold up now."

"Mind what the parson says, mind what the parson says, my lads," said
Grandfather to the black-eyed youngsters in knee-breeches, conscious of
a marble or two in their pockets which they looked forward to handling,
a little, secretly, during the sermon.

"Dood-bye, Dandad," said Totty. "Me doin' to church. Me dot my neklace
on. Dive me a peppermint."

Grandad, shaking with laughter at this "deep little wench," slowly
transferred his stick to his left hand, which held the gate open, and
slowly thrust his finger into the waistcoat pocket on which Totty had
fixed her eyes with a confident look of expectation.

And when they were all gone, the old man leaned on the gate again,
watching them across the lane along the Home Close, and through the
far gate, till they disappeared behind a bend in the hedge. For the
hedgerows in those days shut out one's view, even on the better-managed
farms; and this afternoon, the dog-roses were tossing out their pink
wreaths, the nightshade was in its yellow and purple glory, the pale
honeysuckle grew out of reach, peeping high up out of a holly bush, and
over all an ash or a sycamore every now and then threw its shadow across
the path.

There were acquaintances at other gates who had to move aside and let
them pass: at the gate of the Home Close there was half the dairy of
cows standing one behind the other, extremely slow to understand that
their large bodies might be in the way; at the far gate there was the
mare holding her head over the bars, and beside her the liver-coloured
foal with its head towards its mother's flank, apparently still much
embarrassed by its own straddling existence. The way lay entirely
through Mr. Poyser's own fields till they reached the main road leading
to the village, and he turned a keen eye on the stock and the crops
as they went along, while Mrs. Poyser was ready to supply a running
commentary on them all. The woman who manages a dairy has a large share
in making the rent, so she may well be allowed to have her opinion on
stock and their "keep"--an exercise which strengthens her understanding
so much that she finds herself able to give her husband advice on most
other subjects.

"There's that shorthorned Sally," she said, as they entered the Home
Close, and she caught sight of the meek beast that lay chewing the cud
and looking at her with a sleepy eye. "I begin to hate the sight o' the
cow; and I say now what I said three weeks ago, the sooner we get rid of
her the better, for there's that little yallow cow as doesn't give half
the milk, and yet I've twice as much butter from her."

"Why, thee't not like the women in general," said Mr. Poyser; "they like
the shorthorns, as give such a lot o' milk. There's Chowne's wife wants
him to buy no other sort."

"What's it sinnify what Chowne's wife likes? A poor soft thing, wi' no
more head-piece nor a sparrow. She'd take a big cullender to strain
her lard wi', and then wonder as the scratchin's run through. I've
seen enough of her to know as I'll niver take a servant from her house
again--all hugger-mugger--and you'd niver know, when you went in,
whether it was Monday or Friday, the wash draggin' on to th' end o' the
week; and as for her cheese, I know well enough it rose like a loaf in
a tin last year. And then she talks o' the weather bein' i' fault, as
there's folks 'ud stand on their heads and then say the fault was i'
their boots."

"Well, Chowne's been wanting to buy Sally, so we can get rid of her if
thee lik'st," said Mr. Poyser, secretly proud of his wife's superior
power of putting two and two together; indeed, on recent market-days
he had more than once boasted of her discernment in this very matter of
shorthorns. "Aye, them as choose a soft for a wife may's well buy up
the shorthorns, for if you get your head stuck in a bog, your legs may's
well go after it. Eh! Talk o' legs, there's legs for you," Mrs. Poyser
continued, as Totty, who had been set down now the road was dry, toddled
on in front of her father and mother. "There's shapes! An' she's got
such a long foot, she'll be her father's own child."

"Aye, she'll be welly such a one as Hetty i' ten years' time, on'y she's
got THY coloured eyes. I niver remember a blue eye i' my family; my
mother had eyes as black as sloes, just like Hetty's."

"The child 'ull be none the worse for having summat as isn't like Hetty.
An' I'm none for having her so overpretty. Though for the matter o'
that, there's people wi' light hair an' blue eyes as pretty as them wi'
black. If Dinah had got a bit o' colour in her cheeks, an' didn't stick
that Methodist cap on her head, enough to frighten the cows, folks 'ud
think her as pretty as Hetty."

"Nay, nay," said Mr. Poyser, with rather a contemptuous emphasis, "thee
dostna know the pints of a woman. The men 'ud niver run after Dinah as
they would after Hetty."

"What care I what the men 'ud run after? It's well seen what choice the
most of 'em know how to make, by the poor draggle-tails o' wives you
see, like bits o' gauze ribbin, good for nothing when the colour's
gone."

"Well, well, thee canstna say but what I knowed how to make a choice
when I married thee," said Mr. Poyser, who usually settled little
conjugal disputes by a compliment of this sort; "and thee wast twice as
buxom as Dinah ten year ago."

"I niver said as a woman had need to be ugly to make a good missis of a
house. There's Chowne's wife ugly enough to turn the milk an' save the
rennet, but she'll niver save nothing any other way. But as for Dinah,
poor child, she's niver likely to be buxom as long as she'll make her
dinner o' cake and water, for the sake o' giving to them as want. She
provoked me past bearing sometimes; and, as I told her, she went clean
again' the Scriptur', for that says, 'Love your neighbour as yourself';
'but,' I said, 'if you loved your neighbour no better nor you do
yourself, Dinah, it's little enough you'd do for him. You'd be thinking
he might do well enough on a half-empty stomach.' Eh, I wonder where she
is this blessed Sunday! Sitting by that sick woman, I daresay, as she'd
set her heart on going to all of a sudden."

"Ah, it was a pity she should take such megrims into her head, when
she might ha' stayed wi' us all summer, and eaten twice as much as she
wanted, and it 'ud niver ha' been missed. She made no odds in th' house
at all, for she sat as still at her sewing as a bird on the nest, and
was uncommon nimble at running to fetch anything. If Hetty gets married,
theed'st like to ha' Dinah wi' thee constant."

"It's no use thinking o' that," said Mrs. Poyser. "You might as
well beckon to the flying swallow as ask Dinah to come an' live here
comfortable, like other folks. If anything could turn her, I should ha'
turned her, for I've talked to her for a hour on end, and scolded her
too; for she's my own sister's child, and it behoves me to do what I can
for her. But eh, poor thing, as soon as she'd said us 'good-bye' an'
got into the cart, an' looked back at me with her pale face, as is welly
like her Aunt Judith come back from heaven, I begun to be frightened to
think o' the set-downs I'd given her; for it comes over you sometimes
as if she'd a way o' knowing the rights o' things more nor other folks
have. But I'll niver give in as that's 'cause she's a Methodist, no more
nor a white calf's white 'cause it eats out o' the same bucket wi' a
black un."

