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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.”

      “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.

      But Seth? Would the lad be hurt? Hardly; for he had seemed quite contented of late, and there was no selfish jealousy in him; he had never been jealous of his mother’s fondness for Adam. But had he seen anything of what their mother talked about? Adam longed to know this, for he thought he could trust Seth’s observation better than his mother’s. He must talk to Seth before he went to see Dinah, and, with this intention in his mind, he walked back to the cottage and said to his mother, “Did Seth say anything to thee about when he was coming home? Will he be back to dinner?”

      “Aye, lad, he’ll be back for a wonder. He isna gone to Treddles’on. He’s gone somewhere else a-preachin’ and a-prayin’.”

      “Hast any notion which way he’s gone?” said Adam.

      “Nay, but he aften goes to th’ Common. Thee know’st more o’s goings nor I do.”

      Adam wanted to go and meet Seth, but he must content himself with walking about the near fields and getting sight of him as soon as possible. That would not be for more than an hour to come, for Seth would scarcely be at home much before their dinner-time, which was twelve o’clock. But Adam could not sit down to his reading again, and he sauntered along by the brook and stood leaning against the stiles, with eager intense eyes, which looked as if they saw something very vividly; but it was not the brook or the willows, not the fields or the sky. Again and again his vision was interrupted by wonder at the strength of his own feeling, at the strength and sweetness of this new love—almost like the wonder a man feels at the added power he finds in himself for an art which he had laid aside for a space. How is it that the poets have said so many fine things about our first love, so few about our later love? Are their first poems their best? Or are not those the best which come from their fuller thought, their larger experience, their deeper-rooted affections? The boy’s flutelike voice has its own spring charm; but the man should yield a richer deeper music.

      At last, there was Seth, visible at the farthest stile, and Adam hastened to meet him. Seth was surprised, and thought something unusual must have happened, but when Adam came up, his face said plainly enough that it was nothing alarming.

      “Where hast been?” said Adam, when they were side by side.

      “I’ve been to the Common,” said Seth. “Dinah’s been speaking the Word to a little company of hearers at Brimstone’s, as they call him. They’re folks as never go to church hardly—them on the Common—but they’ll go and hear Dinah a bit. She’s been speaking with power this forenoon from the words, ‘I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.’ And there was a little thing happened as was pretty to see. The women mostly bring their children with ’em, but to-day there was one stout curly headed fellow about three or four year old, that I never saw there before. He was as naughty as could be at the beginning while I was praying, and while we was singing, but when we all sat down and Dinah began to speak, th’ young un stood stock still all at once, and began to look at her with’s mouth open, and presently he ran away from’s mother and went to Dinah, and pulled at her, like a little dog, for her to take notice of him. So Dinah lifted him up and held th’ lad on her lap, while she went on speaking; and he was as good as could be till he went to sleep—and the mother cried to see him.”

      “It’s a pity she shouldna be a mother herself,” said Adam, “so fond as the children are of her. Dost think she’s quite fixed against marrying, Seth? Dost think nothing ’ud turn her?”

      There was something peculiar in his brother’s tone, which made Seth steal a glance at his face before he answered.

      “It ’ud be wrong of me to say nothing ’ud turn her,” he answered. “But if thee mean’st it about myself, I’ve given up all thoughts as she can ever be my wife. She calls me her brother, and that’s enough.”

      “But dost think she might ever get fond enough of anybody else to be willing to marry ’em?” said Adam rather shyly.

      “Well,” said Seth, after some hesitation, “it’s crossed my mind sometimes o’ late as she might; but Dinah ’ud let no fondness for the creature draw her out o’ the path as she believed God had marked out for her. If she thought the leading was not from Him, she’s not one to be brought under the power of it. And she’s allays seemed clear about that—as her work was to minister t’ others, and make no home for herself i’ this world.”