you won’t be there yourself any longer?” he said to Dinah.
“No, I go back to Snowfield on Saturday, and I shall have to set out to Treddleston early, to be in time for the Oakbourne carrier. So I must go back to the farm to-night, that I may have the last day with my aunt and her children. But I can stay here all to-day, if your mother would like me; and her heart seemed inclined towards me last night.”
“Ah, then, she’s sure to want you to-day. If mother takes to people at the beginning, she’s sure to get fond of ’em; but she’s a strange way of not liking young women. Though, to be sure,” Adam went on, smiling, “her not liking other young women is no reason why she shouldn’t like you.”
Hitherto Gyp had been assisting at this conversation in motionless silence, seated on his haunches, and alternately looking up in his master’s face to watch its expression and observing Dinah’s movements about the kitchen. The kind smile with which Adam uttered the last words was apparently decisive with Gyp of the light in which the stranger was to be regarded, and as she turned round after putting aside her sweeping-brush, he trotted towards her and put up his muzzle against her hand in a friendly way.
“You see Gyp bids you welcome,” said Adam, “and he’s very slow to welcome strangers.”
“Poor dog!” said Dinah, patting the rough grey coat, “I’ve a strange feeling about the dumb things as if they wanted to speak, and it was a trouble to ’em because they couldn’t. I can’t help being sorry for the dogs always, though perhaps there’s no need. But they may well have more in them than they know how to make us understand, for we can’t say half what we feel, with all our words.”
Seth came down now, and was pleased to find Adam talking with Dinah; he wanted Adam to know how much better she was than all other women. But after a few words of greeting, Adam drew him into the workshop to consult about the coffin, and Dinah went on with her cleaning.
By six o’clock they were all at breakfast with Lisbeth in a kitchen as clean as she could have made it herself. The window and door were open, and the morning air brought with it a mingled scent of southernwood, thyme, and sweet-briar from the patch of garden by the side of the cottage. Dinah did not sit down at first, but moved about, serving the others with the warm porridge and the toasted oat-cake, which she had got ready in the usual way, for she had asked Seth to tell her just what his mother gave them for breakfast. Lisbeth had been unusually silent since she came downstairs, apparently requiring some time to adjust her ideas to a state of things in which she came down like a lady to find all the work done, and sat still to be waited on. Her new sensations seemed to exclude the remembrance of her grief. At last, after tasting the porridge, she broke silence:
“Ye might ha’ made the parridge worse,” she said to Dinah; “I can ate it wi’out its turnin’ my stomach. It might ha’ been a trifle thicker an’ no harm, an’ I allays putten a sprig o’ mint in mysen; but how’s ye t’ know that? The lads arena like to get folks as ’ll make their parridge as I’n made it for ’em; it’s well if they get onybody as ’ll make parridge at all. But ye might do, wi’ a bit o’ showin’; for ye’re a stirrin’ body in a mornin’, an’ ye’ve a light heel, an’ ye’ve cleaned th’ house well enough for a ma’shift.”
“Makeshift, mother?” said Adam. “Why, I think the house looks beautiful. I don’t know how it could look better.”
“Thee dostna know? Nay; how’s thee to know? Th’ men ne’er know whether the floor’s cleaned or cat-licked. But thee’lt know when thee gets thy parridge burnt, as it’s like enough to be when I’n gi’en o’er makin’ it. Thee’lt think thy mother war good for summat then.”
“Dinah,” said Seth, “do come and sit down now and have your breakfast. We’re all served now.”
“Aye, come an’ sit ye down—do,” said Lisbeth, “an’ ate a morsel; ye’d need, arter bein’ upo’ your legs this hour an’ half a’ready. Come, then,” she added, in a tone of complaining affection, as Dinah sat down by her side, “I’ll be loath for ye t’ go, but ye canna stay much longer, I doubt. I could put up wi’ ye i’ th’ house better nor wi’ most folks.”
“I’ll stay till to-night if you’re willing,” said Dinah. “I’d stay longer, only I’m going back to Snowfield on Saturday, and I must be with my aunt to-morrow.”
“Eh, I’d ne’er go back to that country. My old man come from that Stonyshire side, but he left it when he war a young un, an’ i’ the right on’t too; for he said as there war no wood there, an’ it ’ud ha’ been a bad country for a carpenter.”
“Ah,” said Adam, “I remember father telling me when I was a little lad that he made up his mind if ever he moved it should be south’ard. But I’m not so sure about it. Bartle Massey says—and he knows the South—as the northern men are a finer breed than the southern, harder-headed and stronger-bodied, and a deal taller. And then he says in some o’ those counties it’s as flat as the back o’ your hand, and you can see nothing of a distance without climbing up the highest trees. I couldn’t abide that. I like to go to work by a road that’ll take me up a bit of a hill, and see the fields for miles round me, and a bridge, or a town, or a bit of a steeple here and there. It makes you feel the world’s a big place, and there’s other men working in it with their heads and hands besides yourself.”
“I like th’ hills best,” said Seth, “when the clouds are over your head and you see the sun shining ever so far off, over the Loamford way, as I’ve often done o’ late, on the stormy days. It seems to me as if that was heaven where there’s always joy and sunshine, though this life’s dark and cloudy.”
“Oh, I love the Stonyshire side,” said Dinah; “I shouldn’t like to set my face towards the countries where they’re rich in corn and cattle, and the ground so level and easy to tread; and to turn my back on the hills where the poor people have to live such a hard life and the men spend their days in the mines away from the sunlight. It’s very blessed on a bleak cold day, when the sky is hanging dark over the hill, to feel the love of God in one’s soul, and carry it to the lonely, bare, stone houses, where there’s nothing else to give comfort.”
“Eh!” said Lisbeth, “that’s very well for ye to talk, as looks welly like the snowdrop-flowers as ha’ lived for days an’ days when I’n gethered ’em, wi’ nothin’ but a drop o’ water an’ a peep o’ daylight; but th’ hungry foulks had better leave th’ hungry country. It makes less mouths for the scant cake. But,” she went on, looking at Adam, “donna thee talk o’ goin’ south’ard or north’ard, an’ leavin’ thy feyther and mother i’ the churchyard, an’ goin’ to a country as they know nothin’ on. I’ll ne’er rest i’ my grave if I donna see thee i’ the churchyard of a Sunday.”
“Donna fear, mother,” said Adam. “If I hadna made up my mind not to go, I should ha’ been gone before now.”
He had finished his breakfast now, and rose as he was speaking.
“What art goin’ to do?” asked Lisbeth. “Set about thy feyther’s coffin?”
“No, mother,” said Adam; “we’re going to take the wood to the village and have it made there.”
“Nay, my lad, nay,” Lisbeth burst out in an eager, wailing tone; “thee wotna let nobody make thy feyther’s coffin but thysen? Who’d make it so well? An’ him as know’d what good work war, an’s got a son as is the head o’ the village an’ all Treddles’on too, for cleverness.”
“Very well, mother, if that’s thy wish, I’ll make the coffin at home; but I thought thee wouldstna like to hear the work going on.”
“An’ why shouldna I like ’t? It’s the right thing to be done. An’ what’s liking got to do wi’t? It’s choice o’ mislikings is all I’n got i’ this world. One morsel’s as good as another when your mouth’s out o’ taste. Thee mun set about it now this mornin’ fust thing. I wonna ha’ nobody to touch the coffin but thee.”
Adam’s eyes met