"Nay," said Mr. Poyser, with as near an approach to a snarl as his
good-nature would allow; "I'm no opinion o' the Methodists. It's on'y
tradesfolks as turn Methodists; you nuver knew a farmer bitten wi' them
maggots. There's maybe a workman now an' then, as isn't overclever at's
work, takes to preachin' an' that, like Seth Bede. But you see Adam, as
has got one o' the best head-pieces hereabout, knows better; he's a good
Churchman, else I'd never encourage him for a sweetheart for Hetty."

"Why, goodness me," said Mrs. Poyser, who had looked back while her
husband was speaking, "look where Molly is with them lads! They're the
field's length behind us. How COULD you let 'em do so, Hetty? Anybody
might as well set a pictur' to watch the children as you. Run back and
tell 'em to come on."

Mr. and Mrs. Poyser were now at the end of the second field, so they set
Totty on the top of one of the large stones forming the true Loamshire
stile, and awaited the loiterers Totty observing with complacency, "Dey
naughty, naughty boys--me dood."

The fact was that this Sunday walk through the fields was fraught with
great excitement to Marty and Tommy, who saw a perpetual drama going on
in the hedgerows, and could no more refrain from stopping and peeping
than if they had been a couple of spaniels or terriers. Marty was quite
sure he saw a yellow-hammer on the boughs of the great ash, and while
he was peeping, he missed the sight of a white-throated stoat, which had
run across the path and was described with much fervour by the junior
Tommy. Then there was a little greenfinch, just fledged, fluttering
along the ground, and it seemed quite possible to catch it, till it
managed to flutter under the blackberry bush. Hetty could not be got
to give any heed to these things, so Molly was called on for her ready
sympathy, and peeped with open mouth wherever she was told, and said
"Lawks!" whenever she was expected to wonder.

Molly hastened on with some alarm when Hetty had come back and called to
them that her aunt was angry; but Marty ran on first, shouting,
"We've found the speckled turkey's nest, Mother!" with the instinctive
confidence that people who bring good news are never in fault.

"Ah," said Mrs. Poyser, really forgetting all discipline in this
pleasant surprise, "that's a good lad; why, where is it?"

"Down in ever such a hole, under the hedge. I saw it first, looking
after the greenfinch, and she sat on th' nest."

"You didn't frighten her, I hope," said the mother, "else she'll forsake
it."

"No, I went away as still as still, and whispered to Molly--didn't I,
Molly?"

"Well, well, now come on," said Mrs. Poyser, "and walk before Father and
Mother, and take your little sister by the hand. We must go straight on
now. Good boys don't look after the birds of a Sunday."

"But, Mother," said Marty, "you said you'd give half-a-crown to find
the speckled turkey's nest. Mayn't I have the half-crown put into my
money-box?"

"We'll see about that, my lad, if you walk along now, like a good boy."

The father and mother exchanged a significant glance of amusement at
their eldest-born's acuteness; but on Tommy's round face there was a
cloud.

"Mother," he said, half-crying, "Marty's got ever so much more money in
his box nor I've got in mine."

"Munny, me want half-a-toun in my bots," said Totty.

"Hush, hush, hush," said Mrs. Poyser, "did ever anybody hear such
naughty children? Nobody shall ever see their money-boxes any more, if
they don't make haste and go on to church."

This dreadful threat had the desired effect, and through the two
remaining fields the three pair of small legs trotted on without any
serious interruption, notwithstanding a small pond full of tadpoles,
alias "bullheads," which the lads looked at wistfully.

The damp hay that must be scattered and turned afresh to-morrow was
not a cheering sight to Mr. Poyser, who during hay and corn harvest had
often some mental struggles as to the benefits of a day of rest; but no
temptation would have induced him to carry on any field-work, however
early in the morning, on a Sunday; for had not Michael Holdsworth had a
pair of oxen "sweltered" while he was ploughing on Good Friday? That was
a demonstration that work on sacred days was a wicked thing; and with
wickedness of any sort Martin Poyser was quite clear that he would have
nothing to do, since money got by such means would never prosper.

"It a'most makes your fingers itch to be at the hay now the sun shines
so," he observed, as they passed through the "Big Meadow." "But it's
poor foolishness to think o' saving by going against your conscience.
There's that Jim Wakefield, as they used to call 'Gentleman Wakefield,'
used to do the same of a Sunday as o' weekdays, and took no heed to
right or wrong, as if there was nayther God nor devil. An' what's he
come to? Why, I saw him myself last market-day a-carrying a basket wi'
oranges in't."

"Ah, to be sure," said Mrs. Poyser, emphatically, "you make but a poor
trap to catch luck if you go and bait it wi' wickedness. The money as is
got so's like to burn holes i' your pocket. I'd niver wish us to leave
our lads a sixpence but what was got i' the rightful way. And as for
the weather, there's One above makes it, and we must put up wi't: it's
nothing of a plague to what the wenches are."

Notwithstanding the interruption in their walk, the excellent habit
which Mrs. Poyser's clock had of taking time by the forelock had secured
their arrival at the village while it was still a quarter to two,
though almost every one who meant to go to church was already within the
churchyard gates. Those who stayed at home were chiefly mothers, like
Timothy's Bess, who stood at her own door nursing her baby and feeling
as women feel in that position--that nothing else can be expected of
them.

It was not entirely to see Thias Bede's funeral that the people were
standing about the churchyard so long before service began; that was
their common practice. The women, indeed, usually entered the church at
once, and the farmers' wives talked in an undertone to each other, over
the tall pews, about their illnesses and the total failure of doctor's
stuff, recommending dandelion-tea, and other home-made specifics, as
far preferable--about the servants, and their growing exorbitance as to
wages, whereas the quality of their services declined from year to year,
and there was no girl nowadays to be trusted any further than you could
see her--about the bad price Mr. Dingall, the Treddleston grocer, was
giving for butter, and the reasonable doubts that might be held as to
his solvency, notwithstanding that Mrs. Dingall was a sensible woman,
and they were all sorry for HER, for she had very good kin. Meantime the
men lingered outside, and hardly any of them except the singers, who had
a humming and fragmentary rehearsal to go through, entered the church
until Mr. Irwine was in the desk. They saw no reason for that premature
entrance--what could they do in church if they were there before service
began?--and they did not conceive that any power in the universe
could take it ill of them if they stayed out and talked a little about
"bus'ness."

