"Shalt go home before thee go'st to the preaching?" Adam asked.

"Nay, I shan't be home before going for ten. I'll happen see Dinah
Morris safe home, if she's willing. There's nobody comes with her from
Poyser's, thee know'st."

Adam set off home, and at a quarter to seven Seth was on the village
green where the Methodists were preaching. The people drew nearer when
Dinah Morris mounted the cart which served as a pulpit. There was a
total absence of self-consciousness in her demeanour; she walked to the
cart as simply as if she were going to market. There was no keenness in
the eyes; they seemed rather to be shedding love than making
observations. When Dinah spoke it was with a clear but not loud voice,
and her sincere, unpremeditated eloquence held the attention of her
audience without interruption.

When the service was over, Seth Bede walked by Dinah's side along the
hedgerow path that skirted the pastures and corn-fields which lay
between the village and the Hall Farm.

Seth could see an expression of unconscious placid gravity on her
face--an expression that is most discouraging to a lover. He was timidly
revolving something he wanted to say, and it was only when they were
close to the yard-gates of the Hall Farm he had the courage to speak.

"It may happen you'll think me overbold to speak to you again after what
you told me o' your thoughts. But it seems to me there's more texts for
your marrying than ever you can find against it. St. Paul says, 'Two are
better than one,' and that holds good with marriage as well as with
other things. For we should be o' one heart and o' one mind, Dinah. I'd