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

to have gathered a longer vision, as is the way with eyes that have been 
short-sighted in early life, and they have a less vague, a more answering 
gaze; but in everything else one sees signs of a frame much enfeebled by 
the lapse of the sixteen years. The weaver's bent shoulders and white hair 
give him almost the look of advanced age, though he is not more than 
five-and-fifty; but there is the freshest blossom of youth close by his 
side—a blonde dimpled girl of eighteen, who has vainly tried to chastise 
her curly auburn hair into smoothness under her brown bonnet: the hair 
ripples as obstinately as a brooklet under the March breeze, and the little 
ringlets burst away from the restraining comb behind and show 
themselves below the bonnet-crown. Eppie cannot help being rather 
vexed about her hair, for there is no other girl in Raveloe who has hair at 
all like it, and she thinks hair ought to be smooth. She does not like to be 
blameworthy even in small things: you see how neatly her prayer-book is 
folded in her spotted handkerchief. 
That good-looking young fellow, in a new fustian suit, who walks behind 
her, is not quite sure upon the question of hair in the abstract, when 
Eppie puts it to him, and thinks that perhaps straight hair is the best in 
general, but he doesn't want Eppie's hair to be different. She surely 
divines that there is some one behind her who is thinking about her very 
particularly, and mustering courage to come to her side as soon as they 
are out in the lane, else why should she look rather shy, and take care not 
to turn away her head from her father Silas, to whom she keeps 
murmuring little sentences as to who was at church and who was not at 
church, and how pretty the red mountain-ash is over the Rectory wall? 
"I wish we had a little garden, father, with double daisies in, like Mrs. 
Winthrop's," said Eppie, when they were out in the lane; "only they say it 
'ud take a deal of digging and bringing fresh soil—and you couldn't do 
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that, could you, father? Anyhow, I shouldn't like you to do it, for it 'ud be 
too hard work for you." 
"Yes, I could do it, child, if you want a bit o' garden: these long evenings, 
I could work at taking in a little bit o' the waste, just enough for a root or 
two o' flowers for you; and again, i' the morning, I could have a turn wi' 
the spade before I sat down to the loom. Why didn't you tell me before as 
you wanted a bit o' garden?" 
"I can dig it for you, Master Marner," said the young man in fustian, who 
was now by Eppie's side, entering into the conversation without the 
trouble of formalities. "It'll be play to me after I've done my day's work, 
or any odd bits o' time when the work's slack. And I'll bring you some 
soil from Mr. Cass's garden—he'll let me, and willing." 
"Eh, Aaron, my lad, are you there?" said Silas; "I wasn't aware of you; for 
when Eppie's talking o' things, I see nothing but what she's a-saying. 
Well, if you could help me with the digging, we might get her a bit o' 
garden all the sooner." 
"Then, if you think well and good," said Aaron, "I'll come to the Stone-
pits this afternoon, and we'll settle what land's to be taken in, and I'll get 
up an hour earlier i' the morning, and begin on it." 
"But not if you don't promise me not to work at the hard digging, father," 
said Eppie. "For I shouldn't ha' said anything about it," she added, half-
bashfully, half-roguishly, "only Mrs. Winthrop said as Aaron 'ud be so 
good, and—" 
"And you might ha' known it without mother telling you," said Aaron. 
"And Master Marner knows too, I hope, as I'm able and willing to do a 
turn o' work for him, and he won't do me the unkindness to anyways take 
it out o' my hands." 
"There, now, father, you won't work in it till it's all easy," said Eppie, 
"and you and me can mark out the beds, and make holes and plant the 
roots. It'll be a deal livelier at the Stone-pits when we've got some 
flowers, for I always think the flowers can see us and know what we're 
talking about. And I'll have a bit o' rosemary, and bergamot, and thyme, 
because they're so sweet-smelling; but there's no lavender only in the 
gentlefolks' gardens, I think." 
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"That's no reason why you shouldn't have some," said Aaron, "for I can 
bring you slips of anything; I'm forced to cut no end of 'em when I'm 
gardening, and throw 'em away mostly. There's a big bed o' lavender at 
the Red House: the missis is very fond of it." 
