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BOYS AND GIRLS from 
 GEORGE ELIOT 
 
Maggie Tulliver. 
 
Boys and Girls 
 from George Eliot 
 
 By 
 
 Kate Dickinson Sweetser 
 
 {Author o/" Ten Girls from Dickens") 
 
 Pictures by 
 GEORGE ALFRED WILLIAMS 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 Duffield ^ Company 
 
 MCMVI 
 
Copyright, 1906, by 
 DuFFiELD & Company 
 
 Published September, 1906 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 LlSKARYotCCfMRESS 
 
 Two Copies Received 
 
 SEP 24 1906 
 
 - . Ccpyrisht Entry 
 
 COPY B. { 
 
 THE HERALD COMPANY OF BINGHAMTON 
 BINGHAMTON, N. Y. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Among the novels of the great English writer, George 
 Eliot (Mary Ann Evans), it is the exception to find one 
 which does not contain a pretty picture of child life. And 
 always the children are bright, active, normal children, 
 who even when they have nothing to do with the develop- 
 ment of the plot, yet are great additions to the novels from 
 which they are taken, just because they are such true pictures 
 of boys and girls as they exist in everyday life. It is for 
 this reason that they have been thought worthy of being 
 gathered together in a single volume. If the boys and girls 
 who read about them are interested in Tom and Maggie, — • 
 a true history of George Eliot's youthful experience with 
 the brother only three years older than herself; in Eppie, 
 the weaver's adopted daughter; and in the other children 
 whose pranks and pastimes are here related, — and if they 
 follow up these stories by turning to the books from which 
 they have been taken, then will the volume have served its 
 purpose well; for only as a means to an end, and that end 
 the reading of George Eliot's novels by the young people of 
 to-day, has it been compiled. 
 
 K. D. S. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Tom and Maggie Tulliver 3 
 
 totty poyser 77 
 
 Eppie • . lOI 
 
 The Garths . . . . . . * .139 
 
 Little Lizzie . . . . . . -151 
 
 Jacob Cohen 161 
 
 Tina— ''The Little Black-Eyed Monkey" . 187 
 Job Tudge and Harry Transome . » .201 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE 
 TULLIVER 
 
V 
 
 \ : 
 
 if' 
 
 J 
 
 
 I— I 
 
 J 
 
 H 
 
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BOYS AND GIRLS 
 from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 TOM AND MAGGIE 
 TULLIVER 
 
 A WIDE plain, where the River Floss hurries on 
 between its green banks to the sea, and the loving 
 tide, rushing to meet it, checks its passage with 
 an impetuous embrace. On this tide the black 
 ships — laden with the fresh-scented fir-planks, with sacks of 
 oil-bearing seed, or with the dark glitter of coal — are borne 
 along to the town of St. Ogg's. Just by the ancient red- 
 roofed town the tributary River Ripple flows with a lively 
 current into the Floss. How lovely the little river is with 
 its dark, changing wavelets! 
 
 And this is Dorlcote Mill! It is pleasant to look at, the 
 trimly kept, comfortable house, as old as the elms and chest- 
 nuts that shelter it from the northern blasts. The rush of the 
 water and the booming of the mill are like a great curtain 
 of sound shutting one out from the world beyond. And now 
 there is the thunder of the huge waggon coming home with 
 sacks of .grain. That honest waggoner is thinking of his 
 dinner, but he will not touch it till he has fed his horses, — 
 the strong, submissive, meek-eyed beasts, who stretch their 
 shoulders up the slope toward the bridge with all the more 
 energy because they are near home. Now they are on the 
 
 3 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 bridge, and down they go again at a swifter pace ; then the 
 waggon disappears behind the trees. 
 
 Beside the mill stands a little girl watching the unresting 
 wheel sending out its diamond jets of water. And a queer 
 white cur with a brown ear seems to be leaping and bark- 
 ing because he is jealous that his playfellow in the beaver 
 bonnet is so rapt in the movement of the wheel. It is time 
 the little playfellow went in, so she slowly turns toward the 
 house, where she finds her mother and father sitting by a 
 bright fire, discussing a most important question. 
 . " What I want, you know," Mr. Tulliver was saying, "is 
 to give Tom a good eddication; an eddication as '11 be a 
 bread to him. Th' two years at th' academy 'ud done well 
 enough, if I'd meant to make a miller nor farmer of him, 
 for he's had a fine sight more schoolin' nor I ever got. All 
 the learnin' my father ever paid for was a bit o' birch at one 
 end and the alphabet at th' other. But I should like Tom 
 to be a bit of a scholard, so as he might be up to the tricks 
 o' these fellows as talk fine and write wi' a flourish. It 'ud 
 be a help to me wi' these lawsuits, and arbitrations, and 
 things." 
 