Chad Cranage looks like quite a new acquaintance to-day, for he has got
his clean Sunday face, which always makes his little granddaughter cry
at him as a stranger. But an experienced eye would have fixed on him at
once as the village blacksmith, after seeing the humble deference with
which the big saucy fellow took off his hat and stroked his hair to the
farmers; for Chad was accustomed to say that a working-man must hold
a candle to a personage understood to be as black as he was himself
on weekdays; by which evil-sounding rule of conduct he meant what was,
after all, rather virtuous than otherwise, namely, that men who had
horses to be shod must be treated with respect. Chad and the rougher
sort of workmen kept aloof from the grave under the white thorn,
where the burial was going forward; but Sandy Jim, and several of the
farm-labourers, made a group round it, and stood with their hats off, as
fellow-mourners with the mother and sons. Others held a midway position,
sometimes watching the group at the grave, sometimes listening to the
conversation of the farmers, who stood in a knot near the church door,
and were now joined by Martin Poyser, while his family passed into the
church. On the outside of this knot stood Mr. Casson, the landlord of
the Donnithorne Arms, in his most striking attitude--that is to say,
with the forefinger of his right hand thrust between the buttons of his
waistcoat, his left hand in his breeches pocket, and his head very
much on one side; looking, on the whole, like an actor who has only a
mono-syllabic part entrusted to him, but feels sure that the audience
discern his fitness for the leading business; curiously in contrast with
old Jonathan Burge, who held his hands behind him and leaned forward,
coughing asthmatically, with an inward scorn of all knowingness that
could not be turned into cash. The talk was in rather a lower tone than
usual to-day, hushed a little by the sound of Mr. Irwine's voice reading
the final prayers of the burial-service. They had all had their word
of pity for poor Thias, but now they had got upon the nearer subject of
their own grievances against Satchell, the Squire's bailiff, who
played the part of steward so far as it was not performed by old Mr.
Donnithorne himself, for that gentleman had the meanness to receive
his own rents and make bargains about his own timber. This subject of
conversation was an additional reason for not being loud, since Satchell
himself might presently be walking up the paved road to the church door.
And soon they became suddenly silent; for Mr. Irwine's voice had ceased,
and the group round the white thorn was dispersing itself towards the
church.

They all moved aside, and stood with their hats off, while Mr. Irwine
passed. Adam and Seth were coming next, with their mother between them;
for Joshua Rann officiated as head sexton as well as clerk, and was not
yet ready to follow the rector into the vestry. But there was a pause
before the three mourners came on: Lisbeth had turned round to look
again towards the grave! Ah! There was nothing now but the brown earth
under the white thorn. Yet she cried less to-day than she had done any
day since her husband's death. Along with all her grief there was mixed
an unusual sense of her own importance in having a "burial," and in Mr.
Irwine's reading a special service for her husband; and besides, she
knew the funeral psalm was going to be sung for him. She felt this
counter-excitement to her sorrow still more strongly as she walked with
her sons towards the church door, and saw the friendly sympathetic nods
of their fellow-parishioners.

The mother and sons passed into the church, and one by one the
loiterers followed, though some still lingered without; the sight of Mr.
Donnithorne's carriage, which was winding slowly up the hill, perhaps
helping to make them feel that there was no need for haste.

But presently the sound of the bassoon and the key-bugles burst forth;
the evening hymn, which always opened the service, had begun, and every
one must now enter and take his place.

I cannot say that the interior of Hayslope Church was remarkable for
anything except for the grey age of its oaken pews--great square pews
mostly, ranged on each side of a narrow aisle. It was free, indeed,
from the modern blemish of galleries. The choir had two narrow pews to
themselves in the middle of the right-hand row, so that it was a short
process for Joshua Rann to take his place among them as principal bass,
and return to his desk after the singing was over. The pulpit and desk,
grey and old as the pews, stood on one side of the arch leading into
the chancel, which also had its grey square pews for Mr. Donnithorne's
family and servants. Yet I assure you these grey pews, with the
buff-washed walls, gave a very pleasing tone to this shabby interior,
and agreed extremely well with the ruddy faces and bright waistcoats.
And there were liberal touches of crimson toward the chancel, for
the pulpit and Mr. Donnithorne's own pew had handsome crimson cloth
cushions; and, to close the vista, there was a crimson altar-cloth,
embroidered with golden rays by Miss Lydia's own hand.

But even without the crimson cloth, the effect must have been warm and
cheering when Mr. Irwine was in the desk, looking benignly round on
that simple congregation--on the hardy old men, with bent knees and
shoulders, perhaps, but with vigour left for much hedge-clipping and
thatching; on the tall stalwart frames and roughly cut bronzed faces of
the stone-cutters and carpenters; on the half-dozen well-to-do farmers,
with their apple-cheeked families; and on the clean old women, mostly
farm-labourers' wives, with their bit of snow-white cap-border under
their black bonnets, and with their withered arms, bare from the elbow,
folded passively over their chests. For none of the old people held
books--why should they? Not one of them could read. But they knew a
few "good words" by heart, and their withered lips now and then moved
silently, following the service without any very clear comprehension
indeed, but with a simple faith in its efficacy to ward off harm and
bring blessing. And now all faces were visible, for all were standing
up--the little children on the seats peeping over the edge of the grey
pews, while good Bishop Ken's evening hymn was being sung to one of
those lively psalm-tunes which died out with the last generation of
rectors and choral parish clerks. Melodies die out, like the pipe of
Pan, with the ears that love them and listen for them. Adam was not in
his usual place among the singers to-day, for he sat with his mother
and Seth, and he noticed with surprise that Bartle Massey was absent
too--all the more agreeable for Mr. Joshua Rann, who gave out his bass
notes with unusual complacency and threw an extra ray of severity into
the glances he sent over his spectacles at the recusant Will Maskery.

I beseech you to imagine Mr. Irwine looking round on this scene, in his
ample white surplice that became him so well, with his powdered hair
thrown back, his rich brown complexion, and his finely cut nostril and
upper lip; for there was a certain virtue in that benignant yet keen
countenance as there is in all human faces from which a generous soul
beams out. And over all streamed the delicious June sunshine through the
old windows, with their desultory patches of yellow, red, and blue, that
threw pleasant touches of colour on the opposite wall.

