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

d, trying to steady himself, that he 
might think. Had he put his gold somewhere else, by a sudden resolution 
last night, and then forgotten it? A man falling into dark waters seeks a 
momentary footing even on sliding stones; and Silas, by acting as if he 
believed in false hopes, warded off the moment of despair. He searched 
in every corner, he turned his bed over, and shook it, and kneaded it; he 
looked in his brick oven where he laid his sticks. When there was no 
other place to be searched, he kneeled down again and felt once more all 
round the hole. There was no untried refuge left for a moment's shelter 
from the terrible truth. 
Yes, there was a sort of refuge which always comes with the prostration 
of thought under an overpowering passion: it was that expectation of 
impossibilities, that belief in contradictory images, which is still distinct 
from madness, because it is capable of being dissipated by the external 
fact. Silas got up from his knees trembling, and looked round at the 
table: didn't the gold lie there after all? The table was bare. Then he 
turned and looked behind him—looked all round his dwelling, seeming 
to strain his brown eyes after some possible appearance of the bags 
where he had already sought them in vain. He could see every object in 
his cottage—and his gold was not there. 
Again he put his trembling hands to his head, and gave a wild ringing 
scream, the cry of desolation. For a few moments after, he stood 
motionless; but the cry had relieved him from the first maddening 
pressure of the truth. He turned, and tottered towards his loom, and got 
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into the seat where he worked, instinctively seeking this as the strongest 
assurance of reality. 
And now that all the false hopes had vanished, and the first shock of 
certainty was past, the idea of a thief began to present itself, and he 
entertained it eagerly, because a thief might be caught and made to 
restore the gold. The thought brought some new strength with it, and he 
started from his loom to the door. As he opened it the rain beat in upon 
him, for it was falling more and more heavily. There were no footsteps to 
be tracked on such a night—footsteps? When had the thief come? During 
Silas's absence in the daytime the door had been locked, and there had 
been no marks of any inroad on his return by daylight. And in the 
evening, too, he said to himself, everything was the same as when he had 
left it. The sand and bricks looked as if they had not been moved. Was it 
a thief who had taken the bags? or was it a cruel power that no hands 
could reach, which had delighted in making him a second time desolate? 
He shrank from this vaguer dread, and fixed his mind with struggling 
effort on the robber with hands, who could be reached by hands. His 
thoughts glanced at all the neighbours who had made any remarks, or 
asked any questions which he might now regard as a ground of 
suspicion. There was Jem Rodney, a known poacher, and otherwise 
disreputable: he had often met Marner in his journeys across the fields, 
and had said something jestingly about the weaver's money; nay, he had 
once irritated Marner, by lingering at the fire when he called to light his 
pipe, instead of going about his business. Jem Rodney was the man—
there was ease in the thought. Jem could be found and made to restore 
the money: Marner did not want to punish him, but only to get back his 
gold which had gone from him, and left his soul like a forlorn traveller on 
an unknown desert. The robber must be laid hold of. Marner's ideas of 
legal authority were confused, but he felt that he must go and proclaim 
his loss; and the great people in the village—the clergyman, the 
constable, and Squire Cass—would make Jem Rodney, or somebody else, 
deliver up the stolen money. He rushed out in the rain, under the 
stimulus of this hope, forgetting to cover his head, not caring to fasten 
his door; for he felt as if he had nothing left to lose. He ran swiftly, till 
want of breath compelled him to slacken his pace as he was entering the 
village at the turning close to the Rainbow. 
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The Rainbow, in Marner's view, was a place of luxurious resort for rich 
and stout husbands, whose wives had superfluous stores of linen; it was 
the place where he was likely to find the powers and dignities of Raveloe, 
and where he could most speedily make his loss public. He lifted the 
latch, and turned into the bright bar or kitchen on the right hand, where 
the less lofty customers of the house were in the habit of assembling, the 
parlour on the left being reserved for the more select society in which 
Squire Cass frequently enjoyed the double pleasure of conviviality and 
condescension. But the parlour was dark to-night, the chief personages 
who ornamented its circle being all at Mrs. Osgood's birthday dance, as 
Godfrey Cass was. And in consequence of this, the party on the high-
screened seats in the kitchen was more numerous than usual; several 
personages, who would otherwise have been admitted into the parlour 
and enlarged the opportunity of hectoring and condescension for their 
betters, being content this evening to vary their enjoyment by taking 
their spirits-and-water where they could themselves hector and 
condescend in company that called for beer. 
 
