Chapter: HETTY and Dinah both slept in the second story, in rooms adjoining each
other, meagrely furnished rooms, with no blinds to shut out the light,
which was now beginning to gather new strength from the rising of
the moon--more than enough strength to enable Hetty to move about and
undress with perfect comfort. She could see quite well the pegs in the
old painted linen-press on which she hung her hat and gown; she could
see the head of every pin on her red cloth pin-cushion; she could see
a reflection of herself in the old-fashioned looking-glass, quite as
distinct as was needful, considering that she had only to brush her hair
and put on her night-cap. A queer old looking-glass! Hetty got into an
ill temper with it almost every time she dressed. It had been considered
a handsome glass in its day, and had probably been bought into the
Poyser family a quarter of a century before, at a sale of genteel
household furniture. Even now an auctioneer could say something for
it: it had a great deal of tarnished gilding about it; it had a firm
mahogany base, well supplied with drawers, which opened with a decided
jerk and sent the contents leaping out from the farthest corners,
without giving you the trouble of reaching them; above all, it had a
brass candle-socket on each side, which would give it an aristocratic
air to the very last. But Hetty objected to it because it had numerous
dim blotches sprinkled over the mirror, which no rubbing would remove,
and because, instead of swinging backwards and forwards, it was fixed
in an upright position, so that she could only get one good view of
her head and neck, and that was to be had only by sitting down on a
low chair before her dressing-table. And the dressing-table was no
dressing-table at all, but a small old chest of drawers, the most
awkward thing in the world to sit down before, for the big brass
handles quite hurt her knees, and she couldn't get near the glass at
all comfortably. But devout worshippers never allow inconveniences
to prevent them from performing their religious rites, and Hetty this
evening was more bent on her peculiar form of worship than usual.

Having taken off her gown and white kerchief, she drew a key from the
large pocket that hung outside her petticoat, and, unlocking one of
the lower drawers in the chest, reached from it two short bits of wax
candle--secretly bought at Treddleston--and stuck them in the two
brass sockets. Then she drew forth a bundle of matches and lighted the
candles; and last of all, a small red-framed shilling looking-glass,
without blotches. It was into this small glass that she chose to look
first after seating herself. She looked into it, smiling and turning her
head on one side, for a minute, then laid it down and took out her brush
and comb from an upper drawer. She was going to let down her hair,
and make herself look like that picture of a lady in Miss Lydia
Donnithorne's dressing-room. It was soon done, and the dark hyacinthine
curves fell on her neck. It was not heavy, massive, merely rippling
hair, but soft and silken, running at every opportunity into delicate
rings. But she pushed it all backward to look like the picture, and form
a dark curtain, throwing into relief her round white neck. Then she put
down her brush and comb and looked at herself, folding her arms before
her, still like the picture. Even the old mottled glass couldn't help
sending back a lovely image, none the less lovely because Hetty's stays
were not of white satin--such as I feel sure heroines must generally
wear--but of a dark greenish cotton texture.

Oh yes! She was very pretty. Captain Donnithorne thought so. Prettier
than anybody about Hayslope--prettier than any of the ladies she had
ever seen visiting at the Chase--indeed it seemed fine ladies were
rather old and ugly--and prettier than Miss Bacon, the miller's
daughter, who was called the beauty of Treddleston. And Hetty looked at
herself to-night with quite a different sensation from what she had ever
felt before; there was an invisible spectator whose eye rested on her
like morning on the flowers. His soft voice was saying over and over
again those pretty things she had heard in the wood; his arm was round
her, and the delicate rose-scent of his hair was with her still. The
vainest woman is never thoroughly conscious of her own beauty till she
is loved by the man who sets her own passion vibrating in return.

But Hetty seemed to have made up her mind that something was wanting,
for she got up and reached an old black lace scarf out of the
linen-press, and a pair of large ear-rings out of the sacred drawer from
which she had taken her candles. It was an old old scarf, full of rents,
but it would make a becoming border round her shoulders, and set off the
whiteness of her upper arm. And she would take out the little ear-rings
she had in her ears--oh, how her aunt had scolded her for having her
ears bored!--and put in those large ones. They were but coloured glass
and gilding, but if you didn't know what they were made of, they looked
just as well as what the ladies wore. And so she sat down again, with
the large ear-rings in her ears, and the black lace scarf adjusted round
her shoulders. She looked down at her arms: no arms could be prettier
down to a little way below the elbow--they were white and plump, and
dimpled to match her cheeks; but towards the wrist, she thought with
vexation that they were coarsened by butter-making and other work that
ladies never did.

