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

pend a twopence on the oven now and then,—not 
every week, in course—I shouldn't like to do that myself,—you might 
carry your bit o' dinner there, for it's nothing but right to have a bit o' 
summat hot of a Sunday, and not to make it as you can't know your 
dinner from Saturday. But now, upo' Christmas-day, this blessed 
Christmas as is ever coming, if you was to take your dinner to the 
bakehus, and go to church, and see the holly and the yew, and hear the 
anthim, and then take the sacramen', you'd be a deal the better, and 
you'd know which end you stood on, and you could put your trust i' 
Them as knows better nor we do, seein' you'd ha' done what it lies on us 
all to do." 
Dolly's exhortation, which was an unusually long effort of speech for her, 
was uttered in the soothing persuasive tone with which she would have 
tried to prevail on a sick man to take his medicine, or a basin of gruel for 
which he had no appetite. Silas had never before been closely urged on 
the point of his absence from church, which had only been thought of as 
a part of his general queerness; and he was too direct and simple to 
evade Dolly's appeal. 
"Nay, nay," he said, "I know nothing o' church. I've never been to 
church." 
"No!" said Dolly, in a low tone of wonderment. Then bethinking herself 
of Silas's advent from an unknown country, she said, "Could it ha' been 
as they'd no church where you was born?" 
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"Oh, yes," said Silas, meditatively, sitting in his usual posture of leaning 
on his knees, and supporting his head. "There was churches—a many—it 
was a big town. But I knew nothing of 'em—I went to chapel." 
Dolly was much puzzled at this new word, but she was rather afraid of 
inquiring further, lest "chapel" might mean some haunt of wickedness. 
After a little thought, she said— 
"Well, Master Marner, it's niver too late to turn over a new leaf, and if 
you've niver had no church, there's no telling the good it'll do you. For I 
feel so set up and comfortable as niver was, when I've been and heard the 
prayers, and the singing to the praise and glory o' God, as Mr. Macey 
gives out—and Mr. Crackenthorp saying good words, and more partic'lar 
on Sacramen' Day; and if a bit o' trouble comes, I feel as I can put up wi' 
it, for I've looked for help i' the right quarter, and gev myself up to Them 
as we must all give ourselves up to at the last; and if we'n done our part, 
it isn't to be believed as Them as are above us 'ull be worse nor we are, 
and come short o' Their'n." 
Poor Dolly's exposition of her simple Raveloe theology fell rather 
unmeaningly on Silas's ears, for there was no word in it that could rouse 
a memory of what he had known as religion, and his comprehension was 
quite baffled by the plural pronoun, which was no heresy of Dolly's, but 
only her way of avoiding a presumptuous familiarity. He remained silent, 
not feeling inclined to assent to the part of Dolly's speech which he fully 
understood—her recommendation that he should go to church. Indeed, 
Silas was so unaccustomed to talk beyond the brief questions and 
answers necessary for the transaction of his simple business, that words 
did not easily come to him without the urgency of a distinct purpose. 
But now, little Aaron, having become used to the weaver's awful 
presence, had advanced to his mother's side, and Silas, seeming to notice 
him for the first time, tried to return Dolly's signs of good-will by 
offering the lad a bit of lard-cake. Aaron shrank back a little, and rubbed 
his head against his mother's shoulder, but still thought the piece of cake 
worth the risk of putting his hand out for it. 
"Oh, for shame, Aaron," said his mother, taking him on her lap, however; 
"why, you don't want cake again yet awhile. He's wonderful hearty," she 
went on, with a little sigh—"that he is, God knows. He's my youngest, 
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and we spoil him sadly, for either me or the father must allays hev him in 
our sight—that we must." 
She stroked Aaron's brown head, and thought it must do Master Marner 
good to see such a "pictur of a child". But Marner, on the other side of 
the hearth, saw the neat-featured rosy face as a mere dim round, with 
two dark spots in it. 
"And he's got a voice like a bird—you wouldn't think," Dolly went on; "he 
can sing a Christmas carril as his father's taught him; and I take it for a 
token as he'll come to good, as he can learn the good tunes so quick. 
Come, Aaron, stan' up and sing the carril to Master Marner, come." 
Aaron replied by rubbing his forehead against his mother's shoulder. 
"Oh, that's naughty," said Dolly, gently. "Stan' up, when mother tells you, 
and let me hold the cake till you've done." 
Aaron was not indisposed to display his talents, even to an ogre, under 
protecting circumstances; and after a few more signs of coyness, 
consisting chiefly in rubbing the backs of his hands over his eyes, and 
then peeping between them at Master Marner, to see if he looked 
anxious for the "carril", he at length allowed his head to be duly adjusted, 
and standing behind the table, which let him appear above it only as far 
as his broad frill, so that he looked like a cherubic head untroubled with 
a body, he began with a clear chirp, and in a melody that had the rhythm 
of an industrious hammer 
"God rest you, merry gentlemen, 
Let nothing you dismay, 
For Jesus Christ our Savior 
Was born on Christmas-day." 
 
