You perceive clearly what sort of picture Adam and Hetty made in the panorama of Arthur’s thoughts on his journey homeward.  It was March now; they were soon to be married:  perhaps they were already married.  And now it was actually in his power to do a great deal for them.  Sweet—­sweet little Hetty!  The little puss hadn’t cared for him half as much as he cared for her; for he was a great fool about her still—­was almost afraid of seeing her—­indeed, had not cared much to look at any other woman since he parted from her.  That little figure coming towards him in the Grove, those dark-fringed childish eyes, the lovely lips put up to kiss him—­that picture had got no fainter with the lapse of months.  And she would look just the same.  It was impossible to think how he could meet her:  he should certainly tremble.  Strange, how long this sort of influence lasts, for he was certainly not in love with Hetty now.  He had been earnestly desiring, for months, that she should marry Adam, and there was nothing that contributed more to his happiness in these moments than the thought of their marriage.  It was the exaggerating effect of imagination that made his heart still beat a little more quickly at the thought of her.  When he saw the little thing again as she really was, as Adam’s wife, at work quite prosaically in her new home, he should perhaps wonder at the possibility of his past feelings.  Thank heaven it had turned out so well!  He should have plenty of affairs and interests to fill his life now, and not be in danger of playing the fool again.

Pleasant the crack of the post-boy’s whip!  Pleasant the sense of being hurried along in swift ease through English scenes, so like those round his own home, only not quite so charming.  Here was a market-town—­very much like Treddleston—­where the arms of the neighbouring lord of the manor were borne on the sign of the principal inn; then mere fields and hedges, their vicinity to a market-town carrying an agreeable suggestion of high rent, till the land began to assume a trimmer look, the woods were more frequent, and at length a white or red mansion looked down from a moderate eminence, or allowed him to be aware of its parapet and chimneys among the dense-looking masses of oaks and elms—­masses reddened now with early buds.  And close at hand came the village:  the small church, with its red-tiled roof, looking humble even among the faded half-timbered houses; the old green gravestones with nettles round them; nothing fresh and bright but the children, opening round eyes at the swift post-chaise; nothing noisy and busy but the gaping curs of mysterious pedigree.  What a much prettier village Hayslope was!  And it should not be neglected like this place:  vigorous repairs should go on everywhere among farm-buildings and cottages, and travellers in post-chaises, coming along the Rosseter road, should do nothing but admire as they went.  And Adam Bede should superintend all the repairs, for he had a share in Burge’s