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

always does behave pretty to you, doesn't he, father?" 
"Yes, child, nobody could behave better," said Silas, emphatically. "He's 
his mother's lad." 
"But I don't want any change," said Eppie. "I should like to go on a long, 
long while, just as we are. Only Aaron does want a change; and he made 
me cry a bit—only a bit—because he said I didn't care for him, for if I 
cared for him I should want us to be married, as he did." 
"Eh, my blessed child," said Silas, laying down his pipe as if it were 
useless to pretend to smoke any longer, "you're o'er young to be married. 
We'll ask Mrs. Winthrop—we'll ask Aaron's mother what she thinks: if 
there's a right thing to do, she'll come at it. But there's this to be thought 
on, Eppie: things will change, whether we like it or no; things won't go 
on for a long while just as they are and no difference. I shall get older and 
helplesser, and be a burden on you, belike, if I don't go away from you 
altogether. Not as I mean you'd think me a burden—I know you 
wouldn't—but it 'ud be hard upon you; and when I look for'ard to that, I 
like to think as you'd have somebody else besides me—somebody young 
and strong, as'll outlast your own life, and take care on you to the end."  
Silas paused, and, resting his wrists on his knees, lifted his hands up and 
down meditatively as he looked on the ground. 
"Then, would you like me to be married, father?" said Eppie, with a little 
trembling in her voice. 
"I'll not be the man to say no, Eppie," said Silas, emphatically; "but we'll 
ask your godmother. She'll wish the right thing by you and her son too." 
"There they come, then," said Eppie. "Let us go and meet 'em. Oh, the 
pipe! won't you have it lit again, father?" said Eppie, lifting that 
medicinal appliance from the ground. 
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"Nay, child," said Silas, "I've done enough for to-day. I think, mayhap, a 
little of it does me more good than so much at once." 
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CHAPTER 17 
 