Dolly listened with a devout look, glancing at Marner in some confidence 
that this strain would help to allure him to church. 
"That's Christmas music," she said, when Aaron had ended, and had 
secured his piece of cake again. "There's no other music equil to the 
Christmas music—"Hark the erol angils sing." And you may judge what it 
is at church, Master Marner, with the bassoon and the voices, as you 
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can't help thinking you've got to a better place a'ready—for I wouldn't 
speak ill o' this world, seeing as Them put us in it as knows best—but 
what wi' the drink, and the quarrelling, and the bad illnesses, and the 
hard dying, as I've seen times and times, one's thankful to hear of a 
better. The boy sings pretty, don't he, Master Marner?" 
"Yes," said Silas, absently, "very pretty." 
The Christmas carol, with its hammer-like rhythm, had fallen on his ears 
as strange music, quite unlike a hymn, and could have none of the effect 
Dolly contemplated. But he wanted to show her that he was grateful, and 
the only mode that occurred to him was to offer Aaron a bit more cake. 
"Oh, no, thank you, Master Marner," said Dolly, holding down Aaron's 
willing hands. "We must be going home now. And so I wish you good-
bye, Master Marner; and if you ever feel anyways bad in your inside, as 
you can't fend for yourself, I'll come and clean up for you, and get you a 
bit o' victual, and willing. But I beg and pray of you to leave off weaving 
of a Sunday, for it's bad for soul and body—and the money as comes i' 
that way 'ull be a bad bed to lie down on at the last, if it doesn't fly away, 
nobody knows where, like the white frost. And you'll excuse me being 
that free with you, Master Marner, for I wish you well—I do. Make your 
bow, Aaron." 
Silas said "Good-bye, and thank you kindly," as he opened the door for 
Dolly, but he couldn't help feeling relieved when she was gone—relieved 
that he might weave again and moan at his ease. Her simple view of life 
and its comforts, by which she had tried to cheer him, was only like a 
report of unknown objects, which his imagination could not fashion. The 
fountains of human love and of faith in a divine love had not yet been 
unlocked, and his soul was still the shrunken rivulet, with only this 
difference, that its little groove of sand was blocked up, and it wandered 
confusedly against dark obstruction. 
And so, notwithstanding the honest persuasions of Mr. Macey and Dolly 
Winthrop, Silas spent his Christmas-day in loneliness, eating his meat in 
sadness of heart, though the meat had come to him as a neighbourly 
present. In the morning he looked out on the black frost that seemed to 
press cruelly on every blade of grass, while the half-icy red pool shivered 
under the bitter wind; but towards evening the snow began to fall, and 
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curtained from him even that dreary outlook, shutting him close up with 
his narrow grief. And he sat in his robbed home through the livelong 
evening, not caring to close his shutters or lock his door, pressing his 
head between his hands and moaning, till the cold grasped him and told 
him that his fire was grey. 
Nobody in this world but himself knew that he was the same Silas 
Marner who had once loved his fellow with tender love, and trusted in an 
unseen goodness. Even to himself that past experience had become dim. 
But in Raveloe village the bells rang merrily, and the church was fuller 
than all through the rest of the year, with red faces among the abundant 
dark-green boughs—faces prepared for a longer service than usual by an 
o

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