Captain Donnithorne couldn't like her to go on doing work: he would like
to see her in nice clothes, and thin shoes, and white stockings, perhaps
with silk clocks to them; for he must love her very much--no one else
had ever put his arm round her and kissed her in that way. He would want
to marry her and make a lady of her; she could hardly dare to shape
the thought--yet how else could it be? Marry her quite secretly, as Mr.
James, the doctor's assistant, married the doctor's niece, and nobody
ever found it out for a long while after, and then it was of no use to
be angry. The doctor had told her aunt all about it in Hetty's hearing.
She didn't know how it would be, but it was quite plain the old Squire
could never be told anything about it, for Hetty was ready to faint with
awe and fright if she came across him at the Chase. He might have been
earth-born, for what she knew. It had never entered her mind that he
had been young like other men; he had always been the old Squire at whom
everybody was frightened. Oh, it was impossible to think how it would
be! But Captain Donnithorne would know; he was a great gentleman, and
could have his way in everything, and could buy everything he liked. And
nothing could be as it had been again: perhaps some day she should be
a grand lady, and ride in her coach, and dress for dinner in a brocaded
silk, with feathers in her hair, and her dress sweeping the ground, like
Miss Lydia and Lady Dacey, when she saw them going into the dining-room
one evening as she peeped through the little round window in the lobby;
only she should not be old and ugly like Miss Lydia, or all the same
thickness like Lady Dacey, but very pretty, with her hair done in a
great many different ways, and sometimes in a pink dress, and sometimes
in a white one--she didn't know which she liked best; and Mary Burge and
everybody would perhaps see her going out in her carriage--or rather,
they would HEAR of it: it was impossible to imagine these things
happening at Hayslope in sight of her aunt. At the thought of all this
splendour, Hetty got up from her chair, and in doing so caught the
little red-framed glass with the edge of her scarf, so that it fell with
a bang on the floor; but she was too eagerly occupied with her vision
to care about picking it up; and after a momentary start, began to pace
with a pigeon-like stateliness backwards and forwards along her room,
in her coloured stays and coloured skirt, and the old black lace scarf
round her shoulders, and the great glass ear-rings in her ears.

How pretty the little puss looks in that odd dress! It would be the
easiest folly in the world to fall in love with her: there is such a
sweet babylike roundness about her face and figure; the delicate dark
rings of hair lie so charmingly about her ears and neck; her great
dark eyes with their long eye-lashes touch one so strangely, as if an
imprisoned frisky sprite looked out of them.

Ah, what a prize the man gets who wins a sweet bride like Hetty! How the
men envy him who come to the wedding breakfast, and see her hanging on
his arm in her white lace and orange blossoms. The dear, young, round,
soft, flexible thing! Her heart must be just as soft, her temper just
as free from angles, her character just as pliant. If anything ever goes
wrong, it must be the husband's fault there: he can make her what he
likes--that is plain. And the lover himself thinks so too: the little
darling is so fond of him, her little vanities are so bewitching, he
wouldn't consent to her being a bit wiser; those kittenlike glances and
movements are just what one wants to make one's hearth a paradise.
Every man under such circumstances is conscious of being a great
physiognomist. Nature, he knows, has a language of her own, which she
uses with strict veracity, and he considers himself an adept in the
language. Nature has written out his bride's character for him in those
exquisite lines of cheek and lip and chin, in those eyelids delicate as
petals, in those long lashes curled like the stamen of a flower, in the
dark liquid depths of those wonderful eyes. How she will dote on her
children! She is almost a child herself, and the little pink round
things will hang about her like florets round the central flower; and
the husband will look on, smiling benignly, able, whenever he chooses,
to withdraw into the sanctuary of his wisdom, towards which his sweet
wife will look reverently, and never lift the curtain. It is a marriage
such as they made in the golden age, when the men were all wise and
majestic and the women all lovely and loving.

It was very much in this way that our friend Adam Bede thought about
Hetty; only he put his thoughts into different words. If ever she
behaved with cold vanity towards him, he said to himself it is only
because she doesn't love me well enough; and he was sure that her love,
whenever she gave it, would be the most precious thing a man could
possess on earth. Before you despise Adam as deficient in penetration,
pray ask yourself if you were ever predisposed to believe evil of
any pretty woman--if you ever COULD, without hard head-breaking
demonstration, believe evil of the ONE supremely pretty woman who has
bewitched you. No: people who love downy peaches are apt not to think of
the stone, and sometimes jar their teeth terribly against it.

