Adam Bede

  Chapter IV

  Home and Its Sorrows

  A GREEN valley with a brook running through it, full almost tooverflowing with the late rains, overhung by low stooping willows.Across this brook a plank is thrown, and over this plank Adam Bede ispassing with his undoubting step, followed close by Gyp with the basket;evidently making his way to the thatched house, with a stack of timberby the side of it, about twenty yards up the opposite slope.

  The door of the house is open, and an elderly woman is looking out; butshe is not placidly contemplating the evening sunshine; she has beenwatching with dim eyes the gradually enlarging speck which for the lastfew minutes she has been quite sure is her darling son Adam. LisbethBede loves her son with the love of a woman to whom her first-born hascome late in life. She is an anxious, spare, yet vigorous old woman,clean as a snowdrop. Her grey hair is turned neatly back under a purelinen cap with a black band round it; her broad chest is covered with abuff neckerchief, and below this you see a sort of short bedgown made ofblue-checkered linen, tied round the waist and descending to the hips,from whence there is a considerable length of linsey-woolsey petticoat.For Lisbeth is tall, and in other points too there is a stronglikeness between her and her son Adam. Her dark eyes are somewhat dimnow--perhaps from too much crying--but her broadly marked eyebrows arestill black, her teeth are sound, and as she stands knitting rapidly andunconsciously with her work-hardened hands, she has as firmly uprightan attitude as when she is carrying a pail of water on her head from thespring. There is the same type of frame and the same keen activity oftemperament in mother and son, but it was not from her that Adam got hiswell-filled brow and his expression of large-hearted intelligence.

  Family likeness has often a deep sadness in it. Nature, that greattragic dramatist, knits us together by bone and muscle, and divides usby the subtler web of our brains; blends yearning and repulsionand ties us by our heart-strings to the beings that jar us at everymovement. We hear a voice with the very cadence of our own uttering thethoughts we despise; we see eyes--ah, so like our mother's!--avertedfrom us in cold alienation and our last darling child startles us withthe air and gestures of the sister we parted from in bitterness longyears ago. The father to whom we owe our best heritage--the mechanicalinstinct, the keen sensibility to harmony, the unconscious skill of themodelling hand--galls us and puts us to shame by his daily errors; thelong-lost mother, whose face we begin to see in the glass as our ownwrinkles come, once fretted our young souls with her anxious humours andirrational persistence.

  It is such a fond anxious mother's voice that you hear, as Lisbeth says,"Well, my lad, it's gone seven by th' clock. Thee't allays stay till thelast child's born. Thee wants thy supper, I'll warrand. Where's Seth?Gone arter some o's chapellin', I reckon?"

  "Aye, aye, Seth's at no harm, mother, thee mayst be sure. But where'sfather?" said Adam quickly, as he entered the house and glanced into theroom on the left hand, which was used as a workshop. "Hasn't he done thecoffin for Tholer? There's the stuff standing just as I left it thismorning."

  "Done the coffin?" said Lisbeth, following him, and knittinguninterruptedly, though she looked at her son very anxiously. "Eh, mylad, he went aff to Treddles'on this forenoon, an's niver come back. Idoubt he's got to th' 'Waggin Overthrow' again."

  A deep flush of anger passed rapidly over Adam's face. He said nothing,but threw off his jacket and began to roll up his shirt-sleeves again.

  "What art goin' to do, Adam?" said the mother, with a tone and lookof alarm. "Thee wouldstna go to work again, wi'out ha'in thy bit o'supper?"

  Adam, too angry to speak, walked into the workshop. But his mother threwdown her knitting, and, hurrying after him, took hold of his arm, andsaid, in a tone of plaintive remonstrance, "Nay, my lad, my lad, theemunna go wi'out thy supper; there's the taters wi' the gravy in 'em,just as thee lik'st 'em. I saved 'em o' purpose for thee. Come an' ha'thy supper, come."

  "Let be!" said Adam impetuously, shaking her off and seizing one ofthe planks that stood against the wall. "It's fine talking about havingsupper when here's a coffin promised to be ready at Brox'on by seveno'clock to-morrow morning, and ought to ha' been there now, and not anail struck yet. My throat's too full to swallow victuals."

