Adam Bede HTML version

She turned round and left the workshop as quickly and quietly as she had
entered it. Adam had been observing her closely all the while, but she had not
looked at him. As soon as she was gone, he said, "I don't wonder at thee for
loving her, Seth. She's got a face like a lily."
Seth's soul rushed to his eyes and lips: he had never yet confessed his secret to
Adam, but now he felt a delicious sense of disburdenment, as he answered,
"Aye, Addy, I do love her--too much, I doubt. But she doesna love me, lad, only
as one child o' God loves another. She'll never love any man as a husband--
that's my belief."
"Nay, lad, there's no telling; thee mustna lose heart. She's made out o' stuff with
a finer grain than most o' the women; I can see that clear enough. But if she's
better than they are in other things, I canna think she'll fall short of 'em in loving."
No more was said. Seth set out to the village, and Adam began his work on the
"God help the lad, and me too," he thought, as he lifted the board. "We're like
enough to find life a tough job--hard work inside and out. It's a strange thing to
think of a man as can lift a chair with his teeth and walk fifty mile on end,
trembling and turning hot and cold at only a look from one woman out of all the
rest i' the world. It's a mystery we can give no account of; but no more we can of
the sprouting o' the seed, for that matter."