Arthur Donnithorne, too, had the same sort of notion about Hetty, so
far as he had thought of her nature of all. He felt sure she was a
dear, affectionate, good little thing. The man who awakes the wondering
tremulous passion of a young girl always thinks her affectionate; and
if he chances to look forward to future years, probably imagines himself
being virtuously tender to her, because the poor thing is so clingingly
fond of him. God made these dear women so--and it is a convenient
arrangement in case of sickness.

After all, I believe the wisest of us must be beguiled in this way
sometimes, and must think both better and worse of people than they
deserve. Nature has her language, and she is not unveracious; but we
don't know all the intricacies of her syntax just yet, and in a hasty
reading we may happen to extract the very opposite of her real meaning.
Long dark eyelashes, now--what can be more exquisite? I find it
impossible not to expect some depth of soul behind a deep grey eye with
a long dark eyelash, in spite of an experience which has shown me that
they may go along with deceit, peculation, and stupidity. But if, in
the reaction of disgust, I have betaken myself to a fishy eye, there has
been a surprising similarity of result. One begins to suspect at length
that there is no direct correlation between eyelashes and morals; or
else, that the eyelashes express the disposition of the fair one's
grandmother, which is on the whole less important to us.

No eyelashes could be more beautiful than Hetty's; and now, while she
walks with her pigeon-like stateliness along the room and looks down on
her shoulders bordered by the old black lace, the dark fringe shows to
perfection on her pink cheek. They are but dim ill-defined pictures that
her narrow bit of an imagination can make of the future; but of every
picture she is the central figure in fine clothes; Captain Donnithorne
is very close to her, putting his arm round her, perhaps kissing her,
and everybody else is admiring and envying her--especially Mary Burge,
whose new print dress looks very contemptible by the side of Hetty's
resplendent toilette. Does any sweet or sad memory mingle with this
dream of the future--any loving thought of her second parents--of the
children she had helped to tend--of any youthful companion, any pet
animal, any relic of her own childhood even? Not one. There are some
plants that have hardly any roots: you may tear them from their native
nook of rock or wall, and just lay them over your ornamental flower-pot,
and they blossom none the worse. Hetty could have cast all her past life
behind her and never cared to be reminded of it again. I think she had
no feeling at all towards the old house, and did not like the Jacob's
Ladder and the long row of hollyhocks in the garden better than other
flowers--perhaps not so well. It was wonderful how little she seemed to
care about waiting on her uncle, who had been a good father to her--she
hardly ever remembered to reach him his pipe at the right time without
being told, unless a visitor happened to be there, who would have a
better opportunity of seeing her as she walked across the hearth. Hetty
did not understand how anybody could be very fond of middle-aged people.
And as for those tiresome children, Marty and Tommy and Totty, they had
been the very nuisance of her life--as bad as buzzing insects that will
come teasing you on a hot day when you want to be quiet. Marty, the
eldest, was a baby when she first came to the farm, for the children
born before him had died, and so Hetty had had them all three, one after
the other, toddling by her side in the meadow, or playing about her on
wet days in the half-empty rooms of the large old house. The boys were
out of hand now, but Totty was still a day-long plague, worse than
either of the others had been, because there was more fuss made about
her. And there was no end to the making and mending of clothes. Hetty
would have been glad to hear that she should never see a child again;
they were worse than the nasty little lambs that the shepherd was always
bringing in to be taken special care of in lambing time; for the lambs
WERE got rid of sooner or later. As for the young chickens and turkeys,
Hetty would have hated the very word "hatching," if her aunt had not
bribed her to attend to the young poultry by promising her the proceeds
of one out of every brood. The round downy chicks peeping out from under
their mother's wing never touched Hetty with any pleasure; that was
not the sort of prettiness she cared about, but she did care about the
prettiness of the new things she would buy for herself at Treddleston
Fair with the money they fetched. And yet she looked so dimpled,
so charming, as she stooped down to put the soaked bread under the
hen-coop, that you must have been a very acute personage indeed to
suspect her of that hardness. Molly, the housemaid, with a turn-up nose
and a protuberant jaw, was really a tender-hearted girl, and, as Mrs.
Poyser said, a jewel to look after the poultry; but her stolid
face showed nothing of this maternal delight, any more than a brown
earthenware pitcher will show the light of the lamp within it.

