“that makes the time seem longer.”
“Eh, what am I to do wi’ burnin’ candle of a Sunday, when there’s on’y me an’ it’s sin to do a bit o’ knittin’? The daylight’s long enough for me to stare i’ the booke as I canna read. It ’ud be a fine way o’ shortenin’ the time, to make it waste the good candle. But which on you’s for ha’in’ supper? Ye mun ayther be clemmed or full, I should think, seein’ what time o’ night it is.”
“I’m hungry, Mother,” said Seth, seating himself at the little table, which had been spread ever since it was light.
“I’ve had my supper,” said Adam. “Here, Gyp,” he added, taking some cold potato from the table and rubbing the rough grey head that looked up towards him.
“Thee needstna be gi’in’ th’ dog,” said Lisbeth; “I’n fed him well a’ready. I’m not like to forget him, I reckon, when he’s all o’ thee I can get sight on.”
“Come, then, Gyp,” said Adam, “we’ll go to bed. Good-night, Mother; I’m very tired.”
“What ails him, dost know?” Lisbeth said to Seth, when Adam was gone upstairs. “He’s like as if he was struck for death this day or two—he’s so cast down. I found him i’ the shop this forenoon, arter thee wast gone, a-sittin’ an’ doin’ nothin’—not so much as a booke afore him.”
“He’s a deal o’ work upon him just now, Mother,” said Seth, “and I think he’s a bit troubled in his mind. Don’t you take notice of it, because it hurts him when you do. Be as kind to him as you can, Mother, and don’t say anything to vex him.”
“Eh, what dost talk o’ my vexin’ him? An’ what am I like to be but kind? I’ll ma’ him a kettle-cake for breakfast i’ the mornin’.”
Adam, meanwhile, was reading Dinah’s letter by the light of his dip candle.
Dear brother Seth—Your letter lay three days beyond my knowing of it at the post, for I had not money enough by me to pay the carriage, this being a time of great need and sickness here, with the rains that have fallen, as if the windows of heaven were opened again; and to lay by money, from day to day, in such a time, when there are so many in present need of all things, would be a want of trust like the laying up of the manna. I speak of this, because I would not have you think me slow to answer, or that I had small joy in your rejoicing at the worldly good that has befallen your brother Adam. The honour and love you bear him is nothing but meet, for God has given him great gifts, and he uses them as the patriarch Joseph did, who, when he was exalted to a place of power and trust, yet yearned with tenderness towards his parent and his younger brother.
“My heart is knit to your aged mother since it was granted me to be near her in the day of trouble. Speak to her of me, and tell her I often bear her in my thoughts at evening time, when I am sitting in the dim light as I did with her, and we held one another’s hands, and I spoke the words of comfort that were given to me. Ah, that is a blessed time, isn’t it, Seth, when the outward light is fading, and the body is a little wearied with its work and its labour. Then the inward light shines the brighter, and we have a deeper sense of resting on the Divine strength. I sit on my chair in the dark room and close my eyes, and it is as if I was out of the body and could feel no want for evermore. For then, the very hardship, and the sorrow, and the blindness, and the sin I have beheld and been ready to weep over—yea, all the anguish of the children of men, which sometimes wraps me round like sudden darkness—I can bear with a willing pain, as if I was sharing the Redeemer’s cross. For I feel it, I feel it—infinite love is suffering too—yea, in the fulness of knowledge it suffers, it yearns, it mourns; and that is a blind self-seeking which wants to be freed from the sorrow wherewith the whole creation groaneth and travaileth. Surely it is not true blessedness to be free from sorrow, while there is sorrow and sin in the world: sorrow is then a part of love, and love does not seek to throw it off. It is not the spirit only that tells me this—I see it in the whole work and word of the Gospel. Is there not pleading in heaven? Is not the Man of Sorrows there in that crucified body wherewith he ascended? And is He not one with the Infinite Love itself—as our love is one with our sorrow?
“These thoughts have been much borne in on me of late, and I have seen with new clearness the meaning of those words, ‘If any man love me, let him take up my cross.’ I have heard this enlarged on as if it meant the troubles and persecutions we bring on ourselves by confessing Jesus. But surely that is a narrow thought. The true cross of the Redeemer was the sin and sorrow of this world—that was what lay heavy on his heart—and that is the cross we shall share with him, that is the cup we must drink of with him, if we would have any part in that Divine Love which is one with his sorrow.
“In my outward lot, which you ask about, I have all things and abound. I have had constant work in the mill, though some of the other hands have been turned off for a time, and my body is greatly strengthened, so that I feel little weariness after long walking and speaking. What you say about staying in your own country with your mother and brother shows me that you have a true guidance; your lot is appointed there by a clear showing, and to seek a greater blessing elsewhere would be like laying a false offering on the altar and expecting the fire from heaven to kindle it. My work and my joy are here among the hills, and I sometimes think I cling too much to my life among the people here, and should be rebellious if I was called away.
“I was thankful for your tidings about the dear friends at the Hall Farm, for though I sent them a letter, by my aunt’s desire, after I came back from my sojourn among them, I have had no word from them. My aunt has not the pen of a ready writer, and the work of the house is sufficient for the day, for she is weak in body. My heart cleaves to her and her children as the nearest of all to me in the flesh—yea, and to all in that house. I am carried away to them continually in my sleep, and often in the midst of work, and even of speech, the thought of them is borne in on me as if they were in need and trouble, which yet is dark to me. There may be some leading here; but I wait to be taught. You say they are all well.
“We shall see each other again in the body, I trust, though, it may be, not for a long while; for the brethren and sisters at Leeds are desirous to have me for a short space among them, when I have a door opened me again to leave Snowfield.
“Farewell, dear brother—and yet not farewell. For those children of God whom it has been granted to see each other face to face, and to hold communion together, and to feel the same spirit working in both can never more be sundered though the hills may lie between. For their souls are enlarged for evermore by that union, and they bear one another about in their thoughts continually as it were a new strength.—Your faithful Sister and fellow-worker in Christ,
“Dinah Morris.”
“I have not skill to write the words so small as you do and my pen moves slow. And so I am straitened, and say but little of what is in my mind. Greet your mother for me with a kiss. She asked me to kiss her twice when we parted.”
Adam had refolded the letter, and was sitting meditatively with his head resting on his arm at the head of the bed, when Seth came upstairs.
“Hast read the letter?” said Seth.
“Yes,” said Adam. “I don’t know what I should ha’ thought of her and her letter if I’d never seen her: I daresay I should ha’ thought a preaching woman hateful. But she’s one as makes everything seem right she says and does, and I seemed to see her and hear her speaking when I read the letter. It’s wonderful how I remember her looks and her voice. She’d make thee rare and happy, Seth; she’s just the woman for thee.”
“It’s no use thinking o’ that,” said Seth, despondingly. “She spoke so firm, and she’s not the woman to say one thing and mean another.”
“Nay, but her feelings may grow different. A woman may get to love by degrees—the best fire dosna flare up the soonest. I’d have thee go and see her by and by: I’d make it convenient for thee to be away three or four days, and it ’ud be no walk for thee—only between twenty and thirty mile.”
“I should