rm, that a man can least forget in after-life--the time when he
believes that the first woman he has ever loved is, at least, beginning
to love him in return.

He was not wrong in thinking that a change had come over Hetty; the
anxieties and fears of a first passion with which she was trembling had
become stronger than vanity, and while Adam drew near to her she was
absorbed in thinking and wondering about Arthur Donnithorne's possible
return.

For the first time Hetty felt that there was something soothing to her
in Adam's timid yet manly tenderness; she wanted to be treated lovingly.
And Arthur was away from home; and, oh, it was very hard to bear the
blank of absence. She was not afraid that Adam would tease her with
love-making and flattering speeches; he had always been so reserved to
her. She could enjoy without any fear the sense that this strong, brave
man loved her and was near her. It never entered into her mind that Adam
was pitiable, too, that Adam, too, must suffer one day.

It was from Adam that she found out that Captain Donnithorne would be
back in a day or two, and this knowledge made her the more kindly
disposed towards him. But for all the world Adam would not have spoken
of his love to Hetty yet, till this commencing kindness towards him
should have grown into unmistakable love. He did no more than pluck a
rose for her, and walk back to the farm with her arm in his.

When Adam, after stopping a while to chat with the Poysers, had said
good-night, Mr. Poyser remarked, "If you can catch Adam for a husband,
Hetty, you'll ride i' your own spring-cart some day, I'll be your
warrant."

Her uncle did not see the little toss of the head with which Hetty
answered him. To ride in a spring-cart seemed a very miserable lot
indeed to her now.

It was on August 18, when Adam, going home from some work he had been
doing at one of the farms, passed through a grove of beeches, and saw,
at the end of the avenue, about twenty yards before him, two figures.
They were standing opposite to each other with clasped hands, and they
separated with a start at a sharp bark from Adam Bede's dog. One hurried
away through a gate out of the grove; the other, Arthur Donnithorne,
looking flushed and excited, sauntered towards Adam. The young squire
had been home for some weeks celebrating his twenty-first birthday, and
he was leaving on the morrow to rejoin his regiment.

Hitherto there had been a cordial and sincere liking a