say, “Why, Mother, thee look’st rare and hearty this morning.  Eh, Gyp wants me t’ look at him.  He can’t abide to think I love thee the best.”  Lisbeth said nothing, because she wanted to say so many things.  And now there was a new leaf to be turned over, and it was a picture—­that of the angel seated on the great stone that has been rolled away from the sepulchre.  This picture had one strong association in Lisbeth’s memory, for she had been reminded of it when she first saw Dinah, and Adam had no sooner turned the page, and lifted the book sideways that they might look at the angel, than she said, “That’s her—­that’s Dinah.”

Adam smiled, and, looking more intently at the angel’s face, said, “It is a bit like her; but Dinah’s prettier, I think.”

“Well, then, if thee think’st her so pretty, why arn’t fond on her?”

Adam looked up in surprise.  “Why, Mother, dost think I don’t set store by Dinah?”

“Nay,” said Lisbeth, frightened at her own courage, yet feeling that she had broken the ice, and the waters must flow, whatever mischief they might do.  “What’s th’ use o’ settin’ store by things as are thirty mile off?  If thee wast fond enough on her, thee wouldstna let her go away.”

“But I’ve no right t’ hinder her, if she thinks well,” said Adam, looking at his book as if he wanted to go on reading.  He foresaw a series of complaints tending to nothing.  Lisbeth sat down again in the chair opposite to him, as she said: 

“But she wouldna think well if thee wastna so contrairy.”  Lisbeth dared not venture beyond a vague phrase yet.

“Contrairy, mother?” Adam said, looking up again in some anxiety.  “What have I done?  What dost mean?”

“Why, thee’t never look at nothin’, nor think o’ nothin’, but thy figurin, an’ thy work,” said Lisbeth, half-crying.  “An’ dost think thee canst go on so all thy life, as if thee wast a man cut out o’ timber?  An’ what wut do when thy mother’s gone, an’ nobody to take care on thee as thee gett’st a bit o’ victual comfortable i’ the mornin’?”

“What hast got i’ thy mind, Mother?” said Adam, vexed at this whimpering.  “I canna see what thee’t driving at.  Is there anything I could do for thee as I don’t do?”

“Aye, an’ that there is.  Thee might’st do as I should ha’ somebody wi’ me to comfort me a bit, an’ wait on me when I’m bad, an’ be good to me.”

“Well, Mother, whose fault is it there isna some tidy body i’ th’ house t’ help thee?  It isna by my wish as thee hast a stroke o’ work to do.  We can afford it—­I’ve told thee often enough.  It ’ud be a deal better for us.”

“Eh, what’s the use o’ talking o’ tidy bodies, when thee mean’st one o’ th’ wenches out o’ th’ village, or somebody from Treddles’on as I ne’er set eyes on i’ my life?  I’d sooner make a shift an’ get into my own coffin afore I die, nor ha’ them folks to put me in.”

Adam was silent, and tried to go on reading.  That was the utmost severity he could show towards his mother on a Sunday morning.  But Lisbeth had gone too far now to check herself, and after scarcely a minute’s quietness she began again.