I think, as Mr. Irwine looked round to-day, his eyes rested an instant
longer than usual on the square pew occupied by Martin Poyser and his
family. And there was another pair of dark eyes that found it impossible
not to wander thither, and rest on that round pink-and-white figure. But
Hetty was at that moment quite careless of any glances--she was absorbed
in the thought that Arthur Donnithorne would soon be coming into church,
for the carriage must surely be at the church-gate by this time. She
had never seen him since she parted with him in the wood on Thursday
evening, and oh, how long the time had seemed! Things had gone on just
the same as ever since that evening; the wonders that had happened then
had brought no changes after them; they were already like a dream. When
she heard the church door swinging, her heart beat so, she dared not
look up. She felt that her aunt was curtsying; she curtsied herself.
That must be old Mr. Donnithorne--he always came first, the wrinkled
small old man, peering round with short-sighted glances at the bowing
and curtsying congregation; then she knew Miss Lydia was passing,
and though Hetty liked so much to look at her fashionable little
coal-scuttle bonnet, with the wreath of small roses round it, she didn't
mind it to-day. But there were no more curtsies--no, he was not come;
she felt sure there was nothing else passing the pew door but the
house-keeper's black bonnet and the lady's maid's beautiful straw hat
that had once been Miss Lydia's, and then the powdered heads of the
butler and footman. No, he was not there; yet she would look now--she
might be mistaken--for, after all, she had not looked. So she lifted
up her eyelids and glanced timidly at the cushioned pew in the
chancel--there was no one but old Mr. Donnithorne rubbing his spectacles
with his white handkerchief, and Miss Lydia opening the large gilt-edged
prayer-book. The chill disappointment was too hard to bear. She felt
herself turning pale, her lips trembling; she was ready to cry. Oh, what
SHOULD she do? Everybody would know the reason; they would know she was
crying because Arthur was not there. And Mr. Craig, with the wonderful
hothouse plant in his button-hole, was staring at her, she knew. It was
dreadfully long before the General Confession began, so that she could
kneel down. Two great drops WOULD fall then, but no one saw them except
good-natured Molly, for her aunt and uncle knelt with their backs
towards her. Molly, unable to imagine any cause for tears in church
except faintness, of which she had a vague traditional knowledge, drew
out of her pocket a queer little flat blue smelling-bottle, and after
much labour in pulling the cork out, thrust the narrow neck against
Hetty's nostrils. "It donna smell," she whispered, thinking this was a
great advantage which old salts had over fresh ones: they did you good
without biting your nose. Hetty pushed it away peevishly; but this
little flash of temper did what the salts could not have done--it roused
her to wipe away the traces of her tears, and try with all her might
not to shed any more. Hetty had a certain strength in her vain little
nature: she would have borne anything rather than be laughed at, or
pointed at with any other feeling than admiration; she would have
pressed her own nails into her tender flesh rather than people should
know a secret she did not want them to know.

What fluctuations there were in her busy thoughts and feelings, while
Mr. Irwine was pronouncing the solemn "Absolution" in her deaf ears, and
through all the tones of petition that followed! Anger lay very close to
disappointment, and soon won the victory over the conjectures her
small ingenuity could devise to account for Arthur's absence on the
supposition that he really wanted to come, really wanted to see her
again. And by the time she rose from her knees mechanically, because all
the rest were rising, the colour had returned to her cheeks even with
a heightened glow, for she was framing little indignant speeches to
herself, saying she hated Arthur for giving her this pain--she would
like him to suffer too. Yet while this selfish tumult was going on in
her soul, her eyes were bent down on her prayer-book, and the eyelids
with their dark fringe looked as lovely as ever. Adam Bede thought so,
as he glanced at her for a moment on rising from his knees.

But Adam's thoughts of Hetty did not deafen him to the service; they
rather blended with all the other deep feelings for which the church
service was a channel to him this afternoon, as a certain consciousness
of our entire past and our imagined future blends itself with all our
moments of keen sensibility. And to Adam the church service was the
best channel he could have found for his mingled regret, yearning, and
resignation; its interchange of beseeching cries for help with outbursts
of faith and praise, its recurrent responses and the familiar rhythm of
its collects, seemed to speak for him as no other form of worship could
have done; as, to those early Christians who had worshipped from their
childhood upwards in catacombs, the torch-light and shadows must have
seemed nearer the Divine presence than the heathenish daylight of the
streets. The secret of our emotions never lies in the bare object, but
in its subtle relations to our own past: no wonder the secret escapes
the unsympathizing observer, who might as well put on his spectacles to
discern odours.

But there was one reason why even a chance comer would have found the
service in Hayslope Church more impressive than in most other village
nooks in the kingdom--a reason of which I am sure you have not the
slightest suspicion. It was the reading of our friend Joshua Rann. Where
that good shoemaker got his notion of reading from remained a mystery
even to his most intimate acquaintances. I believe, after all, he got it
chiefly from Nature, who had poured some of her music into this honest
conceited soul, as she had been known to do into other narrow souls
before his. She had given him, at least, a fine bass voice and a musical
ear; but I cannot positively say whether these alone had sufficed to
inspire him with the rich chant in which he delivered the responses.
The way he rolled from a rich deep forte into a melancholy cadence,
subsiding, at the end of the last word, into a sort of faint resonance,
like the lingering vibrations of a fine violoncello, I can compare to
nothing for its strong calm melancholy but the rush and cadence of the
wind among the autumn boughs. This may seem a strange mode of speaking
about the reading of a parish clerk--a man in rusty spectacles, with
stubbly hair, a large occiput, and a prominent crown. But that is
Nature's way: she will allow a gentleman of splendid physiognomy and
poetic aspirations to sing woefully out of tune, and not give him the
slightest hint of it; and takes care that some narrow-browed fellow,
trolling a ballad in the corner of a pot-house, shall be as true to his
intervals as a bird.

Joshua himself was less proud of his reading than of his singing, and it
was always with a sense of heightened importance that he passed from the
desk to the choir. Still more to-day: it was a special occasion, for an
old man, familiar to all the parish, had died a sad death--not in his
bed, a circumstance the most painful to the mind of the peasant--and
now the funeral psalm was to be sung in memory of his sudden departure.
Moreover, Bartle Massey was not at church, and Joshua's importance in
the choir suffered no eclipse. It was a solemn minor strain they sang.
The old psalm-tunes have many a wail among them, and the words--

     Thou sweep'st us off as with a flood;
     We vanish hence like dreams--

seemed to have a closer application than usual in the death of poor
Thias. The mother and sons listened, each with peculiar feelings.
Lisbeth had a vague belief that the psalm was doing her husband good; it
was part of that decent burial which she would have thought it a greater
wrong to withhold from him than to have caused him many unhappy days
while he was living. The more there was said about her husband, the
more there was done for him, surely the safer he would be. It was poor
Lisbeth's blind way of feeling that human love and pity are a ground of
faith in some other love. Seth, who was easily touched, shed tears, and
tried to recall, as he had done continually since his father's death,
all that he had heard of the possibility that a single moment of
consciousness at the last might be a moment of pardon and reconcilement;
for was it not written in the very psalm they were singing that the
Divine dealings were not measured and circumscribed by time? Adam had
never been unable to join in a psalm before. He had known plenty of
trouble and vexation since he had been a lad, but this was the first
sorrow that had hemmed in his voice, and strangely enough it was sorrow
because the chief source of his past trouble and vexation was for ever
gone out of his reach. He had not been able to press his father's
hand before their parting, and say, "Father, you know it was all right
between us; I never forgot what I owed you when I was a lad; you forgive
me if I have been too hot and hasty now and then!" Adam thought but
little to-day of the hard work and the earnings he had spent on his
father: his thoughts ran constantly on what the old man's feelings had
been in moments of humiliation, when he had held down his head before
the rebukes of his son. When our indignation is borne in submissive
silence, we are apt to feel twinges of doubt afterwards as to our own
generosity, if not justice; how much more when the object of our anger
has gone into everlasting silence, and we have seen his face for the
last time in the meekness of death!

