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 headpiece 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
