“What’s that?” Hetty said indifferently.

“Why, Mr. Burge has offered me a share in his business, and I’m going to take it.”

There was a change in Hetty’s face, certainly not produced by any agreeable impression from this news.  In fact she felt a momentary annoyance and alarm, for she had so often heard it hinted by her uncle that Adam might have Mary Burge and a share in the business any day, if he liked, that she associated the two objects now, and the thought immediately occurred that perhaps Adam had given her up because of what had happened lately, and had turned towards Mary Burge.  With that thought, and before she had time to remember any reasons why it could not be true, came a new sense of forsakenness and disappointment.  The one thing—­the one person—­her mind had rested on in its dull weariness, had slipped away from her, and peevish misery filled her eyes with tears.  She was looking on the ground, but Adam saw her face, saw the tears, and before he had finished saying, “Hetty, dear Hetty, what are you crying for?” his eager rapid thought had flown through all the causes conceivable to him, and had at last alighted on half the true one.  Hetty thought he was going to marry Mary Burge—­she didn’t like him to marry—­perhaps she didn’t like him to marry any one but herself?  All caution was swept away—­all reason for it was gone, and Adam could feel nothing but trembling joy.  He leaned towards her and took her hand, as he said: 

“I could afford to be married now, Hetty—­I could make a wife comfortable; but I shall never want to be married if you won’t have me.”

Hetty looked up at him and smiled through her tears, as she had done to Arthur that first evening in the wood, when she had thought he was not coming, and yet he came.  It was a feebler relief, a feebler triumph she felt now, but the great dark eyes and the sweet lips were as beautiful as ever, perhaps more beautiful, for there was a more luxuriant womanliness about Hetty of late.  Adam could hardly believe in the happiness of that moment.  His right hand held her left, and he pressed her arm close against his heart as he leaned down towards her.

“Do you really love me, Hetty?  Will you be my own wife, to love and take care of as long as I live?”

Hetty did not speak, but Adam’s face was very close to hers, and she put up her round cheek against his, like a kitten.  She wanted to be caressed—­she wanted to feel as if Arthur were with her again.

Adam cared for no words after that, and they hardly spoke through the rest of the walk.  He only said, “I may tell your uncle and aunt, mayn’t I, Hetty?” and she said, “Yes.”

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