Chapter XVI

by George Eliot

　　It was a bright autumn Sunday, sixteen years after Silas Marner hadfound his new treasure on the hearth. The bells of the old Raveloechurch were ringing the cheerful peal which told that the morningservice was ended; and out of the arched doorway in the tower cameslowly, retarded by friendly greetings and questions, the richerparishioners who had chosen this bright Sunday morning as eligiblefor church-going. It was the rural fashion of that time for themore important members of the congregation to depart first, whiletheir humbler neighbours waited and looked on, stroking their bentheads or dropping their curtsies to any large ratepayer who turnedto notice them.Foremost among these advancing groups of well-clad people, there aresome whom we shall recognize, in spite of Time, who has laid hishand on them all. The tall blond man of forty is not much changedin feature from the Godfrey Cass of six-and-twenty: he is onlyfuller in flesh, and has only lost the indefinable look of youth--a loss which is marked even when the eye is undulled and thewrinkles are not yet come. Perhaps the pretty woman, not muchyounger than he, who is leaning on his arm, is more changed than herhusband: the lovely bloom that used to be always on her cheek nowcomes but fitfully, with the fresh morning air or with some strongsurprise; yet to all who love human faces best for what they tell ofhuman experience, Nancy's beauty has a heightened interest. Oftenthe soul is ripened into fuller goodness while age has spread anugly film, so that mere glances can never divine the preciousness ofthe fruit. But the years have not been so cruel to Nancy. The firmyet placid mouth, the clear veracious glance of the brown eyes,speak now of a nature that has been tested and has kept its highestqualities; and even the costume, with its dainty neatness andpurity, has more significance now the coquetries of youth can havenothing to do with it.Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey Cass (any higher title has died away fromRaveloe lips since the old Squire was gathered to his fathers andhis inheritance was divided) have turned round to look for the tallaged man and the plainly dressed woman who are a little behind--Nancy having observed that they must wait for "father andPriscilla"--and now they all turn into a narrower path leadingacross the churchyard to a small gate opposite the Red House. Wewill not follow them now; for may there not be some others in thisdeparting congregation whom we should like to see again--some ofthose who are not likely to be handsomely clad, and whom we may notrecognize so easily as the master and mistress of the Red House?But it is impossible to mistake Silas Marner. His large brown eyesseem to have gathered a longer vision, as is the way with eyes thathave been short-sighted in early life, and they have a less vague, amore answering gaze; but in everything else one sees signs of aframe much enfeebled by the lapse of the sixteen years. Theweaver's bent shoulders and white hair give him almost the look ofadvanced age, though he is not more than five-and-fifty; but thereis the freshest blossom of youth close by his side--a blondedimpled girl of eighteen, who has vainly tried to chastise her curlyauburn hair into smoothness under her brown bonnet: the hair ripplesas obstinately as a brooklet under the March breeze, and the littleringlets burst away from the restraining comb behind and showthemselves below the bonnet-crown. Eppie cannot help being rathervexed about her hair, for there is no other girl in Raveloe who hashair at all like it, and she thinks hair ought to be smooth. Shedoes not like to be blameworthy even in small things: you see howneatly her prayer-book is folded in her spotted handkerchief.That good-looking young fellow, in a new fustian suit, who walksbehind her, is not quite sure upon the question of hair in theabstract, when Eppie puts it to him, and thinks that perhapsstraight hair is the best in general, but he doesn't want Eppie'shair to be different. She surely divines that there is some onebehind her who is thinking about her very particularly, andmustering courage to come to her side as soon as they are out in thelane, else why should she look rather shy, and take care not to turnaway her head from her father Silas, to whom she keeps murmuringlittle sentences as to who was at church and who was not at church,and how pretty the red mountain-ash is over the Rectory wall?"I wish we had a little garden, father, with