"Well," said Silas, gravely, "so as you don't make free for us, or ask for 
anything as is worth much at the Red House: for Mr. Cass's been so good 
to us, and built us up the new end o' the cottage, and given us beds and 
things, as I couldn't abide to be imposin' for garden-stuff or anything 
else." 
"No, no, there's no imposin'," said Aaron; "there's never a garden in all 
the parish but what there's endless waste in it for want o' somebody as 
could use everything up. It's what I think to myself sometimes, as there 
need nobody run short o' victuals if the land was made the most on, and 
there was never a morsel but what could find its way to a mouth. It sets 
one thinking o' that—gardening does. But I must go back now, else 
mother 'ull be in trouble as I aren't there." 
"Bring her with you this afternoon, Aaron," said Eppie; "I shouldn't like 
to fix about the garden, and her not know everything from the first—
should you, father?" 
"Aye, bring her if you can, Aaron," said Silas; "she's sure to have a word 
to say as'll help us to set things on their right end." 
Aaron turned back up the village, while Silas and Eppie went on up the 
lonely sheltered lane. 
"O daddy!" she began, when they were in privacy, clasping and squeezing 
Silas's arm, and skipping round to give him an energetic kiss. "My little 
old daddy! I'm so glad. I don't think I shall want anything else when 
we've got a little garden; and I knew Aaron would dig it for us," she went 
on with roguish triumph—"I knew that very well." 
"You're a deep little puss, you are," said Silas, with the mild passive 
happiness of love-crowned age in his face; "but you'll make yourself fine 
and beholden to Aaron." 
"Oh, no, I shan't," said Eppie, laughing and frisking; "he likes it." 
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"Come, come, let me carry your prayer-book, else you'll be dropping it, 
jumping i' that way." 
Eppie was now aware that her behaviour was under observation, but it 
was only the observation of a friendly donkey, browsing with a log 
fastened to his foot—a meek donkey, not scornfully critical of human 
trivialities, but thankful to share in them, if possible, by getting his nose 
scratched; and Eppie did not fail to gratify him with her usual notice, 
though it was attended with the inconvenience of his following them, 
painfully, up to the very door of their home. 
But the sound of a sharp bark inside, as Eppie put the key in the door, 
modified the donkey's views, and he limped away again without bidding. 
The sharp bark was the sign of an excited welcome that was awaiting 
them from a knowing brown terrier, who, after dancing at their legs in a 
hysterical manner, rushed with a worrying noise at a tortoise-shell kitten 
under the loom, and then rushed back with a sharp bark again, as much 
as to say, "I have done my duty by this feeble creature, you perceive"; 
while the lady-mother of the kitten sat sunning her white bosom in the 
window, and looked round with a sleepy air of expecting caresses, 
though she was not going to take any trouble for them. 
The presence of this happy animal life was not the only change which 
had come over the interior of the stone cottage. There was no bed now in 
the living-room, and the small space was well filled with decent 
furniture, all bright and clean enough to satisfy Dolly Winthrop's eye. 
The oaken table and three-cornered oaken chair were hardly what was 
likely to be seen in so poor a cottage: they had come, with the beds and 
other things, from the Red House; for Mr. Godfrey Cass, as every one 
said in the village, did very kindly by the weaver; and it was nothing but 
right a man should be looked on and helped by those who could afford it, 
when he had brought up an orphan child, and been father and mother to 
her—and had lost his money too, so as he had nothing but what he 
worked for week by week, and when the weaving was going down too—
for there was less and less flax spun—and Master Marner was none so 
young. Nobody was jealous of the weaver, for he was regarded as an 
exceptional person, whose claims on neighbourly help were not to be 
matched in Raveloe. Any superstition that remained concerning him had 
taken an entirely new colour; and Mr. Macey, now a very feeble old man 
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of fourscore and six, never seen except in his chimney-corner or sitting 
in the sunshine at his door-sill, was of opinion that when a man had 
done what Silas had done by an orphan child, it was a sign that his 
money would come to light again, or leastwise that the r

Summary :