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

 Mr. 
Crackenthorp. But the doctor was out of hearing. 
Godfrey, too, had disappeared: he was gone to snatch his hat and coat, 
having just reflection enough to remember that he must not look like a 
madman; but he rushed out of the house into the snow without heeding 
his thin shoes. 
In a few minutes he was on his rapid way to the Stone-pits by the side of 
Dolly, who, though feeling that she was entirely in her place in 
encountering cold and snow on an errand of mercy, was much concerned 
at a young gentleman's getting his feet wet under a like impulse. 
"You'd a deal better go back, sir," said Dolly, with respectful compassion. 
"You've no call to catch cold; and I'd ask you if you'd be so good as tell 
my husband to come, on your way back—he's at the Rainbow, I doubt—if 
you found him anyway sober enough to be o' use. Or else, there's Mrs. 
Snell 'ud happen send the boy up to fetch and carry, for there may be 
things wanted from the doctor's." 
"No, I'll stay, now I'm once out—I'll stay outside here," said Godfrey, 
when they came opposite Marner's cottage. "You can come and tell me if 
I can do anything." 
117
 
 
"Well, sir, you're very good: you've a tender heart," said Dolly, going to 
the door. 
Godfrey was too painfully preoccupied to feel a twinge of self-reproach at 
this undeserved praise. He walked up and down, unconscious that he 
was plunging ankle-deep in snow, unconscious of everything but 
trembling suspense about what was going on in the cottage, and the 
effect of each alternative on his future lot. No, not quite unconscious of 
everything else. Deeper down, and half-smothered by passionate desire 
and dread, there was the sense that he ought not to be waiting on these 
alternatives; that he ought to accept the consequences of his deeds, own 
the miserable wife, and fulfil the claims of the helpless child. But he had 
not moral courage enough to contemplate that active renunciation of 
Nancy as possible for him: he had only conscience and heart enough to 
make him for ever uneasy under the weakness that forbade the 
renunciation. And at this moment his mind leaped away from all 
restraint toward the sudden prospect of deliverance from his long 
bondage. 
"Is she dead?" said the voice that predominated over every other within 
him. "If she is, I may marry Nancy; and then I shall be a good fellow in 
future, and have no secrets, and the child—shall be taken care of 
somehow." But across that vision came the other possibility—"She may 
live, and then it's all up with me." 
Godfrey never knew how long it was before the door of the cottage 
opened and Mr. Kimble came out. He went forward to meet his uncle, 
prepared to suppress the agitation he must feel, whatever news he was to 
hear. 
"I waited for you, as I'd come so far," he said, speaking first. 
"Pooh, it was nonsense for you to come out: why didn't you send one of 
the men? There's nothing to be done. She's dead—has been dead for 
hours, I should say." 
"What sort of woman is she?" said Godfrey, feeling the blood rush to his 
face. 
118
 
 
"A young woman, but emaciated, with long black hair. Some vagrant—
quite in rags. She's got a wedding-ring on, however. They must fetch her 
away to the workhouse to-morrow. Come, come along." 
"I want to look at her," said Godfrey. "I think I saw such a woman 
yesterday. I'll overtake you in a minute or two." 
Mr. Kimble went on, and Godfrey turned back to the cottage. He cast 
only one glance at the dead face on the pillow, which Dolly had smoothed 
with decent care; but he remembered that last look at his unhappy hated 
wife so well, that at the end of sixteen years every line in the worn face 
was present to him when he told the full story of this night. 
He turned immediately towards the hearth, where Silas Marner sat 
lulling the child. She was perfectly quiet now, but not asleep—only 
soothed by sweet porridge and warmth into that wide-gazing calm which 
makes us older human beings, with our inward turmoil, feel a certain 
awe in the presence of a little child, such as we feel before some quiet 
majesty or beauty in the earth or sky—before a steady glowing planet, or 
a full-flowered eglantine, or the bending trees over a silent pathway. The 
wide-open blue eyes looked up at Godfrey's without any uneasiness or 
sign of recognition: the child could make no visible audible claim on its 
father; and the father felt a strange mixture of feelings, a conflict of 
regret and joy, that the pulse of that little heart had no response for the 
half-jealous yearning in his own, when the blue eyes turned away from 
him slowly, and fixed themselves on the weaver's queer face, which was 
bent low down to look at them, while the small hand began to pull 
Marner's withered cheek with loving disfiguration. 
"You'll take the child to the parish to-morrow?" asked Godfrey, speaking 
as indifferently as he could. 
"Who says so?" said Marner, sharply. "Will they make me take her?" 
"Why, you wouldn't like to keep her, should you—an old bachelor like 
you?" 
"Till anybody shows they've a right to take her away from me," said 
Marner. "The mother's dead, and I reckon it's got no father: it's a lone 
thing—and I'm a lone thing. My money's gone, I don't know where—and 
119
 
