Silas's face showed that sort of transfiguration, as he sat in
his arm-chair and looked at Eppie. She had drawn her own chair towards
his knees, and leaned forward, holding both his hands, while she
looked up at him. On the table near them, lit by a candle, lay the
recovered gold- the old long-loved gold, ranged in orderly heaps, as
Silas used to range it in the days when it was his only joy. He had
been telling her how he used to count it every night, and how his soul
was utterly desolate till she was sent to him.
'At first, I'd a sort o' feeling come across me now and then,' he
was saying in a subdued tone, 'as if you might be changed into the
gold again; for sometimes, turn my head which way I would, I seemed to
see the gold; and I thought I should be glad if I could feel it, and
find it was come back. But that didn't last long. After a bit, I
should have thought it was a curse come again, if it had drove you
from me, for I'd got to feel the need o' your looks and your voice and
the touch o' your little fingers. You didn't know then, Eppie, when
you were such a little un- you didn't know what your old father
Silas felt for you.'
'But I know now, father,' said Eppie. 'If it hadn't been for you,
they'd have taken me to the workhouse, and there'd have been nobody to
love me.'
'Eh, my precious child, the blessing was mine. If you hadn't been
sent to save me, I should ha' gone to the grave in my misery.
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