 Mr. Tulliver was addressing his wife, a blonde, comely 
 woman, who replied: "Well, Mr. Tulliver, you know 
 best; Fve no objections. But hadn't I better kill a couple o' 
 fowl, and have the aunts and uncles to dinner next week, so 
 as you may hear what Sister Glegg and Sister Pullet have 
 got to say about it? There's a couple o' fowl wants killing! " 
 
 "You may kill every fowl i' th' yard if you like, Bessy, 
 but I shall ask neither aunt nor uncle what I'm to do wi' 
 my own lad," said Mr. Tulliver defiantly. 
 
 " Dear heart! " exclaimed Mrs. Tulliver. " How can you 
 talk so, Mr. Tulliver! Howiver, if Tom's to go to a new 
 school, I should like him to go where I can wash him and 
 
 4 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 mend him, else he might as well have calico as linen, for 
 they'd be one as yallow as th' other before they'd been 
 washed half a dozen times. And then, when the box is goin' 
 backard and forrard, I could send the lad a cake, or a pork 
 pie, or an apple, for he can do wi' an extry bit, bless him, 
 whether they stint him at the meals or no." 
 
 " Well, well, we won't send him out o' reach o' the car- 
 rier's cart, not if other things fit in," said Mr. Tulliver. 
 " But it's an uncommon puzzling thing to know what school 
 to pick. I know what I'll do; I'll talk it over wi' Riley; 
 he's coming to-morrow, t' arbitrate about the dam. He's 
 had schooling himself, and we shall have time to talk it over 
 when the business is done." 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Tulliver, "if Tom's to go and live at 
 Mudport, like Riley, he'll have a house with a kitchen 
 hardly big enough to turn in, an' niver get a fresh egg for 
 his breakfast, an' sleep up three pair of stairs — or four, for 
 what I know — an' be burnt to death before he can get 
 down." 
 
 "No, no," said Mr. Tulliver, "I've no thoughts of his 
 going to Mudport; I mean him to set up his office at St. 
 Ogg's, and live at home. But," he continued, "what I'm a 
 bit afraid on is, as Tom hasn't got th' right sort o' brains for 
 a smart fellow. I doubt he's a bit slowish. He takes 
 after your family, Bessy." 
 
 "Yes, that he does," said Mrs. Tulliver, accepting the 
 proposition entirely on its own merits. " He's wonderful 
 for liking a deal o' salt in his broth. That was my brother's 
 way, and my father's before him." 
 
 " It seems a bit of a pity, though," said Mr. Tulliver. 
 " The little 'un takes after my side; now, she's twice as cute 
 as Tom. Too cute for a woman, I'm afraid," he said, 
 " though it's no mischief much now, while she's a little 'un." 
 
 S 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 '^ Yes, it is a mischief while she's a little 'un, Mr. Tulliver, 
 for it all runs to naughtiness. How to keep her in a clean 
 pinafore two hours together passes my cunning. An' now 
 you put me i' mind/' continued Mrs. Tulliver, going to the 
 window, " I don't know where she is now, an' it's pretty nigh 
 tea time. Ah, I thought so — wanderin' up and down by the 
 water, like a wild thing." 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver rapped the window sharply, beckoned, and 
 shook her head — a process which she repeated more than 
 once before she returned to her chair. 
 
 "You talk o' cuteness, Mr. Tulliver," she observed as she 
 sat down; "but I'm sure the child's half an idiot i' some 
 things; for if I send her upstairs to fetch anything, she for- 
 gets what she's gone for, an' perhaps 'uU sit down on the 
 floor i' the sunshine an' plait her hair an' sing to herself like 
 a bedlam creatur', all the while I'm waiting for her down- 
 stairs. That niver run i' my family, no more nor a brown 
 skin as makes her look like a mulatter. I don't like to fly i' 
 the face o' Providence, but it seems hard as I should have 
 but one gell, an' her so comical." 
 
 "Pooh, nonsense," said Mr. Tulliver; "she's a straight 
 black-eyed wench as anybody need wish to see." 
 
 " But her hair won't curl, and she's so f ranzy about hav- 
 ing it put i' paper, and I've such work as never was to make 
 her stand and have it pinched with th' irons." 
 