double daisies in,like Mrs. Winthrop's," said Eppie, when they were out in the lane;"only they say it 'ud take a deal of digging and bringing freshsoil--and you couldn't do that, could you, father? Anyhow, Ishouldn't like you to do it, for it 'ud be too hard work for you.""Yes, I could do it, child, if you want a bit o' garden: these longevenings, I could work at taking in a little bit o' the waste, justenough for a root or two o' flowers for you; and again, i' themorning, I could have a turn wi' the spade before I sat down to theloom. Why didn't you tell me before as you wanted a bit o'garden?""I can dig it for you, Master Marner," said the young man infustian, who was now by Eppie's side, entering into the conversationwithout the trouble of formalities. "It'll be play to me afterI've done my day's work, or any odd bits o' time when the work'sslack. And I'll bring you some soil from Mr. Cass's garden--he'lllet me, and willing.""Eh, Aaron, my lad, are you there?" said Silas; "I wasn't awareof you; for when Eppie's talking o' things, I see nothing but whatshe's a-saying. Well, if you could help me with the digging, wemight get her a bit o' garden all the sooner.""Then, if you think well and good," said Aaron, "I'll come to theStone-pits this afternoon, and we'll settle what land's to be takenin, and I'll get up an hour earlier i' the morning, and begin onit.""But not if you don't promise me not to work at the hard digging,father," said Eppie. "For I shouldn't ha' said anything aboutit," she added, half-bashfully, half-roguishly, "onlyMrs. Winthrop said as Aaron 'ud be so good, and --""And you might ha' known it without mother telling you," saidAaron. "And Master Marner knows too, I hope, as I'm able andwilling to do a turn o' work for him, and he won't do me theunkindness to anyways take it out o' my hands.""There, now, father, you won't work in it till it's all easy,"said Eppie, "and you and me can mark out the beds, and make holesand plant the roots. It'll be a deal livelier at the Stone-pitswhen we've got some flowers, for I always think the flowers can seeus and know what we're talking about. And I'll have a bit o'rosemary, and bergamot, and thyme, because they're sosweet-smelling; but there's no lavender only in the gentlefolks'gardens, I think.""That's no reason why you shouldn't have some," said Aaron, "forI can bring you slips of anything; I'm forced to cut no end of 'emwhen I'm gardening, and throw 'em away mostly. There's a big bed o'lavender at the Red House: the missis is very fond of it.""Well," said Silas, gravely, "so as you don't make free for us,or ask for anything as is worth much at the Red House: forMr. Cass's been so good to us, and built us up the new end o' thecottage, and given us beds and things, as I couldn't abide to beimposin' for garden-stuff or anything else.""No, no, there's no imposin'," said Aaron; "there's never agarden in all the parish but what there's endless waste in it forwant o' somebody as could use everything up. It's what I think tomyself sometimes, as there need nobody run short o' victuals if theland was made the most on, and there was never a morsel but whatcould find its way to a mouth. It sets one thinking o' that--gardening does. But I must go back now, else mother 'ull be introuble as I aren't there.""Bring her with you this afternoon, Aaron," said Eppie; "Ishouldn't like to fix about the garden, and her not know everythingfrom the first--should you, father?""Aye, bring her if you can, Aaron," said Silas; "she's sure tohave a word to say as'll help us to set things on their right end."Aaron turned back up the village, while Silas and Eppie went on upthe lonely sheltered lane."O daddy!" she began, when they were in privacy, clasping andsqueezing Silas's arm, and skipping round to give him an energetickiss. "My little old daddy! I'm so glad. I don't think I shallwant anything else when we've got a little garden; and I knew Aaronwould dig it for us," she went on with roguish triumph--"I knewthat very well.""You're a deep little puss, you are," said Silas, with the mildpassive happiness of love-crowned age in his face; "but you'll makeyourself fine and beholden to Aaron.""Oh, no, I shan't," said Eppie, laughing and frisking; "he likesit.""Come, come, let me carry your prayer-book, else you'll be droppingit, jumping i' that way."Eppie was now aware that her behaviour was under observation, but itwas only the observation of a friendly donkey, browsing with a logfastened to his foot--a meek donkey, not