While Silas and Eppie were seated on the bank discoursing in the 
fleckered shade of the ash tree, Miss Priscilla Lammeter was resisting her 
sister's arguments, that it would be better to take tea at the Red House, 
and let her father have a long nap, than drive home to the Warrens so 
soon after dinner. The family party (of four only) were seated round the 
table in the dark wainscoted parlour, with the Sunday dessert before 
them, of fresh filberts, apples, and pears, duly ornamented with leaves by 
Nancy's own hand before the bells had rung for church. 
A great change has come over the dark wainscoted parlour since we saw 
it in Godfrey's bachelor days, and under the wifeless reign of the old 
Squire. Now all is polish, on which no yesterday's dust is ever allowed to 
rest, from the yard's width of oaken boards round the carpet, to the old 
Squire's gun and whips and walking-sticks, ranged on the stag's antlers 
above the mantelpiece. All other signs of sporting and outdoor 
occupation Nancy has removed to another room; but she has brought 
into the Red House the habit of filial reverence, and preserves sacredly in 
a place of honour these relics of her husband's departed father. The 
tankards are on the side-table still, but the bossed silver is undimmed by 
handling, and there are no dregs to send forth unpleasant suggestions: 
the only prevailing scent is of the lavender and rose-leaves that fill the 
vases of Derbyshire spar. All is purity and order in this once dreary 
room, for, fifteen years ago, it was entered by a new presiding spirit. 
"Now, father," said Nancy, "is there any call for you to go home to tea? 
Mayn't you just as well stay with us?—such a beautiful evening as it's 
likely to be." 
The old gentleman had been talking with Godfrey about the increasing 
poor-rate and the ruinous times, and had not heard the dialogue 
between his daughters. 
"My dear, you must ask Priscilla," he said, in the once firm voice, now 
become rather broken. "She manages me and the farm too." 
"And reason good as I should manage you, father," said Priscilla, "else 
you'd be giving yourself your death with rheumatism. And as for the 
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farm, if anything turns out wrong, as it can't but do in these times, 
there's nothing kills a man so soon as having nobody to find fault with 
but himself. It's a deal the best way o' being master, to let somebody else 
do the ordering, and keep the blaming in your own hands. It 'ud save 
many a man a stroke, I believe." 
"Well, well, my dear," said her father, with a quiet laugh, "I didn't say 
you don't manage for everybody's good." 
"Then manage so as you may stay tea, Priscilla," said Nancy, putting her 
hand on her sister's arm affectionately. "Come now; and we'll go round 
the garden while father has his nap." 
"My dear child, he'll have a beautiful nap in the gig, for I shall drive. And 
as for staying tea, I can't hear of it; for there's this dairymaid, now she 
knows she's to be married, turned Michaelmas, she'd as lief pour the new 
milk into the pig-trough as into the pans. That's the way with 'em all: it's 
as if they thought the world 'ud be new-made because they're to be 
married. So come and let me put my bonnet on, and there'll be time for 
us to walk round the garden while the horse is being put in." 
When the sisters were treading the neatly-swept garden-walks, between 
the bright turf that contrasted pleasantly with the dark cones and arches 
and wall-like hedges of yew, Priscilla said— 
"I'm as glad as anything at your husband's making that exchange o' land 
with cousin Osgood, and beginning the dairying. It's a thousand pities 
you didn't do it before; for it'll give you something to fill your mind. 
There's nothing like a dairy if folks want a bit o' worrit to make the days 
pass. For as for rubbing furniture, when you can once see your face in a 
table there's nothing else to look for; but there's always something fresh 
with the dairy; for even in the depths o' winter there's some pleasure in 
conquering the butter, and making it come whether or no. My dear," 
added Priscilla, pressing her sister's hand affectionately as they walked 
side by side, "you'll never be low when you've got a dairy." 
"Ah, Priscilla," said Nancy, returning the pressure with a grateful glance 
of her clear eyes, "but it won't make up to Godfrey: a dairy's not so much 
to a man. And it's only what he cares for that ever makes me low. I'm 
contented with the blessings we have, if he could be contented." 
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"It drives me past patience," said Priscilla, impetuously, "that way o' the 
men—always wanting and wanting, and never easy with what they've got: 
they can't sit comfortable in their chairs when they've neither ache nor 
pain, but either they must stick a pipe in their mouths, to make 'em 
better than well, or else they must be swallowing something strong, 
though they're forced to make haste before the next meal comes in. But 
joyful be it spoken, our father was never that sort o' man. And if it had 
pleased God to make you ugly, like me, so as the men wouldn't ha' run 
after you, we might have kept to our own family, and had nothing to do 
with folks as have got uneasy blood in their veins." 
"Oh, don't say so, Priscilla," said Nancy, repenting that she had called 
forth this outburst; "nobody has any occasion to find fault with Godfrey. 
It's natural he should be disappointed at not having any children: every 
man likes to have somebody to work for and lay by for, and he always 
counted so on making a fuss with 'em when they were little. There's 
many another man 'ud hanker more than he does. He's the best of 
husbands." 
"Oh, I know," said Priscilla, smiling sarcastically, "I know the way o' 
wives; they set one on to abuse their husbands, and then they turn round 
on one and praise 'em as if they wanted to sell 'em. But father'll be 
waiting for me; we must turn now." 
The large gig with the steady old grey was at the front door, and Mr. 
Lammeter was already on the stone steps, passing the time in recalling to 
Godfrey what very fine points Speckle had when his master used to ride 
him. 
"I always would have a good horse, you know," said the old gentleman, 
not liking that spirited time to be quite effaced from the memory of his 
juniors. 
"Mind you bring Nancy to the Warrens before the week's out, Mr. Cass," 
was Priscilla's parting injunction, as she took the reins, and shook them 
gently, by way of friendly incitement to Speckle. 
"I shall just take a turn to the fields against the Stone-pits, Nancy, and 
look at the draining," said Godfrey. 
"You'll be in again by tea-time, dear?" 
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"Oh, yes, I shall be back in an hour." 
It was Godfrey's custom on a Sunday afternoon to do a little 
contemplative farming in a leisurely walk. Nancy seldom accompanied 
him; for the women of her generation—unless, like Priscilla, they took to 
outdoor management—were not given to much walking beyond their 
own house and garden, finding sufficient exercise in domestic duties.

Summary :