Summarize the following text to main points and sub-points and make detailed explain for them:

e and there, but I know it's good 
words—I do. But what lies upo' your mind—it's this, Master Marner: as, 
if Them above had done the right thing by you, They'd never ha' let you 
be turned out for a wicked thief when you was innicent." 
"Ah!" said Silas, who had now come to understand Dolly's phraseology, 
"that was what fell on me like as if it had been red-hot iron; because, you 
see, there was nobody as cared for me or clave to me above nor below. 
And him as I'd gone out and in wi' for ten year and more, since when we 
was lads and went halves—mine own familiar friend in whom I trusted, 
had lifted up his heel again' me, and worked to ruin me." 
"Eh, but he was a bad un—I can't think as there's another such," said 
Dolly. "But I'm o'ercome, Master Marner; I'm like as if I'd waked and 
didn't know whether it was night or morning. I feel somehow as sure as I 
do when I've laid something up though I can't justly put my hand on it, 
as there was a rights in what happened to you, if one could but make it 
out; and you'd no call to lose heart as you did. But we'll talk on it again; 
for sometimes things come into my head when I'm leeching or 
poulticing, or such, as I could never think on when I was sitting still." 
Dolly was too useful a woman not to have many opportunities of 
illumination of the kind she alluded to, and she was not long before she 
recurred to the subject. 
"Master Marner," she said, one day that she came to bring home Eppie's 
washing, "I've been sore puzzled for a good bit wi' that trouble o' yourn 
and the drawing o' lots; and it got twisted back'ards and for'ards, as I 
didn't know which end to lay hold on. But it come to me all clear like, 
that night when I was sitting up wi' poor Bessy Fawkes, as is dead and 
left her children behind, God help 'em—it come to me as clear as 
daylight; but whether I've got hold on it now, or can anyways bring it to 
my tongue's end, that I don't know. For I've often a deal inside me as'll 
never come out; and for what you talk o' your folks in your old country 
niver saying prayers by heart nor saying 'em out of a book, they must be 
wonderful cliver; for if I didn't know "Our Father", and little bits o' good 
144
 
 
words as I can carry out o' church wi' me, I might down o' my knees 
every night, but nothing could I say." 
"But you can mostly say something as I can make sense on, Mrs. 
Winthrop," said Silas. 
"Well, then, Master Marner, it come to me summat like this: I can make 
nothing o' the drawing o' lots and the answer coming wrong; it 'ud 
mayhap take the parson to tell that, and he could only tell us i' big words. 
But what come to me as clear as the daylight, it was when I was troubling 
over poor Bessy Fawkes, and it allays comes into my head when I'm sorry 
for folks, and feel as I can't do a power to help 'em, not if I was to get up i' 
the middle o' the night—it comes into my head as Them above has got a 
deal tenderer heart nor what I've got—for I can't be anyways better nor 
Them as made me; and if anything looks hard to me, it's because there's 
things I don't know on; and for the matter o' that, there may be plenty o' 
things I don't know on, for it's little as I know—that it is. And so, while I 
was thinking o' that, you come into my mind, Master Marner, and it all 
come pouring in:—if I felt i' my inside what was the right and just thing 
by you, and them as prayed and drawed the lots, all but that wicked un, 
if they'd ha' done the right thing by you if they could, isn't there Them as 
was at the making on us, and knows better and has a better will? And 
that's all as ever I can be sure on, and everything else is a big puzzle to 
me when I think on it. For there was the fever come and took off them as 
were full-growed, and left the helpless children; and there's the breaking 
o' limbs; and them as 'ud do right and be sober have to suffer by them as 
are contrairy—eh, there's trouble i' this world, and there's things as we 
can niver make out the rights on. And all as we've got to do is to trusten, 
Master Marner—to do the right thing as fur as we know, and to trusten. 
For if us as knows so little can see a bit o' good and rights, we may be 
sure as there's a good and a rights bigger nor what we can know—I feel it 
i' my own inside as it must be so. And if you could but ha' gone on 
trustening, Master Marner, you wouldn't ha' run away from your fellow-
creaturs and been so lone." 
"Ah, but that 'ud ha' been hard," said Silas, in an under-tone; "it 'ud ha' 
been hard to trusten then." 
"And so it would," said Dolly, almost with compunction; "them things 
are easier said nor done; and I'm partly ashamed o' talking." 
145
 
