“You look the image o’ your aunt Judith, Dinah, when you sit a-sewing,” said Mrs. Poyser.  “I allays said that o’ Judith, as she’d bear a pound weight any day to save anybody else carrying a ounce.  And it made no difference in her, as I could see, when she took to the Methodists; only she talked a bit different, and wore a different sort o’ cap.  If you’d only come and live i’ this country you might get married to some decent man, and there’d be plenty ready to have you, if you’d only leave off that preaching, as is ten times worse than anything your Aunt Judith ever did.  And even if you’d marry Seth Bede, as is a poor, wool-gathering Methodist, and’s never like to have a penny beforehand, I know your uncle ’ud help you with a pig, and very like a cow, for he’s allays been good-natur’d to my kin, for all they’re poor, and made ’em welcome to the house; and ’ud do for you, I’ll be bound, as much as ever he’d do for Hetty, though she’s his own niece.”

The arrival of Mr. Irwine, the rector of Hayslope, and Captain Donnithorne, Squire Donnithorne’s grandson and heir, interrupted Mrs. Poyser’s flow of talk.

“I’ll lay my life they’re come to speak about your preaching on the Green, Dinah.  It’s you must answer ’em, for I’m dumb.  I’ve said enough a’ready about your bringing such disgrace upo’ your uncle’s family.  I wouldn’t ha’ minded if you’d been Mr. Poyser’s own niece.  Folks must put up wi’ their own kin as they put up wi’ their own noses; it’s their own flesh and blood.”

Mr. Irwine, however, was the last man to feel any annoyance at the Methodist preaching, and young Arthur Donnithorne’s visit was merely an excuse for exchanging a few words with Hetty Sorrel.

The rector mentioned before he left that Thias Bede had been found drowned in the Willow Brook; and Dinah Morris at once decided that she might be of some comfort to the widow, and set out for the village.

As for Hetty Sorrel, she was thinking more of the looks Captain Donnithorne had cast at her than of Adam and his troubles.  Bright, admiring glances from a handsome young gentleman—­those were the warm rays that set poor Hetty’s heart vibrating.

Hetty was quite used to the thought that people liked to look at her.  She was aware that Mr. Craig, the gardener at Squire Donnithorne’s, was over head-and-ears in love with her.  She knew still better that Adam Bede—­tall, upright, clever, brave Adam Bede—­who carried such authority with all the people round about, and whom her uncle was always delighted to see of an evening, saying that “Adam knew a fine sight more o’ the natur o’ things than those as thought themselves his betters”—­she knew that this Adam, who was often rather stern to other people, and not much given to run after the lassies, could be made to turn pale or red any day by a word or a look from her.  Hetty’s sphere of comparison was not large, but she couldn’t help perceiving that Adam was “something like” a man; always knew what to say about things; knew, with only looking at it, the value of a chestnut-tree that was blown down, and why the damp came in the walls, and what they must do to stop the rats; and wrote a beautiful hand that you could read, and could do figures in his head—­a degree of accomplishment totally unknown among the richest farmers of that country-side.