“Thee mightst know well enough who ‘tis I’d like t’ ha’ wi’ me.  It isna many folks I send for t’ come an’ see me.  I reckon.  An’ thee’st had the fetchin’ on her times enow.”

“Thee mean’st Dinah, Mother, I know,” said Adam.  “But it’s no use setting thy mind on what can’t be.  If Dinah ’ud be willing to stay at Hayslope, it isn’t likely she can come away from her aunt’s house, where they hold her like a daughter, and where she’s more bound than she is to us.  If it had been so that she could ha’ married Seth, that ‘ud ha’ been a great blessing to us, but we can’t have things just as we like in this life.  Thee must try and make up thy mind to do without her.”

“Nay, but I canna ma’ up my mind, when she’s just cut out for thee; an’ nought shall ma’ me believe as God didna make her an’ send her there o’ purpose for thee.  What’s it sinnify about her bein’ a Methody!  It ’ud happen wear out on her wi’ marryin’.”

Adam threw himself back in his chair and looked at his mother.  He understood now what she had been aiming at from the beginning of the conversation.  It was as unreasonable, impracticable a wish as she had ever urged, but he could not help being moved by so entirely new an idea.  The chief point, however, was to chase away the notion from his mother’s mind as quickly as possible.

“Mother,” he said, gravely, “thee’t talking wild.  Don’t let me hear thee say such things again.  It’s no good talking o’ what can never be.  Dinah’s not for marrying; she’s fixed her heart on a different sort o’ life.”

“Very like,” said Lisbeth, impatiently, “very like she’s none for marr’ing, when them as she’d be willin’ t’ marry wonna ax her.  I shouldna ha’ been for marr’ing thy feyther if he’d ne’er axed me; an’ she’s as fond o’ thee as e’er I war o’ Thias, poor fellow.”

The blood rushed to Adam’s face, and for a few moments he was not quite conscious where he was.  His mother and the kitchen had vanished for him, and he saw nothing but Dinah’s face turned up towards his.  It seemed as if there were a resurrection of his dead joy.  But he woke up very speedily from that dream (the waking was chill and sad), for it would have been very foolish in him to believe his mother’s words—­she could have no ground for them.  He was prompted to express his disbelief very strongly—­perhaps that he might call forth the proofs, if there were any to be offered.

“What dost say such things for, Mother, when thee’st got no foundation for ’em?  Thee know’st nothing as gives thee a right to say that.”

“Then I knowna nought as gi’es me a right to say as the year’s turned, for all I feel it fust thing when I get up i’ th’ morning.  She isna fond o’ Seth, I reckon, is she?  She doesna want to marry him?  But I can see as she doesna behave tow’rt thee as she daes tow’rt Seth.  She makes no more o’ Seth’s coming a-nigh her nor if he war Gyp, but she’s all of a tremble when thee’t a-sittin’ down by her at breakfast an’ a-looking at her.  Thee think’st thy mother knows nought, but she war alive afore thee wast born.”