"Ah! I was always too hard," Adam said to himself. "It's a sore fault in
me as I'm so hot and out o' patience with people when they do wrong, and
my heart gets shut up against 'em, so as I can't bring myself to forgive
'em. I see clear enough there's more pride nor love in my soul, for I
could sooner make a thousand strokes with th' hammer for my father than
bring myself to say a kind word to him. And there went plenty o' pride
and temper to the strokes, as the devil WILL be having his finger in
what we call our duties as well as our sins. Mayhap the best thing I
ever did in my life was only doing what was easiest for myself. It's
allays been easier for me to work nor to sit still, but the real tough
job for me 'ud be to master my own will and temper and go right against
my own pride. It seems to me now, if I was to find Father at home
to-night, I should behave different; but there's no knowing--perhaps
nothing 'ud be a lesson to us if it didn't come too late. It's well we
should feel as life's a reckoning we can't make twice over; there's
no real making amends in this world, any more nor you can mend a wrong
subtraction by doing your addition right."

This was the key-note to which Adam's thoughts had perpetually returned
since his father's death, and the solemn wail of the funeral psalm
was only an influence that brought back the old thoughts with stronger
emphasis. So was the sermon, which Mr. Irwine had chosen with reference
to Thias's funeral. It spoke briefly and simply of the words, "In the
midst of life we are in death"--how the present moment is all we can
call our own for works of mercy, of righteous dealing, and of family
tenderness. All very old truths--but what we thought the oldest truth
becomes the most startling to us in the week when we have looked on the
dead face of one who has made a part of our own lives. For when men want
to impress us with the effect of a new and wonderfully vivid light, do
they not let it fall on the most familiar objects, that we may measure
its intensity by remembering the former dimness?

Then came the moment of the final blessing, when the forever sublime
words, "The peace of God, which passeth all understanding," seemed to
blend with the calm afternoon sunshine that fell on the bowed heads of
the congregation; and then the quiet rising, the mothers tying on the
bonnets of the little maidens who had slept through the sermon, the
fathers collecting the prayer-books, until all streamed out through the
old archway into the green churchyard and began their neighbourly talk,
their simple civilities, and their invitations to tea; for on a Sunday
every one was ready to receive a guest--it was the day when all must be
in their best clothes and their best humour.

Mr. and Mrs. Poyser paused a minute at the church gate: they were
waiting for Adam to come up, not being contented to go away without
saying a kind word to the widow and her sons.

"Well, Mrs. Bede," said Mrs. Poyser, as they walked on together, "you
must keep up your heart; husbands and wives must be content when they've
lived to rear their children and see one another's hair grey."

"Aye, aye," said Mr. Poyser; "they wonna have long to wait for one
another then, anyhow. And ye've got two o' the strapping'st sons i'
th' country; and well you may, for I remember poor Thias as fine a
broad-shouldered fellow as need to be; and as for you, Mrs. Bede, why
you're straighter i' the back nor half the young women now."

"Eh," said Lisbeth, "it's poor luck for the platter to wear well when
it's broke i' two. The sooner I'm laid under the thorn the better. I'm
no good to nobody now."

Adam never took notice of his mother's little unjust plaints; but Seth
said, "Nay, Mother, thee mustna say so. Thy sons 'ull never get another
mother."

"That's true, lad, that's true," said Mr. Poyser; "and it's wrong on us
to give way to grief, Mrs. Bede; for it's like the children cryin' when
the fathers and mothers take things from 'em. There's One above knows
better nor us."

"Ah," said Mrs. Poyser, "an' it's poor work allays settin' the dead
above the livin'. We shall all on us be dead some time, I reckon--it 'ud
be better if folks 'ud make much on us beforehand, i'stid o' beginnin'
when we're gone. It's but little good you'll do a-watering the last
year's crop."

"Well, Adam," said Mr. Poyser, feeling that his wife's words were,
as usual, rather incisive than soothing, and that it would be well to
change the subject, "you'll come and see us again now, I hope. I hanna
had a talk with you this long while, and the missis here wants you to
see what can be done with her best spinning-wheel, for it's got broke,
and it'll be a nice job to mend it--there'll want a bit o' turning.
You'll come as soon as you can now, will you?"

Mr. Poyser paused and looked round while he was speaking, as if to see
where Hetty was; for the children were running on before. Hetty was not
without a companion, and she had, besides, more pink and white about
her than ever, for she held in her hand the wonderful pink-and-white
hot-house plant, with a very long name--a Scotch name, she supposed,
since people said Mr. Craig the gardener was Scotch. Adam took the
opportunity of looking round too; and I am sure you will not require of
him that he should feel any vexation in observing a pouting expression
on Hetty's face as she listened to the gardener's small talk. Yet in her
secret heart she was glad to have him by her side, for she would perhaps
learn from him how it was Arthur had not come to church. Not that she
cared to ask him the question, but she hoped the information would be
given spontaneously; for Mr. Craig, like a superior man, was very fond
of giving information.

Mr. Craig was never aware that his conversation and advances were
received coldly, for to shift one's point of view beyond certain limits
is impossible to the most liberal and expansive mind; we are none of
us aware of the impression we produce on Brazilian monkeys of feeble
understanding--it is possible they see hardly anything in us. Moreover,
Mr. Craig was a man of sober passions, and was already in his tenth
year of hesitation as to the relative advantages of matrimony and
bachelorhood. It is true that, now and then, when he had been a little
heated by an extra glass of grog, he had been heard to say of Hetty
that the "lass was well enough," and that "a man might do worse"; but on
convivial occasions men are apt to express themselves strongly.

Martin Poyser held Mr. Craig in honour, as a man who "knew his business"
and who had great lights concerning soils and compost; but he was
less of a favourite with Mrs. Poyser, who had more than once said in
confidence to her husband, "You're mighty fond o' Craig, but for my
part, I think he's welly like a cock as thinks the sun's rose o' purpose
to hear him crow." For the rest, Mr. Craig was an estimable gardener,
and was not without reasons for having a high opinion of himself. He
had also high shoulders and high cheek-bones and hung his head forward
a little, as he walked along with his hands in his breeches pockets. I
think it was his pedigree only that had the advantage of being Scotch,
and not his "bringing up"; for except that he had a stronger burr in
his accent, his speech differed little from that of the Loamshire people
about him. But a gardener is Scotch, as a French teacher is Parisian.