  "Why, thee canstna get the coffin ready," said Lisbeth. "Thee't workthyself to death. It 'ud take thee all night to do't."

  "What signifies how long it takes me? Isn't the coffin promised? Canthey bury the man without a coffin? I'd work my right hand off soonerthan deceive people with lies i' that way. It makes me mad to thinkon't. I shall overrun these doings before long. I've stood enough of'em."

  Poor Lisbeth did not hear this threat for the first time, and if she hadbeen wise she would have gone away quietly and said nothing for the nexthour. But one of the lessons a woman most rarely learns is never to talkto an angry or a drunken man. Lisbeth sat down on the chopping benchand began to cry, and by the time she had cried enough to make her voicevery piteous, she burst out into words.

  "Nay, my lad, my lad, thee wouldstna go away an' break thy mother'sheart, an' leave thy feyther to ruin. Thee wouldstna ha' 'em carry me toth' churchyard, an' thee not to follow me. I shanna rest i' my graveif I donna see thee at th' last; an' how's they to let thee know as I'ma-dyin', if thee't gone a-workin' i' distant parts, an' Seth belike gonearter thee, and thy feyther not able to hold a pen for's hand shakin',besides not knowin' where thee art? Thee mun forgie thy feyther--theemunna be so bitter again' him. He war a good feyther to thee afore hetook to th' drink. He's a clever workman, an' taught thee thy trade,remember, an's niver gen me a blow nor so much as an ill word--no,not even in 's drink. Thee wouldstna ha' 'm go to the workhus--thy ownfeyther--an' him as was a fine-growed man an' handy at everythin' amostas thee art thysen, five-an'-twenty 'ear ago, when thee wast a baby atthe breast."

  Lisbeth's voice became louder, and choked with sobs--a sort of wail,the most irritating of all sounds where real sorrows are to be borne andreal work to be done. Adam broke in impatiently.

  "Now, Mother, don't cry and talk so. Haven't I got enough to vex mewithout that? What's th' use o' telling me things as I only think toomuch on every day? If I didna think on 'em, why should I do as I do, forthe sake o' keeping things together here? But I hate to be talking whereit's no use: I like to keep my breath for doing i'stead o' talking."

  "I know thee dost things as nobody else 'ud do, my lad. But thee'tallays so hard upo' thy feyther, Adam. Thee think'st nothing too muchto do for Seth: thee snapp'st me up if iver I find faut wi' th' lad. Butthee't so angered wi' thy feyther, more nor wi' anybody else."

  "That's better than speaking soft and letting things go the wrong way,I reckon, isn't it? If I wasn't sharp with him he'd sell every bit o'stuff i' th' yard and spend it on drink. I know there's a duty to bedone by my father, but it isn't my duty to encourage him in runningheadlong to ruin. And what has Seth got to do with it? The lad does noharm as I know of. But leave me alone, Mother, and let me get on withthe work."

  Lisbeth dared not say any more; but she got up and called Gyp, thinkingto console herself somewhat for Adam's refusal of the supper she hadspread out in the loving expectation of looking at him while he ate it,by feeding Adam's dog with extra liberality. But Gyp was watching hismaster with wrinkled brow and ears erect, puzzled at this unusual courseof things; and though he glanced at Lisbeth when she called him, andmoved his fore-paws uneasily, well knowing that she was inviting him tosupper, he was in a divided state of mind, and remained seated on hishaunches, again fixing his eyes anxiously on his master. Adam noticedGyp's mental conflict, and though his anger had made him less tenderthan usual to his mother, it did not prevent him from caring as much asusual for his dog. We are apt to be kinder to the brutes that love usthan to the women that love us. Is it because the brutes are dumb?

  "Go, Gyp; go, lad!" Adam said, in a tone of encouraging command; andGyp, apparently satisfied that duty and pleasure were one, followedLisbeth into the house-place.

  But no sooner had he licke
d up his supper than he went back to hismaster, while Lisbeth sat down alone to cry over her knitting. Womenwho are never bitter and resentful are often the most querulous; andif Solomon was as wise as he is reputed to be, I feel sure that whenhe compared a contentious woman to a continual dropping on a very rainyday, he had not a vixen in his eye--a fury with long nails, acrid andselfish. Depend upon it, he meant a good creature, who had no joy butin the happiness of the loved ones whom she contributed to makeuncomfortable, putting by all the tid-bits for them and spending nothingon herself. Such a woman as Lisbeth, for example--at once patient andcomplaining, self-renouncing and exacting, brooding the livelong dayover what happened yesterday and what is likely to happen to-morrow,and crying very readily both at the good and the evil. But a certainawe mingled itself with her idolatrous love of Adam, and when he said,"Leave me alone," she was always silenced.

