“But thee canstna be sure as the trembling means love?” said Adam anxiously.

“Eh, what else should it mane?  It isna hate, I reckon.  An’ what should she do but love thee?  Thee’t made to be loved—­for where’s there a straighter cliverer man?  An’ what’s it sinnify her bein’ a Methody?  It’s on’y the marigold i’ th’ parridge.”

Adam had thrust his hands in his pockets, and was looking down at the book on the table, without seeing any of the letters.  He was trembling like a gold-seeker who sees the strong promise of gold but sees in the same moment a sickening vision of disappointment.  He could not trust his mother’s insight; she had seen what she wished to see.  And yet—­and yet, now the suggestion had been made to him, he remembered so many things, very slight things, like the stirring of the water by an imperceptible breeze, which seemed to him some confirmation of his mother’s words.

Lisbeth noticed that he was moved.  She went on, “An’ thee’t find out as thee’t poorly aff when she’s gone.  Thee’t fonder on her nor thee know’st.  Thy eyes follow her about, welly as Gyp’s follow thee.”

Adam could sit still no longer.  He rose, took down his hat, and went out into the fields.

The sunshine was on them:  that early autumn sunshine which we should know was not summer’s, even if there were not the touches of yellow on the lime and chestnut; the Sunday sunshine too, which has more than autumnal calmness for the working man; the morning sunshine, which still leaves the dew-crystals on the fine gossamer webs in the shadow of the bushy hedgerows.

Adam needed the calm influence; he was amazed at the way in which this new thought of Dinah’s love had taken possession of him, with an overmastering power that made all other feelings give way before the impetuous desire to know that the thought was true.  Strange, that till that moment the possibility of their ever being lovers had never crossed his mind, and yet now, all his longing suddenly went out towards that possibility.  He had no more doubt or hesitation as to his own wishes than the bird that flies towards the opening through which the daylight gleams and the breath of heaven enters.

The autumnal Sunday sunshine soothed him, but not by preparing him with resignation to the disappointment if his mother—­if he himself—­proved to be mistaken about Dinah.  It soothed him by gentle encouragement of his hopes.  Her love was so like that calm sunshine that they seemed to make one presence to him, and he believed in them both alike.  And Dinah was so bound up with the sad memories of his first passion that he was not forsaking them, but rather giving them a new sacredness by loving her.  Nay, his love for her had grown out of that past:  it was the noon of that morning.