He determined to go to the village, in the first place, attend to his business for an hour, and give notice to Burge of his being obliged to go on a journey, which he must beg him not to mention to any one; for he wished to avoid going to the Hall Farm near breakfast-time, when the children and servants would be in the house-place, and there must be exclamations in their hearing about his having returned without Hetty.  He waited until the clock struck nine before he left the work-yard at the village, and set off, through the fields, towards the Farm.  It was an immense relief to him, as he came near the Home Close, to see Mr. Poyser advancing towards him, for this would spare him the pain of going to the house.  Mr. Poyser was walking briskly this March morning, with a sense of spring business on his mind:  he was going to cast the master’s eye on the shoeing of a new cart-horse, carrying his spud as a useful companion by the way.  His surprise was great when he caught sight of Adam, but he was not a man given to presentiments of evil.

“Why, Adam, lad, is’t you?  Have ye been all this time away and not brought the lasses back, after all?  Where are they?”

“No, I’ve not brought ’em,” said Adam, turning round, to indicate that he wished to walk back with Mr. Poyser.

“Why,” said Martin, looking with sharper attention at Adam, “ye look bad.  Is there anything happened?”

“Yes,” said Adam, heavily.  “A sad thing’s happened.  I didna find Hetty at Snowfield.”

Mr. Poyser’s good-natured face showed signs of troubled astonishment.  “Not find her?  What’s happened to her?” he said, his thoughts flying at once to bodily accident.

“That I can’t tell, whether anything’s happened to her.  She never went to Snowfield—­she took the coach to Stoniton, but I can’t learn nothing of her after she got down from the Stoniton coach.”

“Why, you donna mean she’s run away?” said Martin, standing still, so puzzled and bewildered that the fact did not yet make itself felt as a trouble by him.

“She must ha’ done,” said Adam.  “She didn’t like our marriage when it came to the point—­that must be it.  She’d mistook her feelings.”

Martin was silent for a minute or two, looking on the ground and rooting up the grass with his spud, without knowing what he was doing.  His usual slowness was always trebled when the subject of speech was painful.  At last he looked up, right in Adam’s face, saying, “Then she didna deserve t’ ha’ ye, my lad.  An’ I feel i’ fault myself, for she was my niece, and I was allays hot for her marr’ing ye.  There’s no amends I can make ye, lad—­the more’s the pity:  it’s a sad cut-up for ye, I doubt.”

Adam could say nothing; and Mr. Poyser, after pursuing his walk for a little while, went on, “I’ll be bound she’s gone after trying to get a lady’s maid’s place, for she’d got that in her head half a year ago, and wanted me to gi’ my consent.  But I’d thought better on her”—­he added, shaking his head slowly and sadly—­“I’d thought better on her, nor to look for this, after she’d gi’en y’ her word, an’ everything been got ready.”