by
you this seven 'ear, Hetty, as if you'd been her own. Come, come, now,"
he went on, becoming jocose, as soon as Hetty had kissed her aunt and
the old man, "Adam wants a kiss too, I'll warrant, and he's a right to
one now."

Hetty turned away, smiling, towards her empty chair.

"Come, Adam, then, take one," persisted Mr. Poyser, "else y' arena half
a man."

Adam got up, blushing like a small maiden--great strong fellow as he
was--and, putting his arm round Hetty stooped down and gently kissed her
lips.

It was a pretty scene in the red fire-light; for there were no
candles--why should there be, when the fire was so bright and was
reflected from all the pewter and the polished oak? No one wanted to
work on a Sunday evening. Even Hetty felt something like contentment
in the midst of all this love. Adam's attachment to her, Adam's caress,
stirred no passion in her, were no longer enough to satisfy her vanity,
but they were the best her life offered her now--they promised her some
change.

There was a great deal of discussion before Adam went away, about the
possibility of his finding a house that would do for him to settle in.
No house was empty except the one next to Will Maskery's in the village,
and that was too small for Adam now. Mr. Poyser insisted that the best
plan would be for Seth and his mother to move and leave Adam in the old
home, which might be enlarged after a while, for there was plenty of
space in the woodyard and garden; but Adam objected to turning his
mother out.

"Well, well," said Mr. Poyser at last, "we needna fix everything
to-night. We must take time to consider. You canna think o' getting
married afore Easter. I'm not for long courtships, but there must be a
bit o' time to make things comfortable."

"Aye, to be sure," said Mrs. Poyser, in a hoarse whisper; "Christian
folks can't be married like cuckoos, I reckon."

"I'm a bit daunted, though," said Mr. Poyser, "when I think as we may
have notice to quit, and belike be forced to take a farm twenty mile
off."

"Eh," said the old man, staring at the floor and lifting his hands up
and down, while his arms rested on the elbows of his chair, "it's a poor
tale if I mun leave th' ould spot an be buried in a strange parish. An'
you'll happen ha' double rates to pay," he added, looking up at his son.

"Well, thee mustna fret beforehand, father," said Martin the younger.
"Happen the captain 'ull come home and make our peace wi' th' old
squi