scornfully critical ofhuman trivialities, but thankful to share in them, if possible, bygetting his nose scratched; and Eppie did not fail to gratify himwith her usual notice, though it was attended with the inconvenienceof his following them, painfully, up to the very door of their home.But the sound of a sharp bark inside, as Eppie put the key in thedoor, modified the donkey's views, and he limped away again withoutbidding. The sharp bark was the sign of an excited welcome that wasawaiting them from a knowing brown terrier, who, after dancing attheir legs in a hysterical manner, rushed with a worrying noise at atortoise-shell kitten under the loom, and then rushed back with asharp bark again, as much as to say, "I have done my duty by thisfeeble creature, you perceive"; while the lady-mother of the kittensat sunning her white bosom in the window, and looked round with asleepy air of expecting caresses, though she was not going to takeany trouble for them.The presence of this happy animal life was not the only change whichhad come over the interior of the stone cottage. There was no bednow in the living-room, and the small space was well filled withdecent furniture, all bright and clean enough to satisfy DollyWinthrop's eye. The oaken table and three-cornered oaken chair werehardly what was likely to be seen in so poor a cottage: they hadcome, with the beds and other things, from the Red House; forMr. Godfrey Cass, as every one said in the village, did very kindlyby the weaver; and it was nothing but right a man should be lookedon and helped by those who could afford it, when he had brought upan orphan child, and been father and mother to her--and had losthis money too, so as he had nothing but what he worked for week byweek, and when the weaving was going down too--for there was lessand less flax spun--and Master Marner was none so young. Nobodywas jealous of the weaver, for he was regarded as an exceptionalperson, whose claims on neighbourly help were not to be matched inRaveloe. Any superstition that remained concerning him had taken anentirely new colour; and Mr. Macey, now a very feeble old man offourscore and six, never seen except in his chimney-corner orsitting in the sunshine at his door-sill, was of opinion that when aman had done what Silas had done by an orphan child, it was a signthat his money would come to light again, or leastwise that therobber would be made to answer for it--for, as Mr. Macey observedof himself, his faculties were as strong as ever.Silas sat down now and watched Eppie with a satisfied gaze as shespread the clean cloth, and set on it the potato-pie, warmed upslowly in a safe Sunday fashion, by being put into a dry pot over aslowly-dying fire, as the best substitute for an oven. For Silaswould not consent to have a grate and oven added to hisconveniences: he loved the old brick hearth as he had loved hisbrown pot--and was it not there when he had found Eppie? The godsof the hearth exist for us still; and let all new faith be tolerantof that fetishism, lest it bruise its own roots.Silas ate his dinner more silently than usual, soon laying down hisknife and fork, and watching half-abstractedly Eppie's play withSnap and the cat, by which her own dining was made rather a lengthybusiness. Yet it was a sight that might well arrest wanderingthoughts: Eppie, with the rippling radiance of her hair and thewhiteness of her rounded chin and throat set off by the dark-bluecotton gown, laughing merrily as the kitten held on with her fourclaws to one shoulder, like a design for a jug-handle, while Snap onthe right hand and Puss on the other put up their paws towards amorsel which she held out of the reach of both--Snap occasionallydesisting in order to remonstrate with the cat by a cogent worryinggrowl on the greediness and futility of her conduct; till Eppierelented, caressed them both, and divided the morsel between them.But at last Eppie, glancing at the clock, checked the play, andsaid, "O daddy, you're wanting to go into the sunshine to smokeyour pipe. But I must clear away first, so as the house may be tidywhen godmother comes. I'll make haste--I won't be long."Silas had taken to smoking a pipe daily during the last two years,having been strongly urged to it by the sages of Raveloe, as apractice "good for the fits"; and this advice was sanctioned byDr. Kimble, on the ground that it was as well to try what could dono harm--a principle which was made to answer for a great deal ofwork in that gentleman's medical practice. Silas