Seth’s eyes were red, and there was a look of deep depression on his mild face.

“Yes, Addy, but it’s what must be borne, and can’t be helped.  Why, thee’st never been to the school, then?”

“School?  No, that screw can wait,” said Adam, hammering away again.

“Let me take my turn now, and do thee go to bed,” said Seth.

“No, lad, I’d rather go on, now I’m in harness.  Thee’t help me to carry it to Brox’on when it’s done.  I’ll call thee up at sunrise.  Go and eat thy supper, and shut the door so as I mayn’t hear Mother’s talk.”

Seth knew that Adam always meant what he said, and was not to be persuaded into meaning anything else.  So he turned, with rather a heavy heart, into the house-place.

“Adam’s niver touched a bit o’ victual sin’ home he’s come,” said Lisbeth.  “I reckon thee’st hed thy supper at some o’ thy Methody folks.”

“Nay, Mother,” said Seth, “I’ve had no supper yet.”

“Come, then,” said Lisbeth, “but donna thee ate the taters, for Adam ’ull happen ate ’em if I leave ’em stannin’.  He loves a bit o’ taters an’ gravy.  But he’s been so sore an’ angered, he wouldn’t ate ’em, for all I’d putten ’em by o’ purpose for him.  An’ he’s been a-threatenin’ to go away again,” she went on, whimpering, “an’ I’m fast sure he’ll go some dawnin’ afore I’m up, an’ niver let me know aforehand, an’ he’ll niver come back again when once he’s gone.  An’ I’d better niver ha’ had a son, as is like no other body’s son for the deftness an’ th’ handiness, an’ so looked on by th’ grit folks, an’ tall an’ upright like a poplar-tree, an’ me to be parted from him an’ niver see ’m no more.”

“Come, Mother, donna grieve thyself in vain,” said Seth, in a soothing voice.  “Thee’st not half so good reason to think as Adam ’ull go away as to think he’ll stay with thee.  He may say such a thing when he’s in wrath—­and he’s got excuse for being wrathful sometimes—­but his heart ’ud never let him go.  Think how he’s stood by us all when it’s been none so easy—­paying his savings to free me from going for a soldier, an’ turnin’ his earnin’s into wood for father, when he’s got plenty o’ uses for his money, and many a young man like him ‘ud ha’ been married and settled before now.  He’ll never turn round and knock down his own work, and forsake them as it’s been the labour of his life to stand by.”

“Donna talk to me about’s marr’in’,” said Lisbeth, crying afresh.  “He’s set’s heart on that Hetty Sorrel, as ‘ull niver save a penny, an’ ’ull toss up her head at’s old mother.  An’ to think as he might ha’ Mary Burge, an’ be took partners, an’ be a big man wi’ workmen under him, like Mester Burge—­Dolly’s told me so o’er and o’er again—­if it warna as he’s set’s heart on that bit of a wench, as is o’ no more use nor the gillyflower on the wall.  An’ he so wise at bookin’ an’ figurin’, an’ not to know no better nor that!”