“God have mercy on us, Addy,” he said, in a low voice, sitting down on the bench beside Adam, “what is it?”

Adam was unable to speak.  The strong man, accustomed to suppress the signs of sorrow, had felt his heart swell like a child’s at this first approach of sympathy.  He fell on Seth’s neck and sobbed.

Seth was prepared for the worst now, for, even in his recollections of their boyhood, Adam had never sobbed before.

“Is it death, Adam?  Is she dead?” he asked, in a low tone, when Adam raised his head and was recovering himself.

“No, lad; but she’s gone—­gone away from us.  She’s never been to Snowfield.  Dinah’s been gone to Leeds ever since last Friday was a fortnight, the very day Hetty set out.  I can’t find out where she went after she got to Stoniton.”

Seth was silent from utter astonishment:  he knew nothing that could suggest to him a reason for Hetty’s going away.

“Hast any notion what she’s done it for?” he said, at last.

“She can’t ha’ loved me.  She didn’t like our marriage when it came nigh—­that must be it,” said Adam.  He had determined to mention no further reason.

“I hear Mother stirring,” said Seth.  “Must we tell her?”

“No, not yet,” said Adam, rising from the bench and pushing the hair from his face, as if he wanted to rouse himself.  “I can’t have her told yet; and I must set out on another journey directly, after I’ve been to the village and th’ Hall Farm.  I can’t tell thee where I’m going, and thee must say to her I’m gone on business as nobody is to know anything about.  I’ll go and wash myself now.”  Adam moved towards the door of the workshop, but after a step or two he turned round, and, meeting Seth’s eyes with a calm sad glance, he said, “I must take all the money out o’ the tin box, lad; but if anything happens to me, all the rest ’ll be thine, to take care o’ Mother with.”

Seth was pale and trembling:  he felt there was some terrible secret under all this.  “Brother,” he said, faintly—­he never called Adam “Brother” except in solemn moments—­“I don’t believe you’ll do anything as you can’t ask God’s blessing on.”

“Nay, lad,” said Adam, “don’t be afraid.  I’m for doing nought but what’s a man’s duty.”

The thought that if he betrayed his trouble to his mother, she would only distress him by words, half of blundering affection, half of irrepressible triumph that Hetty proved as unfit to be his wife as she had always foreseen, brought back some of his habitual firmness and self-command.  He had felt ill on his journey home—­he told her when she came down—­had stayed all night at Tredddleston for that reason; and a bad headache, that still hung about him this morning, accounted for his paleness and heavy eyes.