  So the hours passed, to the loud ticking of the old day-clock and thesound of Adam's tools. At last he called for a light and a draughtof water (beer was a thing only to be drunk on holidays), and Lisbethventured to say as she took it in, "Thy supper stan's ready for thee,when thee lik'st."

  "Donna thee sit up, mother," said Adam, in a gentle tone. He had workedoff his anger now, and whenever he wished to be especially kind to hismother, he fell into his strongest native accent and dialect, with whichat other times his speech was less deeply tinged. "I'll see to Fatherwhen he comes home; maybe he wonna come at all to-night. I shall beeasier if thee't i' bed."

  "Nay, I'll bide till Seth comes. He wonna be long now, I reckon."

  It was then past nine by the clock, which was always in advance ofthe days, and before it had struck ten the latch was lifted and Sethentered. He had heard the sound of the tools as he was approaching.

  "Why, Mother," he said, "how is it as Father's working so late?"

  "It's none o' thy feyther as is a-workin'--thee might know that wellanoof if thy head warna full o' chapellin'--it's thy brother as doesiverything, for there's niver nobody else i' th' way to do nothin'."

  Lisbeth was going on, for she was not at all afraid of Seth, and usuallypoured into his ears all the querulousness which was repressed by herawe of Adam. Seth had never in his life spoken a harsh word to hismother, and timid people always wreak their peevishness on the gentle.But Seth, with an anxious look, had passed into the workshop and said,"Addy, how's this? What! Father's forgot the coffin?"

  "Aye, lad, th' old tale; but I shall get it done," said Adam, looking upand casting one of his bright keen glances at his brother. "Why, what'sthe matter with thee? Thee't in trouble."

  Seth's eyes were red, and there was a look of deep depression on hismild face.

  "Yes, Addy, but it's what must be borne, and can't be helped. Why,thee'st never been to the school, then?"

  "School? No, that screw can wait," said Adam, hammering away again.

  "Let me take my turn now, and do thee go to bed," said Seth.

  "No, lad, I'd rather go on, now I'm in harness. Thee't help me to carryit to Brox'on when it's done. I'll call thee up at sunrise. Go and eatthy supper, and shut the door so as I mayn't hear Mother's talk."

  Seth knew that Adam always meant what he said, and was not to bepersuaded into meaning anything else. So he turned, with rather a heavyheart, into the house-place.

  "Adam's niver touched a bit o' victual sin' home he's come," saidLisbeth. "I reckon thee'st hed thy supper at some o' thy Methody folks."

  "Nay, Mother," said Seth, "I've had no supper yet."

  "Come, then," said Lisbeth, "but donna thee ate the taters, for Adam'ull happen ate 'em if I leave 'em stannin'. He loves a bit o' tatersan' gravy. But he's been so sore an' angered, he wouldn't ate 'em, forall I'd putten 'em by o' purpose for him. An' he's been a-threatenin'to go away again," she went on, whimpering, "an' I'm fast sure he'll gosome dawnin' afore I'm up, an' niver let me know aforehand, an' he'llniver come back again when once he's gone. An' I'd better niver ha'had a son, as is like no other body's son for the deftness an' th'handiness, an' so looked on by th' grit folks, an' tall an' upright likea poplar-tree, an' me to be parted from him an' niver see 'm no more."

  "Come, Mother, donna grieve thyself in vain," said Seth, in a soothingvoice. "Thee'st not half so good reason to think as Adam 'ull go awayas to think he'll stay with thee. He may say such a thing when he's inwrath--and he's got excuse for being wrathful sometimes--but his heart'ud never let him go. Think how he's stood by us all when it's been noneso easy--paying his savings to free me from going for a soldier, an'turnin' his earnin's into wood for father, when he's got plenty o' usesfor his money, and many a young man like him 'ud ha' been married andsettled before now. He'll never turn round and knock down his own work,and forsake them as it's been the labour of his life to stand by."

