Marner—’noculation, and everything to save it from harm—it ’ud be a thorn i’ your bed for ever o’ this side the grave; and I can’t think as it ’ud be easy lying down for anybody when they’d got to another world if they hadn’t done their part by the helpless children as come wi’out their own asking.”

Dolly herself was disposed to be silent for some time now, for she had spoken from the depths of her own simple belief, and was much concerned to know whether her words would produce the desired effect on Silas. He was puzzled and anxious, for Dolly’s word “christened” conveyed no distinct meaning to him. He had only heard of baptism, and had only seen the baptism of grown-up men and women.

“What is it as you mean by ‘christened’?” he said at last timidly. “Won’t folks be good to her without it?”

“Dear, dear, Master Marner!” said Dolly, with gentle distress and compassion. “Had you never no father nor mother as taught you to say your prayers, and as there’s good words and good things to keep us from harm?”

“Yes,” said Silas in a low voice; “I know a deal about that—used to, used to. But your ways are different; my country was a good way off.” He paused a few moments, and then added more decidedly, “But I want to do everything as can be done for the child; and whatever’s right for it i’ this country, and you think ’ull do it good, I’ll act according, if you’ll tell me.”

“Well, then, Master Marner,” said Dolly, inwardly rejoiced, “I’ll ask Mr. Macey to speak to the parson about it; and you must fix on a name for it, because it must have a name giv’ it when it’s christened.”

“My mother’s name was Hephzibah,” said Silas, “and my little sister was named after her.”

“Eh, that’s a hard name,” said Dolly. “I partly think it isn’t a christened name.”

“It’s a Bible name,” said Silas, old ideas recurring.

“Then I’ve no call to speak again’ it,” said Dolly, rather startled by Silas’s knowledge on this head; “but you see I’m no scholard, and I’m slow at catching the words. My husband says I’m allays like as if I was putting the haft for the handle—that’s what he says—for he’s very sharp, God help him. But it was awk’ard calling your little sister by such a hard name when you’d got nothing big to say, like—wasn’t it, Master Marner?”

“We called her Eppie,” said Silas.

“Well, if it was noways wrong to shorten the name, it ’ud be a deal handier. And so I’ll go now, Master Marner, and I’ll speak about the christening afore dark; and I wish you the best o’ luck, and it’s my belief as it’ll come to you if you do what’s right by the orphin child. And there’s the ’noculation to be seen to; and as to washing its bits o’ things, you need look to nobody but me, for I can do ’em wi’ one hand when I’ve got my suds about. Eh, the blessed angil! You’ll let me bring my Aaron one o’ these days, and he’ll show her his little cart as his father’s made for him, and the black-and-white pup as he’s got a-rearing.”

Baby was christened, the rector deciding that a double baptism was the lesser risk to incur; and on this occasion Silas, making himself as clean and tidy as he could, appeared for the first time within the church, and shared in the observances held sacred by his neighbours. He was quite unable, by means of anything he heard or saw, to identify the Raveloe religion with his old faith; if he could at any time in his previous life have done so, it must have been by the aid of a strong feeling ready to vibrate with sympathy, rather than by a comparison of phrases and ideas; and now for long years that feeling had been dormant. He had no distinct idea about the baptism and the churchgoing, except that Dolly had said it was for the good of the child; and in this way, as the weeks grew to months, the child created fresh and fresh links between his life and the lives from which he had hitherto shrunk continually into