Seth had drawn the letter from his pocket and held it out to Adam, who said, as he took it, “Aye, lad, I’ve got a tough load to carry just now—­thee mustna take it ill if I’m a bit silenter and crustier nor usual.  Trouble doesna make me care the less for thee.  I know we shall stick together to the last.”

“I take nought ill o’ thee, Adam.  I know well enough what it means if thee’t a bit short wi’ me now and then.”

“There’s Mother opening the door to look out for us,” said Adam, as they mounted the slope.  “She’s been sitting i’ the dark as usual.  Well, Gyp, well, art glad to see me?”

Lisbeth went in again quickly and lighted a candle, for she had heard the welcome rustling of footsteps on the grass, before Gyp’s joyful bark.

“Eh, my lads!  Th’ hours war ne’er so long sin’ I war born as they’n been this blessed Sunday night.  What can ye both ha’ been doin’ till this time?”

“Thee shouldstna sit i’ the dark, Mother,” said Adam; “that makes the time seem longer.”

“Eh, what am I to do wi’ burnin’ candle of a Sunday, when there’s on’y me an’ it’s sin to do a bit o’ knittin’?  The daylight’s long enough for me to stare i’ the booke as I canna read.  It ‘ud be a fine way o’ shortenin’ the time, to make it waste the good candle.  But which on you’s for ha’in’ supper?  Ye mun ayther be clemmed or full, I should think, seein’ what time o’ night it is.”

“I’m hungry, Mother,” said Seth, seating himself at the little table, which had been spread ever since it was light.

“I’ve had my supper,” said Adam.  “Here, Gyp,” he added, taking some cold potato from the table and rubbing the rough grey head that looked up towards him.

“Thee needstna be gi’in’ th’ dog,” said Lisbeth; “I’n fed him well a’ready.  I’m not like to forget him, I reckon, when he’s all o’ thee I can get sight on.”

“Come, then, Gyp,” said Adam, “we’ll go to bed.  Good-night, Mother; I’m very tired.”

“What ails him, dost know?” Lisbeth said to Seth, when Adam was gone upstairs.  “He’s like as if he was struck for death this day or two—­he’s so cast down.  I found him i’ the shop this forenoon, arter thee wast gone, a-sittin’ an’ doin’ nothin’—­not so much as a booke afore him.”

“He’s a deal o’ work upon him just now, Mother,” said Seth, “and I think he’s a bit troubled in his mind.  Don’t you take notice of it, because it hurts him when you do.  Be as kind to him as you can, Mother, and don’t say anything to vex him.”

“Eh, what dost talk o’ my vexin’ him?  An’ what am I like to be but kind?  I’ll ma’ him a kettle-cake for breakfast i’ the mornin’.”

Adam, meanwhile, was reading Dinah’s letter by the light of his dip candle.