did not highlyenjoy smoking, and often wondered how his neighbours could be sofond of it; but a humble sort of acquiescence in what was held to begood, had become a strong habit of that new self which had beendeveloped in him since he had found Eppie on his hearth: it had beenthe only clew his bewildered mind could hold by in cherishing thisyoung life that had been sent to him out of the darkness into whichhis gold had departed. By seeking what was needful for Eppie, bysharing the effect that everything produced on her, he had himselfcome to appropriate the forms of custom and belief which were themould of Raveloe life; and as, with reawakening sensibilities,memory also reawakened, he had begun to ponder over the elements ofhis old faith, and blend them with his new impressions, till herecovered a consciousness of unity between his past and present.The sense of presiding goodness and the human trust which come withall pure peace and joy, had given him a dim impression that therehad been some error, some mistake, which had thrown that dark shadowover the days of his best years; and as it grew more and more easyto him to open his mind to Dolly Winthrop, he gradually communicatedto her all he could describe of his early life. The communicationwas necessarily a slow and difficult process, for Silas's meagrepower of explanation was not aided by any readiness ofinterpretation in Dolly, whose narrow outward experience gave her nokey to strange customs, and made every novelty a source of wonderthat arrested them at every step of the narrative. It was only byfragments, and at intervals which left Dolly time to revolve whatshe had heard till it acquired some familiarity for her, that Silasat last arrived at the climax of the sad story--the drawing oflots, and its false testimony concerning him; and this had to berepeated in several interviews, under new questions on her part asto the nature of this plan for detecting the guilty and clearing theinnocent."And yourn's the same Bible, you're sure o' that, Master Marner--the Bible as you brought wi' you from that country--it's the sameas what they've got at church, and what Eppie's a-learning to readin?""Yes," said Silas, "every bit the same; and there's drawing o'lots in the Bible, mind you," he added in a lower tone."Oh, dear, dear," said Dolly in a grieved voice, as if she werehearing an unfavourable report of a sick man's case. She was silentfor some minutes; at last she said--"There's wise folks, happen, as know how it all is; the parsonknows, I'll be bound; but it takes big words to tell them things,and such as poor folks can't make much out on. I can never rightlyknow the meaning o' what I hear at church, only a bit here andthere, but I know it's good words--I do. But what lies upo' yourmind--it's this, Master Marner: as, if Them above had done theright thing by you, They'd never ha' let you be turned out for awicked thief when you was innicent.""Ah!" said Silas, who had now come to understand Dolly'sphraseology, "that was what fell on me like as if it had beenred-hot iron; because, you see, there was nobody as cared for me orclave to me above nor below. And him as I'd gone out and in wi' forten year and more, since when we was lads and went halves--mineown familiar friend in whom I trusted, had lifted up his heel again'me, and worked to ruin me.""Eh, but he was a bad un--I can't think as there's anothersuch," said Dolly. "But I'm o'ercome, Master Marner; I'm like asif I'd waked and didn't know whether it was night or morning.I feel somehow as sure as I do when I've laid something up though Ican't justly put my hand on it, as there was a rights in whathappened to you, if one could but make it out; and you'd no call tolose heart as you did. But we'll talk on it again; for sometimesthings come into my head when I'm leeching or poulticing, or such,as I could never think on when I was sitting still."Dolly was too useful a woman not to have many opportunities ofillumination of the kind she alluded to, and she was not long beforeshe recurred to the subject."Master Marner," she said, one day that she came to bring homeEppie's washing, "I've been sore puzzled for a good bit wi' thattrouble o' yourn and the drawing o' lots; and it got twistedback'ards and for'ards, as I didn't know which end to lay hold on.But it come to me all clear like, that night when I was sitting upwi' poor Bessy Fawkes, as is dead and left her children behind, Godhelp 'em--it come to me as clear as daylight; but whether I've gothold