It is generally a feminine eye that first detects the moral deficiencies
hidden under the "dear deceit" of beauty, so it is not surprising that
Mrs. Poyser, with her keenness and abundant opportunity for observation,
should have formed a tolerably fair estimate of what might be expected
from Hetty in the way of feeling, and in moments of indignation she had
sometimes spoken with great openness on the subject to her husband.

"She's no better than a peacock, as 'ud strut about on the wall and
spread its tail when the sun shone if all the folks i' the parish was
dying: there's nothing seems to give her a turn i' th' inside, not even
when we thought Totty had tumbled into the pit. To think o' that dear
cherub! And we found her wi' her little shoes stuck i' the mud an'
crying fit to break her heart by the far horse-pit. But Hetty never
minded it, I could see, though she's been at the nussin' o' the child
ever since it was a babby. It's my belief her heart's as hard as a
pebble."

"Nay, nay," said Mr. Poyser, "thee mustn't judge Hetty too hard. Them
young gells are like the unripe grain; they'll make good meal by and by,
but they're squashy as yet. Thee't see Hetty 'll be all right when she's
got a good husband and children of her own."

"I don't want to be hard upo' the gell. She's got cliver fingers of her
own, and can be useful enough when she likes and I should miss her wi'
the butter, for she's got a cool hand. An' let be what may, I'd strive
to do my part by a niece o' yours--an' THAT I've done, for I've taught
her everything as belongs to a house, an' I've told her her duty often
enough, though, God knows, I've no breath to spare, an' that catchin'
pain comes on dreadful by times. Wi' them three gells in the house I'd
need have twice the strength to keep 'em up to their work. It's
like having roast meat at three fires; as soon as you've basted one,
another's burnin'."

Hetty stood sufficiently in awe of her aunt to be anxious to conceal
from her so much of her vanity as could be hidden without too great a
sacrifice. She could not resist spending her money in bits of finery
which Mrs. Poyser disapproved; but she would have been ready to die with
shame, vexation, and fright if her aunt had this moment opened the door,
and seen her with her bits of candle lighted, and strutting about decked
in her scarf and ear-rings. To prevent such a surprise, she always
bolted her door, and she had not forgotten to do so to-night. It was
well: for there now came a light tap, and Hetty, with a leaping heart,
rushed to blow out the candles and throw them into the drawer. She dared
not stay to take out her ear-rings, but she threw off her scarf, and let
it fall on the floor, before the light tap came again. We shall know how
it was that the light tap came, if we leave Hetty for a short time
and return to Dinah, at the moment when she had delivered Totty to her
mother's arms, and was come upstairs to her bedroom, adjoining Hetty's.

Dinah delighted in her bedroom window. Being on the second story of that
tall house, it gave her a wide view over the fields. The thickness of
the wall formed a broad step about a yard below the window, where she
could place her chair. And now the first thing she did on entering her
room was to seat herself in this chair and look out on the peaceful
fields beyond which the large moon was rising, just above the hedgerow
elms. She liked the pasture best where the milch cows were lying,
and next to that the meadow where the grass was half-mown, and lay in
silvered sweeping lines. Her heart was very full, for there was to be
only one more night on which she would look out on those fields for a
long time to come; but she thought little of leaving the mere scene,
for, to her, bleak Snowfield had just as many charms. She thought of all
the dear people whom she had learned to care for among these peaceful
fields, and who would now have a place in her loving remembrance for
ever. She thought of the struggles and the weariness that might lie
before them in the rest of their life's journey, when she would be away
from them, and know nothing of what was befalling them; and the pressure
of this thought soon became too strong for her to enjoy the unresponding
stillness of the moonlit fields. She closed her eyes, that she might
feel more intensely the presence of a Love and Sympathy deeper and more
tender than was breathed from the earth and sky. That was often Dinah's
mode of praying in solitude. Simply to close her eyes and to feel
herself enclosed by the Divine Presence; then gradually her fears, her
yearning anxieties for others, melted away like ice-crystals in a warm
ocean. She had sat in this way perfectly still, with her hands crossed
on her lap and the pale light resting on her calm face, for at least ten
minutes when she was startled by a loud sound, apparently of something
falling in Hetty's room. But like all sounds that fall on our ears in a
state of abstraction, it had no distinct character, but was simply loud
and startling, so that she felt uncertain whether she had interpreted
it rightly. She rose and listened, but all was quiet afterwards, and she
reflected that Hetty might merely have knocked something down in getting
into bed. She began slowly to undress; but now, owing to the suggestions
of this sound, her thoughts became concentrated on Hetty--that sweet
young thing, with life and all its trials before her--the solemn daily
duties of the wife and mother--and her mind so unprepared for them all,
bent merely on little foolish, selfish pleasures, like a child hugging
its toys in the beginning of a long toilsome journey in which it will
have to bear hunger and cold and unsheltered darkness. Dinah felt a
double care for Hetty, because she shared Seth's anxious interest in his
brother's lot, and she had not come to the conclusion that Hetty did not
love Adam well enough to marry him. She saw too clearly the absence of
any warm, self-devoting love in Hetty's nature to regard the coldness of
her behaviour towards Adam as any indication that he was not the man
she would like to have for a husband. And this blank in Hetty's nature,
instead of exciting Dinah's dislike, only touched her with a deeper
pity: the lovely face and form affected her as beauty always affects a
pure and tender mind, free from selfish jealousies. It was an excellent
divine gift, that gave a deeper pathos to the need, the sin, the sorrow
with which it was mingled, as the canker in a lily-white bud is more
grievous to behold than in a common pot-herb.

