Adam only said after that, “I may tell your uncle and aunt, mayn’t I, Hetty?” And she said “Yes.”

The red firelight on the hearth at the Hall Farm shone on joyful faces that evening when Adam took the opportunity of telling Mr. and Mrs. Poyser that he saw his way to maintaining a wife now, and that Hetty had consented to have him.

There was a great deal of discussion before Adam went away about the possibility of his finding a house that would do for him to settle in.

“Well, well,” said Mr. Poyser at last, “we needna fix everything to-night.  You canna think o’ getting married afore Easter.  I’m not for long courtships, but there must be a bit o’ time to make things comfortable.”

This was in November.

Then in February came the full tragedy of Hetty Sorrel’s life.  She left home, and in a strange village, a child—­Arthur Donnithorne’s child—­was born.  Hetty left the baby in a wood, and returned to find it dead.  Arrest and trial followed, and only at the last moment was the capital sentence commuted to transportation.

She died a few years later on her way home.

IV.—­The Wife of Adam Bede

It was the autumn of 1801, and Dinah Morris was once more at the Hall Farm, only to leave it again for her work in the town.  Mrs. Poyser noticed that Dinah, who never used to change colour, flushed when Adam said, “Why, I hoped Dinah was settled among us for life.  I thought she’d given up the notion o’ going back to her old country.”

“Thought!  Yes,” said Mrs. Poyser; “and so would anybody else ha’ thought as had got their right ends up’ards.  But I suppose you must be a Methodist to know what a Methodist ’ull do.  It’s all guessing what the bats are flying after.”

“Why, what have we done to you, Dinah, as you must go away from us?” said Mr. Poyser.  “It’s like breaking your word; for your aunt never had no thought but you’d make this your home.”

“Nay, uncle,” said Dinah, trying to be quite calm.  “When I first came I said it was only for a time, as long as I could be of any comfort to my aunt.”

“Well, an’ who said you’d ever left off being a comfort to me?” said Mrs. Poyser.  “If you didna mean to stay wi’ me, you’d better never ha’ come.  Them as ha’ never had a cushion don’t miss it.”

Dinah set off with Adam, for Lisbeth was ailing and wanted Dinah to sit with her a bit.  On the way he reverted to her leaving the Hall Farm.  “You know best, Dinah, but if it had been ordered so that you could ha’ been my sister, and lived wi’ us all our lives, I should ha’ counted it the greatest blessing as could happen to us now.”

Dinah made no answer, and they walked on in silence, until presently, crossing the stone stile, Adam saw her face, flushed, and with a look of suppressed agitation.

It struck him with surprise, and then he said, “I hope I’ve not hurt or displeased you by what I’ve said, Dinah; perhaps I was making too free.  I’ve no wish different from what you see to be best; and I’m satisfied for you to live thirty miles off if you think it right.”