"Well, Mr. Poyser," he said, before the good slow farmer had time to
speak, "ye'll not be carrying your hay to-morrow, I'm thinking. The
glass sticks at 'change,' and ye may rely upo' my word as we'll ha' more
downfall afore twenty-four hours is past. Ye see that darkish-blue cloud
there upo' the 'rizon--ye know what I mean by the 'rizon, where the land
and sky seems to meet?"

"Aye, aye, I see the cloud," said Mr. Poyser, "'rizon or no 'rizon. It's
right o'er Mike Holdsworth's fallow, and a foul fallow it is."

"Well, you mark my words, as that cloud 'ull spread o'er the sky pretty
nigh as quick as you'd spread a tarpaulin over one o' your hay-ricks.
It's a great thing to ha' studied the look o' the clouds. Lord bless
you! Th' met'orological almanecks can learn me nothing, but there's a
pretty sight o' things I could let THEM up to, if they'd just come
to me. And how are you, Mrs. Poyser?--thinking o' getherin' the red
currants soon, I reckon. You'd a deal better gether 'em afore they're
o'erripe, wi' such weather as we've got to look forward to. How do ye
do, Mistress Bede?" Mr. Craig continued, without a pause, nodding by the
way to Adam and Seth. "I hope y' enjoyed them spinach and gooseberries
as I sent Chester with th' other day. If ye want vegetables while ye're
in trouble, ye know where to come to. It's well known I'm not giving
other folks' things away, for when I've supplied the house, the garden's
my own spekilation, and it isna every man th' old squire could get
as 'ud be equil to the undertaking, let alone asking whether he'd be
willing I've got to run my calkilation fine, I can tell you, to make
sure o' getting back the money as I pay the squire. I should like to see
some o' them fellows as make the almanecks looking as far before their
noses as I've got to do every year as comes."

"They look pretty fur, though," said Mr. Poyser, turning his head on one
side and speaking in rather a subdued reverential tone. "Why, what could
come truer nor that pictur o' the cock wi' the big spurs, as has got its
head knocked down wi' th' anchor, an' th' firin', an' the ships behind?
Why, that pictur was made afore Christmas, and yit it's come as true
as th' Bible. Why, th' cock's France, an' th' anchor's Nelson--an' they
told us that beforehand."

"Pee--ee-eh!" said Mr. Craig. "A man doesna want to see fur to know as
th' English 'ull beat the French. Why, I know upo' good authority as
it's a big Frenchman as reaches five foot high, an' they live upo'
spoon-meat mostly. I knew a man as his father had a particular knowledge
o' the French. I should like to know what them grasshoppers are to
do against such fine fellows as our young Captain Arthur. Why, it
'ud astonish a Frenchman only to look at him; his arm's thicker nor a
Frenchman's body, I'll be bound, for they pinch theirsells in wi' stays;
and it's easy enough, for they've got nothing i' their insides."

"Where IS the captain, as he wasna at church to-day?" said Adam. "I was
talking to him o' Friday, and he said nothing about his going away."

"Oh, he's only gone to Eagledale for a bit o' fishing; I reckon he'll be
back again afore many days are o'er, for he's to be at all th' arranging
and preparing o' things for the comin' o' age o' the 30th o' July.
But he's fond o' getting away for a bit, now and then. Him and th' old
squire fit one another like frost and flowers."

Mr. Craig smiled and winked slowly as he made this last observation,
but the subject was not developed farther, for now they had reached the
turning in the road where Adam and his companions must say "good-bye."
The gardener, too, would have had to turn off in the same direction if
he had not accepted Mr. Poyser's invitation to tea. Mrs. Poyser duly
seconded the invitation, for she would have held it a deep disgrace not
to make her neighbours welcome to her house: personal likes and dislikes
must not interfere with that sacred custom. Moreover, Mr. Craig had
always been full of civilities to the family at the Hall Farm, and Mrs.
Poyser was scrupulous in declaring that she had "nothing to say again'
him, on'y it was a pity he couldna be hatched o'er again, an' hatched
different."

So Adam and Seth, with their mother between them, wound their way down
to the valley and up again to the old house, where a saddened memory had
taken the place of a long, long anxiety--where Adam would never have to
ask again as he entered, "Where's Father?"

And the other family party, with Mr. Craig for company, went back to
the pleasant bright house-place at the Hall Farm--all with quiet minds,
except Hetty, who knew now where Arthur was gone, but was only the
more puzzled and uneasy. For it appeared that his absence was quite
voluntary; he need not have gone--he would not have gone if he had
wanted to see her. She had a sickening sense that no lot could ever
be pleasant to her again if her Thursday night's vision was not to be
fulfilled; and in this moment of chill, bare, wintry disappointment and
doubt, she looked towards the possibility of being with Arthur again,
of meeting his loving glance, and hearing his soft words with that eager
yearning which one may call the "growing pain" of passion.

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

completion: Hetty and her aunt, Mrs. Poyser, are getting ready for church. And Hetty's lookin' good: "if ever a girl looked as if she had been made of roses, that girl was Hetty in her Sunday hat and frock" . Soon all the Poysers are ready, and set off in a "little procession" . Even old Martin, who is feeling a tad ill and will be staying home, has a part to play. He "opened the gate as he saw the family procession approaching, and held it wide open, leaning on his stick--pleased to do this bit of work" . How nice of him! The Poysers stroll along, Totty in her Sunday finery, Mr. and Mrs. harping on the other, less accomplished dairy farmers. The kids get into all sorts of mischief. The two little Poyser boys set off in search of a "speckled turkey's nest" . Soon enough, the Poysers reach the churchyard. Lots of people are gathered for Thias Bede's funeral. However, this is also a social occasion. The women trade gossip and recipes; the men lounge about. And then the gossip and recipes and lounging all come to an end. The crowd filters into the church and settles down. But they all rise when the service begins. They look on respectfully when Thias's funeral procession enters the building. All of Hayslope is here in the church, from the high-and-mighty Donnithornes to the illiterate workers who are "following the service without any clear very comprehension indeed" . Yup, lots and lots and lots of people in this chapter. And there are two you'd better pay extra-special attention to. Hetty, for one, is sad that Arthur has stayed away from Mass, and spends the service "framing little indignant speeches to herself" . Adam, for another, is divided between hopeful love for Hetty and remorse toward his dead father. He beats himself up, emotionally, for being "so hot and out o' patience with people when they do wrong" . Mass is over. Mrs. Poyser comes over and consoles Lisbeth, but also reminds her that there are plenty of Bedes left. Hetty is making small talk with Mr. Craig, a Scottish gardener who "like a superior man, was very fond of giving information" . Mr. Craig spends a couple pages carrying on about farming, and the French, and lots of other things that couldn't be more distant from poor dead Thias Bede. Then Adam asks where Arthur is. Mr. Craig, who works on the Donnithorne estate, informs everyone that Arthur has "only gone to Eagledale for a bit o' fishing" . Now Adam is rid of Mr. Craig--and so are we. But Hetty has a whole day of annoyances and anxieties ahead of her. She leaves church feeling "disappointment and doubt," yet looking "towards the possibility of being with Arthur again" .


prompt:
Chapter: NOTWITHSTANDING Mr. Craig's prophecy, the dark-blue cloud dispersed
itself without having produced the threatened consequences. "The
weather"--as he observed the next morning--"the weather, you see, 's
a ticklish thing, an' a fool 'ull hit on't sometimes when a wise man
misses; that's why the almanecks get so much credit. It's one o' them
chancy things as fools thrive on."