By the time Dinah had undressed and put on her night-gown, this feeling
about Hetty had gathered a painful intensity; her imagination had
created a thorny thicket of sin and sorrow, in which she saw the poor
thing struggling torn and bleeding, looking with tears for rescue and
finding none. It was in this way that Dinah's imagination and sympathy
acted and reacted habitually, each heightening the other. She felt a
deep longing to go now and pour into Hetty's ear all the words of tender
warning and appeal that rushed into her mind. But perhaps Hetty was
already asleep. Dinah put her ear to the partition and heard still some
slight noises, which convinced her that Hetty was not yet in bed. Still
she hesitated; she was not quite certain of a divine direction; the
voice that told her to go to Hetty seemed no stronger than the other
voice which said that Hetty was weary, and that going to her now in an
unseasonable moment would only tend to close her heart more obstinately.
Dinah was not satisfied without a more unmistakable guidance than those
inward voices. There was light enough for her, if she opened her Bible,
to discern the text sufficiently to know what it would say to her. She
knew the physiognomy of every page, and could tell on what book she
opened, sometimes on what chapter, without seeing title or number. It
was a small thick Bible, worn quite round at the edges. Dinah laid it
sideways on the window ledge, where the light was strongest, and then
opened it with her forefinger. The first words she looked at were those
at the top of the left-hand page: "And they all wept sore, and fell on
Paul's neck and kissed him." That was enough for Dinah; she had opened
on that memorable parting at Ephesus, when Paul had felt bound to open
his heart in a last exhortation and warning. She hesitated no longer,
but, opening her own door gently, went and tapped on Hetty's. We know
she had to tap twice, because Hetty had to put out her candles and throw
off her black lace scarf; but after the second tap the door was opened
immediately. Dinah said, "Will you let me come in, Hetty?" and Hetty,
without speaking, for she was confused and vexed, opened the door wider
and let her in.

What a strange contrast the two figures made, visible enough in that
mingled twilight and moonlight! Hetty, her cheeks flushed and her eyes
glistening from her imaginary drama, her beautiful neck and arms bare,
her hair hanging in a curly tangle down her back, and the baubles in her
ears. Dinah, covered with her long white dress, her pale face full of
subdued emotion, almost like a lovely corpse into which the soul has
returned charged with sublimer secrets and a sublimer love. They were
nearly of the same height; Dinah evidently a little the taller as she
put her arm round Hetty's waist and kissed her forehead.

"I knew you were not in bed, my dear," she said, in her sweet clear
voice, which was irritating to Hetty, mingling with her own peevish
vexation like music with jangling chains, "for I heard you moving; and I
longed to speak to you again to-night, for it is the last but one that
I shall be here, and we don't know what may happen to-morrow to keep us
apart. Shall I sit down with you while you do up your hair?"

"Oh yes," said Hetty, hastily turning round and reaching the second
chair in the room, glad that Dinah looked as if she did not notice her
ear-rings.

Dinah sat down, and Hetty began to brush together her hair before
twisting it up, doing it with that air of excessive indifference which
belongs to confused self-consciousness. But the expression of Dinah's
eyes gradually relieved her; they seemed unobservant of all details.

