Chapter: IT is near the end of June, in 1807. The workshops have been shut
up half an hour or more in Adam Bede's timber-yard, which used to
be Jonathan Burge's, and the mellow evening light is falling on the
pleasant house with the buff walls and the soft grey thatch, very much
as it did when we saw Adam bringing in the keys on that June evening
nine years ago.

There is a figure we know well, just come out of the house, and shading
her eyes with her hands as she looks for something in the distance, for
the rays that fall on her white borderless cap and her pale auburn hair
are very dazzling. But now she turns away from the sunlight and looks
towards the door.

We can see the sweet pale face quite well now: it is scarcely at all
altered--only a little fuller, to correspond to her more matronly
figure, which still seems light and active enough in the plain black
dress.

"I see him, Seth," Dinah said, as she looked into the house. "Let us go
and meet him. Come, Lisbeth, come with Mother."

The last call was answered immediately by a small fair creature with
pale auburn hair and grey eyes, little more than four years old, who ran
out silently and put her hand into her mother's.

"Come, Uncle Seth," said Dinah.

"Aye, aye, we're coming," Seth answered from within, and presently
appeared stooping under the doorway, being taller than usual by the
black head of a sturdy two-year-old nephew, who had caused some delay by
demanding to be carried on uncle's shoulder.

"Better take him on thy arm, Seth," said Dinah, looking fondly at the
stout black-eyed fellow. "He's troublesome to thee so."

"Nay, nay: Addy likes a ride on my shoulder. I can carry him so for a
bit." A kindness which young Addy acknowledged by drumming his heels
with promising force against Uncle Seth's chest. But to walk by Dinah's
side, and be tyrannized over by Dinah's and Adam's children, was Uncle
Seth's earthly happiness.

"Where didst see him?" asked Seth, as they walked on into the adjoining
field. "I can't catch sight of him anywhere."

"Between the hedges by the roadside," said Dinah. "I saw his hat and his
shoulder. There he is again."

"Trust thee for catching sight of him if he's anywhere to be seen," said
Seth, smiling. "Thee't like poor mother used to be. She was always on
the look out for Adam, and could see him sooner than other folks, for
all her eyes got dim."

"He's been longer than he expected," said Dinah, taking Arthur's watch
from a small side pocket and looking at it; "it's nigh upon seven now."

"Aye, they'd have a deal to say to one another," said Seth, "and the
meeting 'ud touch 'em both pretty closish. Why, it's getting on towards
eight years since they parted."

"Yes," said Dinah, "Adam was greatly moved this morning at the thought
of the change he should see in the poor young man, from the sickness he
has undergone, as well as the years which have changed us all. And the
death of the poor wanderer, when she was coming back to us, has been
sorrow upon sorrow."

"See, Addy," said Seth, lowering the young one to his arm now and
pointing, "there's Father coming--at the far stile."

Dinah hastened her steps, and little Lisbeth ran on at her utmost speed
till she clasped her father's leg. Adam patted her head and lifted her
up to kiss her, but Dinah could see the marks of agitation on his face
as she approached him, and he put her arm within his in silence.

"Well, youngster, must I take you?" he said, trying to smile, when Addy
stretched out his arms--ready, with the usual baseness of infancy, to
give up his Uncle Seth at once, now there was some rarer patronage at
hand.

"It's cut me a good deal, Dinah," Adam said at last, when they were
walking on.

"Didst find him greatly altered?" said Dinah.

"Why, he's altered and yet not altered. I should ha' known him anywhere.
But his colour's changed, and he looks sadly. However, the doctors say
he'll soon be set right in his own country air. He's all sound in th'
inside; it's only the fever shattered him so. But he speaks just the
same, and smiles at me just as he did when he was a lad. It's wonderful
how he's always had just the same sort o' look when he smiles."

"I've never seen him smile, poor young man," said Dinah.

"But thee wilt see him smile, to-morrow," said Adam. "He asked after
thee the first thing when he began to come round, and we could talk to
one another. 'I hope she isn't altered,' he said, 'I remember her face
so well.' I told him 'no,'" Adam continued, looking fondly at the eyes
that were turned towards his, "only a bit plumper, as thee'dst a right
to be after seven year. 'I may come and see her to-morrow, mayn't I?' he
said; 'I long to tell her how I've thought of her all these years.'"

"Didst tell him I'd always used the watch?" said Dinah.

"Aye; and we talked a deal about thee, for he says he never saw a woman
a bit like thee. 'I shall turn Methodist some day,' he said, 'when she
preaches out of doors, and go to hear her.' And I said, 'Nay, sir, you
can't do that, for Conference has forbid the women preaching, and she's
given it up, all but talking to the people a bit in their houses.'"

"Ah," said Seth, who could not repress a comment on this point, "and a
sore pity it was o' Conference; and if Dinah had seen as I did, we'd ha'
left the Wesleyans and joined a body that 'ud put no bonds on Christian
liberty."

"Nay, lad, nay," said Adam, "she was right and thee wast wrong. There's
no rules so wise but what it's a pity for somebody or other. Most o'
the women do more harm nor good with their preaching--they've not got
Dinah's gift nor her sperrit--and she's seen that, and she thought it
right to set th' example o' submitting, for she's not held from other
sorts o' teaching. And I agree with her, and approve o' what she did."

Seth was silent. This was a standing subject of difference rarely
alluded to, and Dinah, wishing to quit it at once, said, "Didst
remember, Adam, to speak to Colonel Donnithorne the words my uncle and
aunt entrusted to thee?"

"Yes, and he's going to the Hall Farm with Mr. Irwine the day after
to-morrow. Mr. Irwine came in while we were talking about it, and he
would have it as the Colonel must see nobody but thee to-morrow. He
said--and he's in the right of it--as it'll be bad for him t' have his
feelings stirred with seeing many people one after another. 'We must
get you strong and hearty,' he said, 'that's the first thing to be done
Arthur, and then you shall have your own way. But I shall keep you
under your old tutor's thumb till then.' Mr. Irwine's fine and joyful at
having him home again."

Adam was silent a little while, and then said, "It was very cutting when
we first saw one another. He'd never heard about poor Hetty till Mr.
Irwine met him in London, for the letters missed him on his journey.
The first thing he said to me, when we'd got hold o' one another's hands
was, 'I could never do anything for her, Adam--she lived long enough
for all the suffering--and I'd thought so of the time when I might do
something for her. But you told me the truth when you said to me once,
"There's a sort of wrong that can never be made up for."'"

"Why, there's Mr. and Mrs. Poyser coming in at the yard gate," said
Seth.

"So there is," said Dinah. "Run, Lisbeth, run to meet Aunt Poyser. Come
in, Adam, and rest; it has been a hard day for thee."

 On a June day some years later, Seth and Dinah, with Dinah's two children, are waiting for Adam to come home. Arthur, now a colonel, has returned from the wars weakened by a fever, and Adam has gone to see him. Dinah expresses her sympathy for Arthur, and for Hetty, who died just as her term of exile ended. Adam appears, looking rather drawn. He has found Arthur changed in some ways. Arthur's past offenses have been forgiven, and though he will never forget, he is ready to resume the role of Squire when he recovers his health. Mr. and Mrs. Poyser are seen entering the yard, and the novel closes on a note of domestic serenity.