 
this is come from I don't know where. I know nothing—I'm partly 
mazed." 
"Poor little thing!" said Godfrey. "Let me give something towards finding 
it clothes." 
He had put his hand in his pocket and found half-a-guinea, and, 
thrusting it into Silas's hand, he hurried out of the cottage to overtake 
Mr. Kimble. 
"Ah, I see it's not the same woman I saw," he said, as he came up. "It's a 
pretty little child: the old fellow seems to want to keep it; that's strange 
for a miser like him. But I gave him a trifle to help him out: the parish 
isn't likely to quarrel with him for the right to keep the child." 
"No; but I've seen the time when I might have quarrelled with him for it 
myself. It's too late now, though. If the child ran into the fire, your aunt's 
too fat to overtake it: she could only sit and grunt like an alarmed sow. 
But what a fool you are, Godfrey, to come out in your dancing shoes and 
stockings in this way—and you one of the beaux of the evening, and at 
your own house! What do you mean by such freaks, young fellow? Has 
Miss Nancy been cruel, and do you want to spite her by spoiling your 
pumps?" 
"Oh, everything has been disagreeable to-night. I was tired to death of 
jigging and gallanting, and that bother about the hornpipes. And I'd got 
to dance with the other Miss Gunn," said Godfrey, glad of the subterfuge 
his uncle had suggested to him. 
The prevarication and white lies which a mind that keeps itself 
ambitiously pure is as uneasy under as a great artist under the false 
touches that no eye detects but his own, are worn as lightly as mere 
trimmings when once the actions have become a lie. 
Godfrey reappeared in the White Parlour with dry feet, and, since the 
truth must be told, with a sense of relief and gladness that was too strong 
for painful thoughts to struggle with. For could he not venture now, 
whenever opportunity offered, to say the tenderest things to Nancy 
Lammeter—to promise her and himself that he would always be just 
what she would desire to see him? There was no danger that his dead 
wife would be recognized: those were not days of active inquiry and wide 
120
 
 
report; and as for the registry of their marriage, that was a long way off, 
buried in unturned pages, away from every one's interest but his own. 
Dunsey might betray him if he came back; but Dunsey might be won to 
silence. 
And when events turn out so much better for a man than he has had 
reason to dread, is it not a proof that his conduct has been less foolish 
and blameworthy than it might otherwise have appeared? When we are 
treated well, we naturally begin to think that we are not altogether 
unmeritorious, and that it is only just we should treat ourselves well, and 
not mar our own good fortune. Where, after all, would be the use of his 
confessing the past to Nancy Lammeter, and throwing away his 
happiness?—nay, hers? for he felt some confidence that she loved him. 
As for the child, he would see that it was cared for: he would never 
forsake it; he would do everything but own it. Perhaps it would be just as 
happy in life without being owned by its father, seeing that nobody could 
tell how things would turn out, and that—is there any other reason 
wanted?—well, then, that the father would be much happier without 
owning the child. 
 
121
 
 
CHAPTER 14 
 
There was a pauper's burial that week in Raveloe, and up Kench Yard at 
Batherley it was known that the dark-haired woman with the fair child, 
who had lately come to lodge there, was gone away again. That was all 
the express note taken that Molly had disappeared from the eyes of men. 
But the unwept death which, to the general lot, seemed as trivial as the 
summer-shed leaf, was charged with

Summary :