on it now, or can anyways bring it to my tongue's end, that Idon't know. For I've often a deal inside me as'll never come out;and for what you talk o' your folks in your old country niver sayingprayers by heart nor saying 'em out of a book, they must bewonderful cliver; for if I didn't know "Our Father", and little bitso' good words as I can carry out o' church wi' me, I might down o'my knees every night, but nothing could I say.""But you can mostly say something as I can make sense on,Mrs. Winthrop," said Silas."Well, then, Master Marner, it come to me summat like this: I canmake nothing o' the drawing o' lots and the answer coming wrong; it'ud mayhap take the parson to tell that, and he could only tell usi' big words. But what come to me as clear as the daylight, it waswhen I was troubling over poor Bessy Fawkes, and it allays comesinto my head when I'm sorry for folks, and feel as I can't do apower to help 'em, not if I was to get up i' the middle o' the night--it comes into my head as Them above has got a deal tenderer heartnor what I've got--for I can't be anyways better nor Them as mademe; and if anything looks hard to me, it's because there's things Idon't know on; and for the matter o' that, there may be plenty o'things I don't know on, for it's little as I know--that it is.And so, while I was thinking o' that, you come into my mind, MasterMarner, and it all come pouring in:--if I felt i' my inside whatwas the right and just thing by you, and them as prayed and drawedthe lots, all but that wicked un, if they'd ha' done the rightthing by you if they could, isn't there Them as was at the making onus, and knows better and has a better will? And that's all as everI can be sure on, and everything else is a big puzzle to me when Ithink on it. For there was the fever come and took off them as werefull-growed, and left the helpless children; and there's thebreaking o' limbs; and them as 'ud do right and be sober have tosuffer by them as are contrairy--eh, there's trouble i' thisworld, and there's things as we can niver make out the rights on.And all as we've got to do is to trusten, Master Marner--to do theright thing as fur as we know, and to trusten. For if us as knowsso little can see a bit o' good and rights, we may be sure asthere's a good and a rights bigger nor what we can know--I feel iti' my own inside as it must be so. And if you could but ha' gone ontrustening, Master Marner, you wouldn't ha' run away from yourfellow-creaturs and been so lone.""Ah, but that 'ud ha' been hard," said Silas, in an under-tone;"it 'ud ha' been hard to trusten then.""And so it would," said Dolly, almost with compunction; "themthings are easier said nor done; and I'm partly ashamed o'talking.""Nay, nay," said Silas, "you're i' the right, Mrs. Winthrop--you're i' the right. There's good i' this world--I've a feelingo' that now; and it makes a man feel as there's a good more nor hecan see, i' spite o' the trouble and the wickedness. That drawingo' the lots is dark; but the child was sent to me: there's dealingswith us--there's dealings."This dialogue took place in Eppie's earlier years, when Silas had topart with her for two hours every day, that she might learn to readat the dame school, after he had vainly tried himself to guide herin that first step to learning. Now that she was grown up, Silashad often been led, in those moments of quiet outpouring which cometo people who live together in perfect love, to talk with her tooof the past, and how and why he had lived a lonely man until she hadbeen sent to him. For it would have been impossible for him to hidefrom Eppie that she was not his own child: even if the most delicatereticence on the point could have been expected from Raveloe gossipsin her presence, her own questions about her mother could not havebeen parried, as she grew up, without that complete shrouding of thepast which would have made a painful barrier between their minds.So Eppie had long known how her mother had died on the snowy ground,and how she herself had been found on the hearth by father Silas,who had taken her golden curls for his lost guineas brought back tohim. The tender and peculiar love with which Silas had reared herin almost inseparable companionship with himself, aided by theseclusion of their dwelling, had preserved her from the loweringinfluences of the village talk and habits, and had kept her mind inthat freshness which is sometimes falsely supposed to be aninvariable attribute of rusticity. Perfect love has a breath ofpoetry