It was one of
his daily tasks to fetch his water from a well a couple of fields off,
and for this purpose, ever since he came to Raveloe, he had had a
brown earthenware pot, which he held as his most precious utensil,
among the very few conveniences he had granted himself. It had been
his companion for twelve years, always standing on the same spot,
always lending its handle to him in the early morning, so that its
form had an expression for him of willing helpfulness, and the impress
of its handle on his palm gave a satisfaction mingled with that of
having the fresh clear water. One day as he was returning from the
well, he stumbled against the step of the stile, and his brown pot,
falling with force against the stones that overarched the ditch
below him, was broken in three pieces. Silas picked up the pieces
and carried them home with grief in his heart. The brown pot could
never be of use to him any more, but he stuck the bits together and
propped the ruin in its old place for a memorial.
This is the history of Silas Marner until the fifteenth year
after he came to Raveloe. The livelong day he sat in his loom, his ear
filled with its monotony, his eyes bent close down on the slow
growth of sameness in the brownish web, his muscles moving with such
even repetition that their pause seemed almost as much a constraint as
the holding of his breath. But at night came his revelry: at night
he closed his shutters, and made fast his doors, and drew out his
gold.
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