"Dear Hetty," she said, "It has been borne in upon my mind to-night that
you may some day be in trouble--trouble is appointed for us all here
below, and there comes a time when we need more comfort and help than
the things of this life can give. I want to tell you that if ever you
are in trouble, and need a friend that will always feel for you and love
you, you have got that friend in Dinah Morris at Snowfield, and if you
come to her, or send for her, she'll never forget this night and the
words she is speaking to you now. Will you remember it, Hetty?"

"Yes," said Hetty, rather frightened. "But why should you think I shall
be in trouble? Do you know of anything?"

Hetty had seated herself as she tied on her cap, and now Dinah leaned
forwards and took her hands as she answered, "Because, dear, trouble
comes to us all in this life: we set our hearts on things which it isn't
God's will for us to have, and then we go sorrowing; the people we love
are taken from us, and we can joy in nothing because they are not with
us; sickness comes, and we faint under the burden of our feeble bodies;
we go astray and do wrong, and bring ourselves into trouble with our
fellow-men. There is no man or woman born into this world to whom some
of these trials do not fall, and so I feel that some of them must happen
to you; and I desire for you, that while you are young you should seek
for strength from your Heavenly Father, that you may have a support
which will not fail you in the evil day."

Dinah paused and released Hetty's hands that she might not hinder her.
Hetty sat quite still; she felt no response within herself to Dinah's
anxious affection; but Dinah's words uttered with solemn pathetic
distinctness, affected her with a chill fear. Her flush had died away
almost to paleness; she had the timidity of a luxurious pleasure-seeking
nature, which shrinks from the hint of pain. Dinah saw the effect, and
her tender anxious pleading became the more earnest, till Hetty, full of
a vague fear that something evil was some time to befall her, began to
cry.

It is our habit to say that while the lower nature can never understand
the higher, the higher nature commands a complete view of the lower. But
I think the higher nature has to learn this comprehension, as we learn
the art of vision, by a good deal of hard experience, often with bruises
and gashes incurred in taking things up by the wrong end, and fancying
our space wider than it is. Dinah had never seen Hetty affected in this
way before, and, with her usual benignant hopefulness, she trusted it
was the stirring of a divine impulse. She kissed the sobbing thing, and
began to cry with her for grateful joy. But Hetty was simply in that
excitable state of mind in which there is no calculating what turn the
feelings may take from one moment to another, and for the first time she
became irritated under Dinah's caress. She pushed her away impatiently,
and said, with a childish sobbing voice, "Don't talk to me so, Dinah.
Why do you come to frighten me? I've never done anything to you. Why
can't you let me be?"

Poor Dinah felt a pang. She was too wise to persist, and only said
mildly, "Yes, my dear, you're tired; I won't hinder you any longer. Make
haste and get into bed. Good-night."

She went out of the room almost as quietly and quickly as if she had
been a ghost; but once by the side of her own bed, she threw herself on
her knees and poured out in deep silence all the passionate pity that
filled her heart.

As for Hetty, she was soon in the wood again--her waking dreams being
merged in a sleeping life scarcely more fragmentary and confused.

 Hetty and Dinah are both getting ready for bed "in rooms adjoining each other, meagerly furnished rooms, with no blinds to shut out the light" . And that's pretty much where the similarities stop. Adjoining rooms or no adjoining rooms, the two girls are worlds away--personality-wise, that is. Here's what Hetty cares about: her pretty hair, her reputation as a local beauty, and her trinkets. As she gets ready for bed, she parades around with "large ear-rings in her ears" and a "black lace scarf adjusted round her shoulders" . How could Arthur resist? Soon, Hetty thinks, he'll take her away from those humdrum Poysers and make her a real lady. And that'll be the end of her little bedroom parade routine. Here's what Dinah cares about: the "wide view over the fields" from her bedroom window, God, and her Bible . As she prepares for bed, she reflects compassionately on all the people she's helped. But she's concerned about Hetty, "that sweet young thing with life and all its trials before her" . Seeking divine guidance for this difficult case, Dinah opens her Bible and points at a random passage. She hits upon a passage about St. Paul, weeping, compassion, what you will. And this convinces her to pay a visit to Hetty's room. Hetty is still in the middle of her scarf-and-earrings routine when Dinah comes in. But Dinah wants to tell Hetty that, "if ever you are in trouble, and need a fried that will always feel for you and love you, you have got that friend in Dinah Morris" . Hetty isn't sure where this is coming from. So Dinah talks to her about trials, and suffering, and makes Hetty cry. Wow, Hetty cries at the drop of a hat. So Dinah says some kind words before heading out. Then Hetty turns off her waterworks, and goes to sleep.

