“Well, I wish I had time to wait and see her, but I must get on.  I’ve been out of my way for the last twenty minutes to have a look at that place in the valley.  It’s Squire Donnithorne’s, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir, that’s Donnithorne Chase, that is.  Fine hoaks there, isn’t there, sir?  I should know what it is, sir, for I’ve lived butler there a-going i’ fifteen year.  It’s Captain Donnithorne as is th’ heir, sir—­Squire Donnithorne’s grandson.  He’ll be comin’ of hage this ‘ay-’arvest, sir, an’ we shall hev fine doin’s.  He owns all the land about here, sir, Squire Donnithorne does.”

“Well, it’s a pretty spot, whoever may own it,” said the traveller, mounting his horse; “and one meets some fine strapping fellows about too.  I met as fine a young fellow as ever I saw in my life, about half an hour ago, before I came up the hill—­a carpenter, a tall, broad-shouldered fellow with black hair and black eyes, marching along like a soldier.  We want such fellows as he to lick the French.”

“Aye, sir, that’s Adam Bede, that is, I’ll be bound—­Thias Bede’s son everybody knows him hereabout.  He’s an uncommon clever stiddy fellow, an’ wonderful strong.  Lord bless you, sir—­if you’ll hexcuse me for saying so—­he can walk forty mile a-day, an’ lift a matter o’ sixty ston’.  He’s an uncommon favourite wi’ the gentry, sir:  Captain Donnithorne and Parson Irwine meks a fine fuss wi’ him.  But he’s a little lifted up an’ peppery-like.”

“Well, good evening to you, landlord; I must get on.”

“Your servant, sir; good evenin’.”

The traveller put his horse into a quick walk up the village, but when he approached the Green, the beauty of the view that lay on his right hand, the singular contrast presented by the groups of villagers with the knot of Methodists near the maple, and perhaps yet more, curiosity to see the young female preacher, proved too much for his anxiety to get to the end of his journey, and he paused.

The Green lay at the extremity of the village, and from it the road branched off in two directions, one leading farther up the hill by the church, and the other winding gently down towards the valley.  On the side of the Green that led towards the church, the broken line of thatched cottages was continued nearly to the churchyard gate; but on the opposite northwestern side, there was nothing to obstruct the view of gently swelling meadow, and wooded valley, and dark masses of distant hill.  That rich undulating district of Loamshire to which Hayslope belonged lies close to a grim outskirt of Stonyshire, overlooked by its barren hills as a pretty blooming sister may sometimes be seen linked in the arm of a rugged, tall, swarthy brother; and in two or three hours’ ride the traveller might exchange a bleak treeless region, intersected by lines of cold grey stone, for one where his road wound under the shelter of woods, or up swelling hills, muffled with hedgerows and long