  "Donna talk to me about's marr'in'," said Lisbeth, crying afresh. "He'sset's heart on that Hetty Sorrel, as 'ull niver save a penny, an' 'ulltoss up her head at's old mother. An' to think as he might ha' MaryBurge, an' be took partners, an' be a big man wi' workmen under him,like Mester Burge--Dolly's told me so o'er and o'er again--if it warnaas he's set's heart on that bit of a wench, as is o' no more use nor thegillyflower on the wall. An' he so wise at bookin' an' figurin', an' notto know no better nor that!"

  "But, Mother, thee know'st we canna love just where other folks 'ud haveus. There's nobody but God can control the heart of man. I could ha'wished myself as Adam could ha' made another choice, but I wouldn'treproach him for what he can't help. And I'm not sure but what he triesto o'ercome it. But it's a matter as he doesn't like to be spoke toabout, and I can only pray to the Lord to bless and direct him."

  "Aye, thee't allays ready enough at prayin', but I donna see as theegets much wi' thy prayin'. Thee wotna get double earnin's o' this sideYule. Th' Methodies 'll niver make thee half the man thy brother is, forall they're a-makin' a preacher on thee."

  "It's partly truth thee speak'st there, Mother," said Seth, mildly;"Adam's far before me, an's done more for me than I can ever do for him.God distributes talents to every man according as He sees good. But theemustna undervally prayer. Prayer mayna bring money, but it brings uswhat no money can buy--a power to keep from sin and be content withGod's will, whatever He may please to send. If thee wouldst pray to Godto help thee, and trust in His goodness, thee wouldstna be so uneasyabout things."

  "Unaisy? I'm i' th' right on't to be unaisy. It's well seen on THEE whatit is niver to be unaisy. Thee't gi' away all thy earnin's, an' niver beunaisy as thee'st nothin' laid up again' a rainy day. If Adam had beenas aisy as thee, he'd niver ha' had no money to pay for thee. Takeno thought for the morrow--take no thought--that's what thee't allayssayin'; an' what comes on't? Why, as Adam has to take thought for thee."

  "Those are the words o' the Bible, Mother," said Seth. "They don'tmean as we should be idle. They mean we shouldn't be overanxious andworreting ourselves about what'll happen to-morrow, but do our duty andleave the rest to God's will."

  "Aye, aye, that's the way wi' thee: thee allays makes a peck o' thy ownwords out o' a pint o' the Bible's. I donna see how thee't to know as'take no thought for the morrow' means all that. An' when the Bible'ssuch a big book, an' thee canst read all thro't, an' ha' the pick o' thetexes, I canna think why thee dostna pick better words as donna mean somuch more nor they say. Adam doesna pick a that'n; I can understan' thetex as he's allays a-sayin', 'God helps them as helps theirsens.'"

  "Nay, Mother," said Seth, "that's no text o' the Bible. It comes out ofa book as Adam picked up at the stall at Treddles'on. It was wrote bya knowing man, but overworldly, I doubt. However, that saying's partlytrue; for the Bible tells us we must be workers together with God."

  "Well, how'm I to know? It sounds like a tex. But what's th' matter wi'th' lad? Thee't hardly atin' a bit o' supper. Dostna mean to ha' no morenor that bit o' oat-cake? An' thee lookst as white as a flick o' newbacon. What's th' matter wi' thee?"

  "Nothing to mind about, Mother; I'm not hungry. I'll just look in atAdam again, and
see if he'll let me go on with the coffin."

  "Ha' a drop o' warm broth?" said Lisbeth, whose motherly feeling now gotthe better of her "nattering" habit. "I'll set two-three sticks a-lightin a minute."

  "Nay, Mother, thank thee; thee't very good," said Seth, gratefully; andencouraged by this touch of tenderness, he went on: "Let me pray abit with thee for Father, and Adam, and all of us--it'll comfort thee,happen, more than thee thinkst."

  "Well, I've nothin' to say again' it."

  Lisbeth, though disposed always to take the negative side in herconversations with Seth, had a vague sense that there was some comfortand safety in the fact of his piety, and that it somehow relieved herfrom the trouble of any spiritual transactions on her own behalf.

