ate. For Martin
Poyser felt no motive to keep silence towards the one or two neighbours
who ventured to come and shake him sorrowfully by the hand on the first
day of his trouble; and Carroll, who kept his ears open to all that
passed at the rectory, had framed an inferential version of the story,
and found early opportunities of communicating it.

One of those neighbours who came to Martin Poyser and shook him by the
hand without speaking for some minutes was Bartle Massey. He had shut
up his school, and was on his way to the rectory, where he arrived about
half-past seven in the evening, and, sending his duty to Mr. Irwine,
begged pardon for troubling him at that hour, but had something
particular on his mind. He was shown into the study, where Mr. Irwine
soon joined him.

"Well, Bartle?" said Mr. Irwine, putting out his hand. That was not his
usual way of saluting the schoolmaster, but trouble makes us treat all
who feel with us very much alike. "Sit down."

"You know what I'm come about as well as I do, sir, I daresay," said
Bartle.

"You wish to know the truth about the sad news that has reached
you...about Hetty Sorrel?"

"Nay, sir, what I wish to know is about Adam Bede. I understand you left
him at Stoniton, and I beg the favour of you to tell me what's the state
of the poor lad's mind, and what he means to do. For as for that bit o'
pink-and-white they've taken the trouble to put in jail, I don't value
her a rotten nut--not a rotten nut--only for the harm or good that may
come out of her to an honest man--a lad I've set such store
by--trusted to, that he'd make my bit o' knowledge go a good way in the
world....Why, sir, he's the only scholar I've had in this stupid country
that ever had the will or the head-piece for mathematics. If he hadn't
had so much hard work to do, poor fellow, he might have gone into the
higher branches, and then this might never have happened--might never
have happened."

Bartle was heated by the exertion of walking fast in an agitated frame
of mind, and was not able to check himself on this first occasion of
venting his feelings. But he paused now to rub his moist forehead, and
probably his moist eyes also.

"You'll excuse me, sir," he said, when this pause had given him time to
reflect, "for running on in this way about my own feelings, like that
foolish dog of mine howling in a storm, when there's nobody wants to
listen to me. I came to hear you speak, not to talk myself--if