 " Cut it off — cut it off short," said her father rashly. 
 
 " How can you talk so, Mr. Tulliver? She's too big a gell 
 — gone nine, and tall of her age — to have her hair cut short; 
 and there's her cousin Lucy's got a row o' curls round her 
 head, and not a hair out o' place. I'm sure Lucy takes more 
 after me nor my own child does. Maggie, Maggie!" con- 
 tinued the mother, in a tone of half-coaxing fretfulness, as 
 this small mistake of nature entered the room, " where's the 
 
 6 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 use o' my tellin' you to keep away from the water? You'll 
 tumble in and be drownded some day, and then you'll be 
 sorry you didn't do as mother told you." 
 
 Maggie's hair, as she threw off her bonnet, painfully con- 
 firmed her mother's accusation. Mrs. Tulliver, desiring her 
 daughter to have a curled crop, ^' like other folk's children," 
 had had it cut too short in front to be pushed behind the 
 ears; and as it was usually straight an hour after it had been 
 taken out of paper, Maggie was incessantly tossing her head 
 to keep the dark, heavy locks out of her gleaming black eyes 
 — an action which gave her very much the air of a small 
 Shetland pony. 
 
 "Oh, dear! oh, dear! Maggie, what are you thinkin' of, 
 to throw your bonnet down there? Take it upstairs, there's 
 a good gell, an' let your hair be brushed, an' put your other 
 pinafore on, an' change your shoes, — do, for shame; an' 
 come an' go on with your patchwork, like a little lady." 
 
 " Oh, mother!" said Maggie in a vehemently cross tone, 
 " I don't want to do my patchwork." 
 
 "What! not your pretty patchwork, to make a counter- 
 pane for your Aunt Glegg! " 
 
 " It's foolish work," said Maggie, with a toss of her mane, 
 " tearing things to pieces to sew 'em together again, and I 
 don't want to do anything for my Aunt Glegg — I don't like 
 her." 
 
 Exit Maggie, dragging her bonnet by the string, while 
 Mr. Tulliver laughs audibly. 
 
 " I wonder at you, as you'll laugh at her, Mr. Tulliver," 
 said the mother, with feeble fretfulness in her tone. "You 
 encourage her i' naughtiness. An' her aunts will have it as 
 it's me spoils her." 
 
 On the following evening Mr. Riley arrived; and, after 
 their business transaction came to an end, Mr. Tulliver, 
 
 7 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 according to his decision, said, " I want to speak to you now 
 about my boy Tom, Riley." 
 
 At the sound of Tom's name, Maggie, who was seated by 
 the fire with a large book open on her lap, shook her heavy 
 hair back and looked up eagerly. 
 
 "I want to send him," continued Mr. Tulliver, "to a 
 downright good school where theyll make a scholard o' 
 him. I don't mean Tom to be a miller nor farmer; then 
 he'd be a-hintin' at me as it was time to lay by and think o' 
 my latter end. Nay, nay, I've seen enough o' that wi' sons. 
 I shall put Tom to a business, as he may make a nest for him- 
 self, and not want to push me out o' mine!" 
 
 Mr. Tulliver spoke with unusual rapidity and emphasis, 
 which angry symptoms were keenly observed by Maggie, 
 and cut her to the quick. Tom, it appeared, was supposed 
 capable of turning his father out of doors and of making the 
 future in some way tragic by his wickedness. This was not 
 to be borne; and Maggie jumped up, forgetting her book, 
 which fell with a bang, and going up to her father, cried out, 
 " Father, Tom wouldn't be naughty to you ever; I know he 
 wouldn't!" 
 
 "What! they mustn't say any harm o' Tom, eh?" said Mr. 
 Tulliver, with a certain tenderness in his hard-lined face, 
 patting his little girl on the back; then held her hands and 
 kept her between his knees, and spoke to Mr. Riley as though 
 Maggie couldn't hear: " She understands what one's talk- 
 ing about so as never was, and you should hear her read, 
 straight off, as if she knowed it all beforehand. And alias 
 at her book! Bless you!" — this with exultation — "she'll 
 understand the books better nor half the folks as are growed 
 up." 
 
 Maggie's cheeks began to flush with triumphant excite- 
 ment. She thought Mr. Riley would have a respect for her 
 
 8 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 now. He meanwhile was looking at her book, which he had 
 picked up, and presently said to her, " Come and tell me 
 something about this book; I want to know what the pictures 
 mean." 
 