which can exalt the relations of the least-instructed humanbeings; and this breath of poetry had surrounded Eppie from the timewhen she had followed the bright gleam that beckoned her to Silas'shearth; so that it is not surprising if, in other things besides herdelicate prettiness, she was not quite a common village maiden, buthad a touch of refinement and fervour which came from no otherteaching than that of tenderly-nurtured unvitiated feeling. She wastoo childish and simple for her imagination to rove into questionsabout her unknown father; for a long while it did not even occur toher that she must have had a father; and the first time that theidea of her mother having had a husband presented itself to her, waswhen Silas showed her the wedding-ring which had been taken from thewasted finger, and had been carefully preserved by him in a littlelackered box shaped like a shoe. He delivered this box into Eppie'scharge when she had grown up, and she often opened it to look at thering: but still she thought hardly at all about the father of whomit was the symbol. Had she not a father very close to her, wholoved her better than any real fathers in the village seemed to lovetheir daughters? On the contrary, who her mother was, and how shecame to die in that forlornness, were questions that often pressedon Eppie's mind. Her knowledge of Mrs. Winthrop, who was hernearest friend next to Silas, made her feel that a mother must bevery precious; and she had again and again asked Silas to tell herhow her mother looked, whom she was like, and how he had found heragainst the furze bush, led towards it by the little footsteps andthe outstretched arms. The furze bush was there still; and thisafternoon, when Eppie came out with Silas into the sunshine, it wasthe first object that arrested her eyes and thoughts."Father," she said, in a tone of gentle gravity, which sometimescame like a sadder, slower cadence across her playfulness, "weshall take the furze bush into the garden; it'll come into thecorner, and just against it I'll put snowdrops and crocuses, 'causeAaron says they won't die out, but'll always get more and more.""Ah, child," said Silas, always ready to talk when he had his pipein his hand, apparently enjoying the pauses more than the puffs,"it wouldn't do to leave out the furze bush; and there's nothingprettier, to my thinking, when it's yallow with flowers. But it'sjust come into my head what we're to do for a fence--mayhap Aaroncan help us to a thought; but a fence we must have, else the donkeysand things 'ull come and trample everything down. And fencing'shard to be got at, by what I can make out.""Oh, I'll tell you, daddy," said Eppie, clasping her handssuddenly, after a minute's thought. "There's lots o' loose stonesabout, some of 'em not big, and we might lay 'em atop of oneanother, and make a wall. You and me could carry the smallest, andAaron 'ud carry the rest--I know he would.""Eh, my precious un," said Silas, "there isn't enough stones togo all round; and as for you carrying, why, wi' your little arms youcouldn't carry a stone no bigger than a turnip. You're dillicatemade, my dear," he added, with a tender intonation--"that's whatMrs. Winthrop says.""Oh, I'm stronger than you think, daddy," said Eppie; "and ifthere wasn't stones enough to go all round, why they'll go part o'the way, and then it'll be easier to get sticks and things for therest. See here, round the big pit, what a many stones!"She skipped forward to the pit, meaning to lift one of the stonesand exhibit her strength, but she started back in surprise."Oh, father, just come and look here," she exclaimed--"come andsee how the water's gone down since yesterday. Why, yesterday thepit was ever so full!""Well, to be sure," said Silas, coming to her side. "Why, that'sthe draining they've begun on, since harvest, i' Mr. Osgood'sfields, I reckon. The foreman said to me the other day, when Ipassed by 'em, "Master Marner," he said, "I shouldn't wonder if welay your bit o' waste as dry as a bone." It was Mr. Godfrey Cass,he said, had gone into the draining: he'd been taking these fieldso' Mr. Osgood.""How odd it'll seem to have the old pit dried up!" said Eppie,turning away, and stooping to lift rather a large stone. "See,daddy, I can carry this quite well," she said, going along withmuch energy for a few steps, but presently letting it fall."Ah, you're fine and strong, aren't you?" said Silas, while Eppieshook her aching arms and laughed. "Come, come, let us go and sitdown on the bank against