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CHAPTER 6 
 
The conversation, which was at a high pitch of animation when Silas 
approached the door of the Rainbow, had, as usual, been slow and 
intermittent when the company first assembled. The pipes began to be 
puffed in a silence which had an air of severity; the more important 
customers, who drank spirits and sat nearest the fire, staring at each 
other as if a bet were depending on the first man who winked; while the 
beer-drinkers, chiefly men in fustian jackets and smock-frocks, kept 
their eyelids down and rubbed their hands across their mouths, as if 
their draughts of beer were a funereal duty attended with embarrassing 
sadness. At last Mr. Snell, the landlord, a man of a neutral disposition, 
accustomed to stand aloof from human differences as those of beings 
who were all alike in need of liquor, broke silence, by saying in a doubtful 
tone to his cousin the butcher— 
"Some folks 'ud say that was a fine beast you druv in yesterday, Bob?" 
The butcher, a jolly, smiling, red-haired man, was not disposed to 
answer rashly. He gave a few puffs before he spat and replied, "And they 
wouldn't be fur wrong, John." 
After this feeble delusive thaw, the silence set in as severely as before. 
"Was it a red Durham?" said the farrier, taking up the thread of 
discourse after the lapse of a few minutes. 
The farrier looked at the landlord, and the landlord looked at the 
butcher, as the person who must take the responsibility of answering. 
"Red it was," said the butcher, in his good-humoured husky treble—"and 
a Durham it was." 
"Then you needn't tell me who you bought it of," said the farrier, looking 
round with some triumph; "I know who it is has got the red Durhams o' 
this country-side. And she'd a white star on her brow, I'll bet a penny?" 
The farrier leaned forward with his hands on his knees as he put this 
question, and his eyes twinkled knowingly. 
"Well; yes—she might," said the butcher, slowly, considering that he was 
giving a decided affirmative. "I don't say contrairy." 
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"I knew that very well," said the farrier, throwing himself backward 
again, and speaking defiantly; "if I don't know Mr. Lammeter's cows, I 
should like to know who does—that's all. And as for the cow you've 
bought, bargain or no bargain, I've been at the drenching of her—
contradick me who will." 
The farrier looked fierce, and the mild butcher's conversational spirit 
was roused a little. 
"I'm not for contradicking no man," he said; "I'm for peace and 
quietness. Some are for cutting long ribs—I'm for cutting 'em short 
myself; but I don't quarrel with 'em. All I say is, it's a lovely carkiss—and 
anybody as was reasonable, it 'ud bring tears into their eyes to look at it." 
"Well, it's the cow as I drenched, whatever it is," pursued the farrier, 
angrily; "and it was Mr. Lammeter's cow, else you told a lie when you 
said it was a red Durham." 
"I tell no lies," said the butcher, with the same mild huskiness as before, 
"and I contradick none—not if a man was to swear himself black: he's no 
meat o' mine, nor none o' my bargains. All I say is, it's a lovely carkiss. 
And what I say, I'll stick to; but I'll quarrel wi' no man." 
"No," said the farrier, with bitter sarcasm, looking at the company 
generally; "and p'rhaps you aren't pig-headed; and p'rhaps you didn't say 
the cow was a red Durham; and p'rhaps you didn't say she'd got a star on 
her brow—stick to that, now you're at it." 
"Come, come," said the landlord; "let the cow alone. The truth lies 
atween you: you're both right and both wrong, as I allays say. And as for 
the cow's being Mr. Lammeter's, I say nothing to that; but this I say, as 
th

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