 
"Nay, nay," said Silas, "you're i' the right, Mrs. Winthrop—you're i' the 
right. There's good i' this world—I've a feeling o' that now; and it makes a 
man feel as there's a good more nor he can see, i' spite o' the trouble and 
the wickedness. That drawing o' the lots is dark; but the child was sent to 
me: there's dealings with us—there's dealings." 
This dialogue took place in Eppie's earlier years, when Silas had to part 
with her for two hours every day, that she might learn to read at the 
dame school, after he had vainly tried himself to guide her in that first 
step to learning. Now that she was grown up, Silas had often been led, in 
those moments of quiet outpouring which come to people who live 
together in perfect love, to talk with her too of the past, and how and why 
he had lived a lonely man until she had been sent to him. For it would 
have been impossible for him to hide from Eppie that she was not his 
own child: even if the most delicate reticence on the point could have 
been expected from Raveloe gossips in her presence, her own questions 
about her mother could not have been parried, as she grew up, without 
that complete shrouding of the past which would have made a painful 
barrier between their minds. So Eppie had long known how her mother 
had died on the snowy ground, and how she herself had been found on 
the hearth by father Silas, who had taken her golden curls for his lost 
guineas brought back to him. The tender and peculiar love with which 
Silas had reared her in almost inseparable companionship with himself, 
aided by the seclusion of their dwelling, had preserved her from the 
lowering influences of the village talk and habits, and had kept her mind 
in that freshness which is sometimes falsely supposed to be an invariable 
attribute of rusticity. Perfect love has a breath of poetry which can exalt 
the relations of the least-instructed human beings; and this breath of 
poetry had surrounded Eppie from the time when she had followed the 
bright gleam that beckoned her to Silas's hearth; so that it is not 
surprising if, in other things besides her delicate prettiness, she was not 
quite a common village maiden, but had a touch of refinement and 
fervour which came from no other teaching than that of tenderly-
nurtured unvitiated feeling. She was too childish and simple for her 
imagination to rove into questions about her unknown father; for a long 
while it did not even occur to her that she must have had a father; and 
the first time that the idea of her mother having had a husband 
presented itself to her, was when Silas showed her the wedding-ring 
146
 
 
which had been taken from the wasted finger, and had been carefully 
preserved by him in a little lackered box shaped like a shoe. He delivered 
this box into Eppie's charge when she had grown up, and she often 
opened it to look at the ring: but still she thought hardly at all about the 
father of whom it was the symbol. Had she not a father very close to her, 
who loved her better than any real fathers in the village seemed to love 
their daughters? On the contrary, who her mother was, and how she 
came to die in that forlornness, were questions that often pressed on 
Eppie's mind. Her knowledge of Mrs. Winthrop, who was her nearest 
friend next to Silas, made her feel that a mother must be very precious; 
and she had again and again asked Silas to tell her how her mother 
looked, whom she was like, and how he had found her against the furze 
bush, led towards it by the little footsteps and the outstretched arms. The 
furze bush was there still; and this afternoon, when Eppie came out with 
Silas into the sunshine, it was the first object that arrested her eyes and 
thoughts. 
"Father," she said, in a tone of gentle gravity, which sometimes came like 
a sadder, slower cadence across her playfulness, "we shall take the furze 
bush into the garden; it'll come into the corner, and just against it I'll put 
snowdrops and crocuses, 'cause Aaron says they won't die out, but'll 
always get more and more." 
"Ah, child," said Silas, always ready to talk when he had his pipe in his 
hand, apparently enjoying the pauses more than the puffs, "it wouldn't 
do to leave out the furze bush; and there's nothing prettier, to my 
thinking, when it's yall

Summary :