  So the mother and son knelt down together, and Seth prayed for the poorwandering father and for those who were sorrowing for him at home. Andwhen he came to the petition that Adam might never be called to setup his tent in a far country, but that his mother might be cheered andcomforted by his presence all the days of her pilgrimage, Lisbeth'sready tears flowed again, and she wept aloud.

  When they rose from their knees, Seth went to Adam again and said, "Wiltonly lie down for an hour or two, and let me go on the while?"

  "No, Seth, no. Make Mother go to bed, and go thyself."

  Meantime Lisbeth had dried her eyes, and now followed Seth, holdingsomething in her hands. It was the brown-and-yellow platter containingthe baked potatoes with the gravy in them and bits of meat which she hadcut and mixed among them. Those were dear times, when wheaten breadand fresh meat were delicacies to working people. She set the dish downrather timidly on the bench by Adam's side and said, "Thee canst pick abit while thee't workin'. I'll bring thee another drop o' water."

  "Aye, Mother, do," said Adam, kindly; "I'm getting very thirsty."

  In half an hour all was quiet; no sound was to be heard in the house butthe loud ticking of the old day-clock and the ringing of Adam's tools.The night was very still: when Adam opened the door to look out attwelve o'clock, the only motion seemed to be in the glowing, twinklingstars; every blade of grass was asleep.

  Bodily haste and exertion usually leave our thoughts very much at themercy of our feelings and imagination and it was so to-night with Adam.While his muscles were working lustily, his mind seemed as passive as aspectator at a diorama: scenes of the sad past, and probably sadfuture, floating before him and giving place one to the other in swiftsuccession.

  He saw how it would be to-morrow morning, when he had carried the coffinto Broxton and was at home again, having his breakfast: his fatherperhaps would come in ashamed to meet his son's glance--would sit down,looking older and more tottering than he had done the morning before,and hang down his head, examining the floor-quarries; while Lisbethwould ask him how he supposed the coffin had been got ready, that he hadslinked off and left undone--for Lisbeth was always the first to utterthe word of reproach, although she cried at Adam's severity towards hisfather.

  "So it will go on, worsening and worsening," thought Adam; "there's noslipping uphill again, and no standing still when once you 've begunto slip down." And then the day came back to him when he was a littlefellow and used to run by his father's side, proud to be taken outto work, and prouder still to hear his father boasting to hisfellow-workmen how "the little chap had an uncommon notion o'carpentering." What a fine active fellow his father was then! Whenpeople asked Adam whose little lad he was, he had a sense of distinctionas he answered, "I'm Thias Bede's lad." He was quite sure everybodyknew Thias Bede--didn't he make the wonderful pigeon-house at Broxtonparsonage? Those were happy days, especially when Seth, who was threeyears the younger, began to go out working too, and Adam began to be ateacher as well as a learner. But then came the days of sadness, whenAdam was someway on in his teens, and Thias began to loiter at thepublic-houses, and Lisbeth began to cry at home, and to pour forth herplaints in the hearing of her sons. Adam remembered well the night ofshame and anguish when he first saw his father quite wild and foolish,shouting a song out fitfully among his drunken companions at the "WaggonOverthrown." He had run away once when he was only eighteen, makinghis escape in the morning twilight with a little blue bundle overhis shoulder, and his "mensuration book" in his pocket, and sayingto himself very decidedly that he could bear the vexations of home nolonger--he would go and seek his fortune, setting up his stick at thecrossways and bending his steps the way it fell. But by the time he gotto Stoniton, the thought of his mother and Seth, left behind to endureeverything without him, became too importunate, and his resolutionfailed him. He came back the next day, but the misery and terror hismother had gone through in those two days had haunted her ever since.

  "No!" Adam said to himself to-night, "that must never happen again. It'ud make a poor balance when my doings are cast up at the last, if mypoor old mother stood o' the wrong side. My back's broad enough andstrong enough; I should be no better than a coward to go away and leavethe troubles to be borne by them as aren't half so able. 'They that arestrong ought to bear the infirmities of those that are weak, and not toplease themselves.' There's a text wants no candle to show't; it shinesby its own light. It's plain enough you get into the wrong road i' thislife if you run after this and that only for the sake o' making thingseasy and pleasant to yourself. A pig may poke his nose into the troughand think o' nothing outside it; but if you've got a man's heart andsoul in you, you can't be easy a-making your own bed an' leaving therest to lie on the stones. Nay, nay, I'll never slip my neck out o' theyoke, and leave the load to be drawn by the weak uns. Father's a sorecross to me, an's likely to be for many a long year to come. What then?I've got th' health, and the limbs, and the sperrit to bear it."

