down about the old man? He'd been but
a poor bargain to her this five year."

"She's been greatly distressed for the loss of him," said Dinah, "but
she's seemed more comforted to-day. Her son Adam's been at home all day,
working at his father's coffin, and she loves to have him at home. She's
been talking about him to me almost all the day. She has a loving heart,
though she's sorely given to fret and be fearful. I wish she had a surer
trust to comfort her in her old age."

"Adam's sure enough," said Mr. Poyser, misunderstanding Dinah's wish.
"There's no fear but he'll yield well i' the threshing. He's not one
o' them as is all straw and no grain. I'll be bond for him any day, as
he'll be a good son to the last. Did he say he'd be coming to see us
soon? But come in, come in," he added, making way for them; "I hadn't
need keep y' out any longer."

The tall buildings round the yard shut out a good deal of the sky,
but the large window let in abundant light to show every corner of the
house-place.

Mrs. Poyser, seated in the rocking-chair, which had been brought out of
the "right-hand parlour," was trying to soothe Totty to sleep. But Totty
was not disposed to sleep; and when her cousins entered, she raised
herself up and showed a pair of flushed cheeks, which looked fatter than
ever now they were defined by the edge of her linen night-cap.

In the large wicker-bottomed arm-chair in the left-hand chimney-nook sat
old Martin Poyser, a hale but shrunken and bleached image of his portly
black-haired son--his head hanging forward a little, and his elbows
pushed backwards so as to allow the whole of his forearm to rest on the
arm of the chair. His blue handkerchief was spread over his knees, as
was usual indoors, when it was not hanging over his head; and he sat
watching what went forward with the quiet OUTWARD glance of healthy old
age, which, disengaged from any interest in an inward drama, spies out
pins upon the floor, follows one's minutest motions with an unexpectant
purposeless tenacity, watches the flickering of the flame or the
sun-gleams on the wall, counts the quarries on the floor, watches even
the hand of the clock, and pleases itself with detecting a rhythm in the
tick.

"What a time o' night this is to come home, Hetty!" said Mrs. Poyser.
"Look at the clock, do; why, it's going on for half-past nine, and I've
sent the gells to bed this half-hour, and late enough too; when they've
got to get up at half aft