the stile there, and have no more lifting.You might hurt yourself, child. You'd need have somebody to workfor you--and my arm isn't over strong."Silas uttered the last sentence slowly, as if it implied more thanmet the ear; and Eppie, when they sat down on the bank, nestledclose to his side, and, taking hold caressingly of the arm that wasnot over strong, held it on her lap, while Silas puffed againdutifully at the pipe, which occupied his other arm. An ash in thehedgerow behind made a fretted screen from the sun, and threw happyplayful shadows all about them."Father," said Eppie, very gently, after they had been sitting insilence a little while, "if I was to be married, ought I to bemarried with my mother's ring?"Silas gave an almost imperceptible start, though the question fellin with the under-current of thought in his own mind, and then said,in a subdued tone, "Why, Eppie, have you been a-thinking on it?""Only this last week, father," said Eppie, ingenuously, "sinceAaron talked to me about it.""And what did he say?" said Silas, still in the same subdued way,as if he were anxious lest he should fall into the slightest tonethat was not for Eppie's good."He said he should like to be married, because he was a-going infour-and-twenty, and had got a deal of gardening work, nowMr. Mott's given up; and he goes twice a-week regular to Mr. Cass's,and once to Mr. Osgood's, and they're going to take him on at theRectory.""And who is it as he's wanting to marry?" said Silas, with rathera sad smile."Why, me, to be sure, daddy," said Eppie, with dimpling laughter,kissing her father's cheek; "as if he'd want to marry anybodyelse!""And you mean to have him, do you?" said Silas."Yes, some time," said Eppie, "I don't know when. Everybody'smarried some time, Aaron says. But I told him that wasn't true:for, I said, look at father--he's never been married.""No, child," said Silas, "your father was a lone man till you wassent to him.""But you'll never be lone again, father," said Eppie, tenderly."That was what Aaron said--"I could never think o' taking youaway from Master Marner, Eppie." And I said, "It 'ud be no use ifyou did, Aaron." And he wants us all to live together, so as youneedn't work a bit, father, only what's for your own pleasure; andhe'd be as good as a son to you--that was what he said.""And should you like that, Eppie?" said Silas, looking at her."I shouldn't mind it, father," said Eppie, quite simply. "And Ishould like things to be so as you needn't work much. But if itwasn't for that, I'd sooner things didn't change. I'm very happy: Ilike Aaron to be fond of me, and come and see us often, and behavepretty to you--he always does behave pretty to you, doesn't he,father?""Yes, child, nobody could behave better," said Silas,emphatically. "He's his mother's lad.""But I don't want any change," said Eppie. "I should like to goon a long, long while, just as we are. Only Aaron does want achange; and he made me cry a bit--only a bit--because he said Ididn't care for him, for if I cared for him I should want us to bemarried, as he did.""Eh, my blessed child," said Silas, laying down his pipe as if itwere useless to pretend to smoke any longer, "you're o'er young tobe married. We'll ask Mrs. Winthrop--we'll ask Aaron's motherwhat she thinks: if there's a right thing to do, she'll come atit. But there's this to be thought on, Eppie: things will change,whether we like it or no; things won't go on for a long while justas they are and no difference. I shall get older and helplesser,and be a burden on you, belike, if I don't go away from youaltogether. Not as I mean you'd think me a burden--I know youwouldn't--but it 'ud be hard upon you; and when I look for'ard tothat, I like to think as you'd have somebody else besides me--somebody young and strong, as'll outlast your own life, and takecare on you to the end." Silas paused, and, resting his wrists onhis knees, lifted his hands up and down meditatively as he looked onthe ground."Then, would you like me to be married, father?" said Eppie, witha little trembling in her voice."I'll not be the man to say no, Eppie," said Silas, emphatically;"but we'll ask your godmother. She'll wish the right thing by youand her son too.""There they come, then," said Eppie. "Let us go and meet 'em.Oh, the pipe! won't you have it lit again, father?" said Eppie,lifting that medicinal appliance from the ground."Nay, child," said Silas, "I've done enough for to-day. I think,mayhap, a little of it does me more good than so much at once."