  At this moment a smart rap, as if with a willow wand, was given at thehouse door, and Gyp, instead of barking, as might have been expected,gave a loud howl. Adam, very much startled, went at once to the doorand opened it. Nothing was there; all was still, as when he opened itan hour before; the leaves were motionless, and the light of the starsshowed the placid fields on both sides of the brook quite empty ofvisible life. Adam walked round the house, and still saw nothing excepta rat which darted into the woodshed as he passed. He went in again,wondering; the sound was so peculiar that the moment he heard it itcalled up the image of the willow wand striking the door. He could nothelp a little shudder, as he remembered how often his mother had toldhim of just such a sound coming as a sign when some one was dying. Adamwas not a man to be gratuitously superstitious, but he had the blood ofthe peasant in him as well as of the artisan, and a peasant can nomore help believing in a traditional superstition than a horse can helptrembling when he sees a camel. Besides, he had that mental combinationwhich is at once humble in the region of mystery and keen in the regionof knowledge: it was the depth of his reverence quite as much ashis hard common sense which gave him his disinclination to doctrinalreligion, and he often checked Seth's argumentative spiritualism bysaying, "Eh, it's a big mystery; thee know'st but little about it." Andso it happened that Adam was at once penetrating and credulous. If anew building had fallen down and he had been told that this was a divinejudgment, he would have said, "May be; but the bearing o' the roof andwalls wasn't right, else it wouldn't ha' come down"; yet he believedin dreams and prognostics, and to his dying day he bated his breath alittle when he told the story of the stroke with the willow wand. Itell it as he told it, not attempting to reduce it to its naturalelements--in our eagerness to explain impressions, we often lose ourhold of the sympathy that comprehends them.

  But he had the best antidote against imaginative dread in the necessityfor getting on with the coffin, and for the next ten minutes his hammerwas ringing so uninterruptedly, that other sounds, if there were any,might well be overpowered. A pause came, however, when he had to takeup his ruler, and now again came the strange rap, and again Gyp howled.Adam was at the door without the loss of a moment; but again all wasstill, and the starlight showed there was nothing but the dew-ladengrass in front of the cottage. r />
  Adam for a moment thought uncomfortably about his father; but of lateyears he had never come home at dark hours from Treddleston, andthere was every reason for believing that he was then sleeping off hisdrunkenness at the "Waggon Overthrown." Besides, to Adam, the conceptionof the future was so inseparable from the painful image of his fatherthat the fear of any fatal accident to him was excluded by the deeplyinfixed fear of his continual degradation. The next thought thatoccurred to him was one that made him slip off his shoes and treadlightly upstairs, to listen at the bedroom doors. But both Seth and hismother were breathing regularly.

  Adam came down and set to work again, saying to himself, "I won't openthe door again. It's no use staring about to catch sight of a sound.Maybe there's a world about us as we can't see, but th' ear's quickerthan the eye and catches a sound from't now and then. Some people thinkthey get a sight on't too, but they're mostly folks whose eyes are notmuch use to 'em at anything else. For my part, I think it's better tosee when your perpendicular's true than to see a ghost."

  Such thoughts as these are apt to grow stronger and stronger as daylightquenches the candles and the birds begin to sing. By the time the redsunlight shone on the brass nails that formed the initials on the lid ofthe coffin, any lingering foreboding from the sound of the willowwand was merged in satisfaction that the work was done and the promiseredeemed. There was no need to call Seth, for he was already movingoverhead, and presently came downstairs.

  "Now, lad," said Adam, as Seth made his appearance, "the coffin's done,and we can take it over to Brox'on, and be back again before half aftersix. I'll take a mouthful o' oat-cake, and then we'll be off."