This unreasonable behaviour of the weather, however, could displease no
one else in Hayslope besides Mr. Craig. All hands were to be out in
the meadows this morning as soon as the dew had risen; the wives and
daughters did double work in every farmhouse, that the maids might give
their help in tossing the hay; and when Adam was marching along the
lanes, with his basket of tools over his shoulder, he caught the sound
of jocose talk and ringing laughter from behind the hedges. The jocose
talk of hay-makers is best at a distance; like those clumsy bells round
the cows' necks, it has rather a coarse sound when it comes close,
and may even grate on your ears painfully; but heard from far off, it
mingles very prettily with the other joyous sounds of nature. Men's
muscles move better when their souls are making merry music, though
their merriment is of a poor blundering sort, not at all like the
merriment of birds.

And perhaps there is no time in a summer's day more cheering than when
the warmth of the sun is just beginning to triumph over the freshness
of the morning--when there is just a lingering hint of early coolness
to keep off languor under the delicious influence of warmth. The reason
Adam was walking along the lanes at this time was because his work for
the rest of the day lay at a country-house about three miles off, which
was being put in repair for the son of a neighbouring squire; and he
had been busy since early morning with the packing of panels, doors,
and chimney-pieces, in a waggon which was now gone on before him, while
Jonathan Burge himself had ridden to the spot on horseback, to await its
arrival and direct the workmen.

This little walk was a rest to Adam, and he was unconsciously under
the charm of the moment. It was summer morning in his heart, and he saw
Hetty in the sunshine--a sunshine without glare, with slanting rays
that tremble between the delicate shadows of the leaves. He thought,
yesterday when he put out his hand to her as they came out of church,
that there was a touch of melancholy kindness in her face, such as he
had not seen before, and he took it as a sign that she had some sympathy
with his family trouble. Poor fellow! That touch of melancholy came from
quite another source, but how was he to know? We look at the one little
woman's face we love as we look at the face of our mother earth, and see
all sorts of answers to our own yearnings. It was impossible for Adam
not to feel that what had happened in the last week had brought the
prospect of marriage nearer to him. Hitherto he had felt keenly the
danger that some other man might step in and get possession of Hetty's
heart and hand, while he himself was still in a position that made him
shrink from asking her to accept him. Even if he had had a strong hope
that she was fond of him--and his hope was far from being strong--he
had been too heavily burdened with other claims to provide a home for
himself and Hetty--a home such as he could expect her to be content with
after the comfort and plenty of the Farm. Like all strong natures, Adam
had confidence in his ability to achieve something in the future; he
felt sure he should some day, if he lived, be able to maintain a family
and make a good broad path for himself; but he had too cool a head not
to estimate to the full the obstacles that were to be overcome. And the
time would be so long! And there was Hetty, like a bright-cheeked apple
hanging over the orchard wall, within sight of everybody, and everybody
must long for her! To be sure, if she loved him very much, she would be
content to wait for him: but DID she love him? His hopes had never risen
so high that he had dared to ask her. He was clear-sighted enough to be
aware that her uncle and aunt would have looked kindly on his suit, and
indeed, without this encouragement he would never have persevered in
going to the Farm; but it was impossible to come to any but fluctuating
conclusions about Hetty's feelings. She was like a kitten, and had the
same distractingly pretty looks, that meant nothing, for everybody that
came near her.

But now he could not help saying to himself that the heaviest part of
his burden was removed, and that even before the end of another year
his circumstances might be brought into a shape that would allow him to
think of marrying. It would always be a hard struggle with his mother,
he knew: she would be jealous of any wife he might choose, and she had
set her mind especially against Hetty--perhaps for no other reason than
that she suspected Hetty to be the woman he HAD chosen. It would never
do, he feared, for his mother to live in the same house with him when
he was married; and yet how hard she would think it if he asked her to
leave him! Yes, there was a great deal of pain to be gone through with
his mother, but it was a case in which he must make her feel that his
will was strong--it would be better for her in the end. For himself,
he would have liked that they should all live together till Seth was
married, and they might have built a bit themselves to the old house,
and made more room. He did not like "to part wi' th' lad": they had
hardly ever been separated for more than a day since they were born.

But Adam had no sooner caught his imagination leaping forward in this
way--making arrangements for an uncertain future--than he checked
himself. "A pretty building I'm making, without either bricks or
timber. I'm up i' the garret a'ready, and haven't so much as dug the
foundation." Whenever Adam was strongly convinced of any proposition, it
took the form of a principle in his mind: it was knowledge to be acted
on, as much as the knowledge that damp will cause rust. Perhaps here lay
the secret of the hardness he had accused himself of: he had too
little fellow-feeling with the weakness that errs in spite of foreseen
consequences. Without this fellow-feeling, how are we to get enough
patience and charity towards our stumbling, falling companions in the
long and changeful journey? And there is but one way in which a strong
determined soul can learn it--by getting his heart-strings bound
round the weak and erring, so that he must share not only the outward
consequence of their error, but their inward suffering. That is a long
and hard lesson, and Adam had at present only learned the alphabet of it
in his father's sudden death, which, by annihilating in an instant all
that had stimulated his indignation, had sent a sudden rush of thought
and memory over what had claimed his pity and tenderness.

