IT is near the end of June, in 1807. The workshops have been shut up half an hour or more in Adam Bede’s timber-yard, which used to be Jonathan Burge’s, and the mellow evening light is falling on the pleasant house with the buff walls and the soft grey thatch, very much as it did when we saw Adam bringing in the keys on that June evening nine years ago.

There is a figure we know well, just come out of the house, and shading her eyes with her hands as she looks for something in the distance, for the rays that fall on her white borderless cap and her pale auburn hair are very dazzling. But now she turns away from the sunlight and looks towards the door.

We can see the sweet pale face quite well now: it is scarcely at all altered — only a little fuller, to correspond to her more matronly figure, which still seems light and active enough in the plain black dress.

“I see him, Seth,” Dinah said, as she looked into the house. “Let us go and meet him. Come, Lisbeth, come with Mother.”

The last call was answered immediately by a small fair creature with pale auburn hair and grey eyes, little more than four years old, who ran out silently and put her hand into her mother’s.

“Come, Uncle Seth,” said Dinah.

“Aye, aye, we’re coming,” Seth answered from within, and presently appeared stooping under the doorway, being taller than usual by the black head of a sturdy two-year-old nephew, who had caused some delay by demanding to be carried on uncle’s shoulder.

“Better take him on thy arm, Seth,” said Dinah, looking fondly at the stout black-eyed fellow. “He’s troublesome to thee so.”

“Nay, nay: Addy likes a ride on my shoulder. I can carry him so for a bit.” A kindness which young Addy acknowledged by drumming his heels with promising force against Uncle Seth’s chest. But to walk by Dinah’s side, and be tyrannized over by Dinah’s and Adam’s children, was Uncle Seth’s earthly happiness.

“Where didst see him?” asked Seth, as they walked on into the adjoining field. “I can’t catch sight of him anywhere.”

“Between the hedges by the roadside,” said Dinah. “I saw his hat and his shoulder. There he is again.”

“Trust thee for catching sight of him if he’s anywhere to be seen,” said Seth, smiling. “Thee’t like poor mother used to be. She was always on the look out for Adam, and could see him sooner than other folks, for all her eyes got dim.”

“He’s been longer than he expected,” said Dinah, taking Arthur’s watch from a small side pocket and looking at it; “it’s nigh upon seven now.”

“Aye, they’d have a deal to say to one another,” said Seth, “and the meeting ’ud touch ’em both pretty closish. Why, it’s getting on towards eight years since they parted.”

“Yes,” said Dinah, “Adam was greatly moved this morning at the thought of the change he should see in the poor young man, from the sickness he has undergone, as well as the years which have changed us all. And the death of the poor wanderer, when she was coming back to us, has been sorrow upon sorrow.”

“See, Addy,” said Seth, lowering the young one to his arm now and pointing, “there’s Father coming — at the far stile.”

Dinah hastened her steps, and little Lisbeth ran on at her utmost speed till she clasped her father’s leg. Adam patted her head and lifted her up to kiss her, but Dinah could see the marks of agitation on his face as she approached him, and he put her arm within his in silence.

“Well, youngster, must I take you?” he said, trying to smile, when Addy stretched out his arms — ready, with the usual baseness of infancy, to give up his Uncle Seth at once, now there was some rarer patronage at hand.

“It’s cut me a good deal, Dinah,” Adam said at last, when they were walking on.

“Didst find him greatly altered?” said Dinah.

“Why, he’s altere............