  The coffin was soon propped on the tall shoulders of the two brothers,and they were making their way, followed close by Gyp, out of the littlewoodyard into the lane at the back of the house. It was but about a mileand a half to Broxton over the opposite slope, and their road wound verypleasantly along lanes and across fields, where the pale woodbines andthe dog-roses were scenting the hedgerows, and the birds were twitteringand trilling in the tall leafy boughs of oak and elm. It was a strangelymingled picture--the fresh youth of the summer morning, with itsEdenlike peace and loveliness, the stalwart strength of the two brothersin their rusty working clothes, and the long coffin on their shoulders.They paused for the last time before a small farmhouse outside thevillage of Broxton. By six o'clock the task was done, the coffin naileddown, and Adam and Seth were on their way home. They chose a shorterway homewards, which would take them across the fields and the brook infront of the house. Adam had not mentioned to Seth what had happened inthe night, but he still retained sufficient impression from it himselfto say, "Seth, lad, if Father isn't come home by the time we've had ourbreakfast, I think it'll be as well for thee to go over to Treddles'onand look after him, and thee canst get me the brass wire I want. Nevermind about losing an hour at thy work; we can make that up. What dostsay?"

  "I'm willing," said Seth. "But see what clouds have gathered since weset out. I'm thinking we shall have more rain. It'll be a sore time forth' haymaking if the meadows are flooded again. The brook's fine andfull now: another day's rain 'ud cover the plank, and we should have togo round by the road."

  They were coming across the valley now, and had entered the pasturethrough which the brook ran.

  "Why, what's that sticking against the willow?" continued Seth,beginning to walk faster. Adam's heart rose to his mouth: the vagueanxiety about his father was changed into a great dread. He made noanswer to Seth, but ran forward preceded by Gyp, who began to barkuneasily; and in two moments he was at the bridge.

  This was what the omen meant, then! And the grey-haired father, of whomhe had thought with a sort of hardness a few hours ago, as certain tolive to be a thorn in his side was perhaps even then struggling withthat watery death! This was the first thought that flashed throughAdam's conscience, before he had time to seize the coat and drag outthe tall heavy body. Seth was already by his side, helping him, andwhen they had it on the bank, the two sons in the first moment knelt andlooked with mute awe at the glazed eyes, forgetting that there was needfor action--forgetting everything but that their father lay dead beforethem. Adam was the first to speak.

  "I'll run to Mother," he said, in a loud whisper. "I'll be back to theein a minute."

  Poor Lisbeth was busy preparing her sons' breakfast, and their porridgewas already steaming on the fire. Her kitchen always looked the pink ofcleanliness, but this morning she was more than usually bent on makingher hearth and breakfast-table look comfortable and inviting.

  "The lads 'ull be fine an' hungry," she said, half-aloud, as she stirredthe porridge. "It's a good step to Brox'on, an' it's hungry air o'erthe hill--wi' that heavy coffin too. Eh! It's heavier now, wi' poor BobTholer in't. Howiver, I've made a drap more porridge nor common thismornin'. The feyther 'ull happen come in arter a bit. Not as he'll atemuch porridge. He swallers sixpenn'orth o' ale, an' saves a hap'orth o'por-ridge--that's his way o' layin' by money, as I've told him many atime, an' am likely to tell him again afore the day's out. Eh, poor mon,he takes it quiet enough; there's no denyin' that."

  But now Lisbeth heard the heavy "thud" of a running footstep on theturf, and, turning quickly towards the door, she saw Adam enter, lookingso pale and overwhelmed that she screamed aloud and rushed towards himbefore he had time to speak.

  "Hush, Mother," Adam said, rather hoarsely, "don't be frightened.Father's tumbled into the water. Belike we may bring him round again.Seth and me are going to carry him in. Get a blanket and make it hot asthe fire."

  In reality Adam was convinced that his father was dead but he knew therewas no other way of repressing his mother's impetuous wailing grief thanby occupying her with some active task which had hope in it.

  He ran back to Seth, and the two sons lifted the sad burden inheart-stricken silence. The wide-open glazed eyes were grey, likeSeth's, and had once looked with mild pride on the boys before whomThias had lived to hang his head in shame. Seth's chief feeling was aweand distress at this sudden snatching away of his father's soul; butAdam's mind rushed back over the past in a flood of relenting and pity.When death, the great Reconciler, has come, it is never our tendernessthat we repent of, but our severity.