But it was Adam's strength, not its correlative hardness, that
influenced his meditations this morning. He had long made up his mind
that it would be wrong as well as foolish for him to marry a blooming
young girl, so long as he had no other prospect than that of growing
poverty with a growing family. And his savings had been so constantly
drawn upon (besides the terrible sweep of paying for Seth's substitute
in the militia) that he had not enough money beforehand to furnish even
a small cottage, and keep something in reserve against a rainy day. He
had good hope that he should be "firmer on his legs" by and by; but he
could not be satisfied with a vague confidence in his arm and brain; he
must have definite plans, and set about them at once. The partnership
with Jonathan Burge was not to be thought of at present--there were
things implicitly tacked to it that he could not accept; but Adam
thought that he and Seth might carry on a little business for themselves
in addition to their journeyman's work, by buying a small stock of
superior wood and making articles of household furniture, for which Adam
had no end of contrivances. Seth might gain more by working at separate
jobs under Adam's direction than by his journeyman's work, and Adam,
in his overhours, could do all the "nice" work that required peculiar
skill. The money gained in this way, with the good wages he received
as foreman, would soon enable them to get beforehand with the world,
so sparingly as they would all live now. No sooner had this little
plan shaped itself in his mind than he began to be busy with exact
calculations about the wood to be bought and the particular article of
furniture that should be undertaken first--a kitchen cupboard of his
own contrivance, with such an ingenious arrangement of sliding-doors and
bolts, such convenient nooks for stowing household provender, and such
a symmetrical result to the eye, that every good housewife would be
in raptures with it, and fall through all the gradations of melancholy
longing till her husband promised to buy it for her. Adam pictured to
himself Mrs. Poyser examining it with her keen eye and trying in vain to
find out a deficiency; and, of course, close to Mrs. Poyser stood Hetty,
and Adam was again beguiled from calculations and contrivances into
dreams and hopes. Yes, he would go and see her this evening--it was so
long since he had been at the Hall Farm. He would have liked to go
to the night-school, to see why Bartle Massey had not been at church
yesterday, for he feared his old friend was ill; but, unless he could
manage both visits, this last must be put off till to-morrow--the desire
to be near Hetty and to speak to her again was too strong.

As he made up his mind to this, he was coming very near to the end of
his walk, within the sound of the hammers at work on the refitting of
the old house. The sound of tools to a clever workman who loves his work
is like the tentative sounds of the orchestra to the violinist who
has to bear his part in the overture: the strong fibres begin their
accustomed thrill, and what was a moment before joy, vexation, or
ambition, begins its change into energy. All passion becomes strength
when it has an outlet from the narrow limits of our personal lot in the
labour of our right arm, the cunning of our right hand, or the still,
creative activity of our thought. Look at Adam through the rest of the
day, as he stands on the scaffolding with the two-feet ruler in
his hand, whistling low while he considers how a difficulty about a
floor-joist or a window-frame is to be overcome; or as he pushes one of
the younger workmen aside and takes his place in upheaving a weight of
timber, saying, "Let alone, lad! Thee'st got too much gristle i' thy
bones yet"; or as he fixes his keen black eyes on the motions of a
workman on the other side of the room and warns him that his distances
are not right. Look at this broad-shouldered man with the bare muscular
arms, and the thick, firm, black hair tossed about like trodden
meadow-grass whenever he takes off his paper cap, and with the strong
barytone voice bursting every now and then into loud and solemn
psalm-tunes, as if seeking an outlet for superfluous strength, yet
presently checking himself, apparently crossed by some thought which
jars with the singing. Perhaps, if you had not been already in
the secret, you might not have guessed what sad memories what warm
affection, what tender fluttering hopes, had their home in this athletic
body with the broken finger-nails--in this rough man, who knew no better
lyrics than he could find in the Old and New Version and an occasional
hymn; who knew the smallest possible amount of profane history; and for
whom the motion and shape of the earth, the course of the sun, and the
changes of the seasons lay in the region of mystery just made visible by
fragmentary knowledge. It had cost Adam a great deal of trouble and
work in overhours to know what he knew over and above the secrets of his
handicraft, and that acquaintance with mechanics and figures, and the
nature of the materials he worked with, which was made easy to him by
inborn inherited faculty--to get the mastery of his pen, and write a
plain hand, to spell without any other mistakes than must in fairness be
attributed to the unreasonable character of orthography rather than to
any deficiency in the speller, and, moreover, to learn his musical notes
and part-singing. Besides all this, he had read his Bible, including
the apocryphal books; Poor Richard's Almanac, Taylor's Holy Living and
Dying, The Pilgrim's Progress, with Bunyan's Life and Holy War, a great
deal of Bailey's Dictionary, Valentine and Orson, and part of a History
of Babylon, which Bartle Massey had lent him. He might have had many
more books from Bartle Massey, but he had no time for reading "the
commin print," as Lisbeth called it, so busy as he was with figures in
all the leisure moments which he did not fill up with extra carpentry.

Adam, you perceive, was by no means a marvellous man, nor, properly
speaking, a genius, yet I will not pretend that his was an ordinary
character among workmen; and it would not be at all a safe conclusion
that the next best man you may happen to see with a basket of tools over
his shoulder and a paper cap on his head has the strong conscience and
the strong sense, the blended susceptibility and self-command, of our
friend Adam. He was not an average man. Yet such men as he are reared
here and there in every generation of our peasant artisans--with an
inheritance of affections nurtured by a simple family life of common
need and common industry, and an inheritance of faculties trained
in skilful courageous labour: they make their way upwards, rarely as
geniuses, most commonly as painstaking honest men, with the skill and
conscience to do well the tasks that lie before them. Their lives have
no discernible echo beyond the neighbourhood where they dwelt, but you
are almost sure to find there some good piece of road, some building,
some application of mineral produce, some improvement in farming
practice, some reform of parish abuses, with which their names are
associated by one or two generations after them. Their employers were
the richer for them, the work of their hands has worn well, and the work
of their brains has guided well the hands of other men. They went about
in their youth in flannel or paper caps, in coats black with coal-dust
or streaked with lime and red paint; in old age their white hairs are
seen in a place of honour at church and at market, and they tell their
well-dressed sons and daughters, seated round the bright hearth on
winter evenings, how pleased they were when they first earned their
twopence a-day. Others there are who die poor and never put off the
workman's coat on weekdays. They have not had the art of getting rich,
but they are men of trust, and when they die before the work is all out
of them, it is as if some main screw had got loose in a machine; the
master who employed them says, "Where shall I find their like?"

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

completion: It's a beautiful summer morning, and Adam is on his way to work. He has to help refurbish "a country house about three miles off, which was being put in repair for the son of a neighbouring squire" . What shall we call this scenario: This Old Mansion? Hayslope Improvement? Bede Eye for the Aristocratic Guy? As Adam walks to the job, his mind isn't totally at rest. What if Hetty falls for somebody else? What then? Fortunately, Adam "had confidence in his ability to achieve something in the future" . His professional life will be in tip-top shape in no time, so why shouldn't marrying Hetty be achievable? Besides, Adam has thought up a way to make some money. He intends to start building and selling "a kitchen cupboard of his own contrivance, with an ingenious arrangement of sliding doors" . Okay, yeah, Adam isn't the next Steve Jobs. Still, Mrs. Poyser sure does think it's a nice cabinet. Adam is thinking over this scheme when he arrives at the work site. And when a Bede sets to work, he sets to work! Adam spends the whole day hammering away, lifting beams, and singing at the top of his lungs. As Eliot's narrator admits, Adam isn't "properly speaking, a genius" . He's just a model workman with a few good ideas. But he's also a representative of a breed of decent, vigorous, honest men who seem long gone . A boss will often remember such men and ask, "Where shall I find their like?" .