 Maggie went to his elbow and, eagerly seizing one corner 
 of the book and tossing back her mane, said: 
 
 " Oh, I'll tell you what that means. That old woman in 
 the water's a witch — they've put her in to find out whether 
 she's a witch or no, and if she swims she's a witch, and if 
 she's drowned she's innocent, and not a witch, but only a 
 poor, silly, old woman. But what good would it do her then, 
 you know, when she was drowned? Only I suppose she'd 
 go to heaven, and God would make it up to her. And this 
 dreadful blacksmith with his arms akimbo, laughing — oh! 
 isn't he ugly? — I'll tell you what he is. He's the Devil, 
 really, for the devil has oftener the shape of a bad man than 
 any other, because, you know, if people saw he was the devil, 
 and he roared at them, they'd run away, and he couldn't 
 make them do what he pleased." 
 
 Mr. Tulliver had listened to this exposition of Maggie's 
 with petrifying wonder. 
 
 "Why, what book is it the wench has got hold on?" he 
 burst out at last. 
 
 "The ^ History of the Devil,' by Daniel Defoe — not quite 
 the right book for a little girl," said Mr. Riley. " How 
 came it among your books, Mr. Tulliver? " 
 
 Maggie looked hurt and discouraged, while her father 
 said: 
 
 " Why, it's one o' th' books I bought at Partridge's sale. 
 They was all bound alike, and I thought they'd all be good 
 books. There's Jeremy Taylor's ^ Holy Living and Dying' 
 among 'em. But it seems one mustn't judge by th' outside." 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Riley, patting Maggie on the head, " I 
 
 9 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 advise you to put by the ' History of the Devil.' Have you 
 no prettier books?" 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Maggie, " I've got ' ^sop's Fables,' and 
 a book about kangaroos and things, and the ' Pilgrim's 
 Progress.' " 
 
 "Ah, a beautiful book," said Mr. Riley, "you can't read 
 a better." 
 
 " Well, there's a great deal about the devil in that," said 
 Maggie triumphantly, " and I'll show you the picture of 
 him in his true shape as he fought with Christian." 
 
 Maggie ran to a small bookcase and reached down an old 
 copy of Bunyan, which opened at once to the picture she 
 wanted. 
 
 " Here he is," she said, running back to Mr. Riley, " and 
 Tom coloured him for me with his paints, the body all black, 
 you know, and the eyes red, like fire, because he's all fire 
 inside, and it shines out at his eyes." 
 
 "Go, go!" said Mr. Tulliver peremptorily. "Shut up 
 the book and let's hear no more o' such talk. It is as I 
 thought — the child 'uU learn more mischief nor good wi' 
 the books. Go, go and see after your mother." 
 
 Maggie shut up the book at once, with a sense of disgrace, 
 but not being inclined to see after her mother, she com- 
 promised the matter by going into a dark corner behind her 
 father's chair, and nursing her doll, toward which she had 
 an occasional fit of fondness in Tom's absence, lavishing so 
 many warm kisses on it that the waxen cheeks had a wasted 
 unhealthy appearance. 
 
 " Did you ever hear th' like on't?" said Mr. Tulliver, as 
 Maggie retired. " It's a pity but what she'd been the lad — 
 she'd 'a' been a match for the lawyers, she would." 
 
 " But your lad is not stupid, is he?" asked Mr. Riley. 
 
 "Well, he isn't not to say stupid — he's got a notion o' 
 
 10 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 things out o' door, an' a sort o' common sense, as he'd lay 
 hold o' things by the right handle. But he's slow with his 
 tongue, and he reads but poorly, and can't abide the books, 
 and spells all wrong, they tell me, and as shy as can be wi' 
 strangers, and you never hear him say cute things like the 
 little wench. Now, I want to send him to a school where 
 they'll make him a bit nimble wi' his tongue and his pen, 
 and make a smart chap of him. I dare say, now, you know 
 of a school as 'ud be just th' thing for him," said Mr. 
 Tulliver. 
 
 Mr. Riley did know of such an one, conducted by a clergy- 
 man, Mr. Stelling by name, who for a moderate sum was 
 willing to instruct youths in the rudiments of English and 
 the classics; and to this gentleman's care Mr. and Mrs. Tul- 
 liver later decided to entrust Tom at midsummer. 
 
 It was a disappointment to Maggie that she was not 
 allowed to go with her father in the gig to fetch Tom home 
 from the Academy to prepare to go to the new school; but 
 the morning was too wet, Mrs. Tulliver said, for a little girl 
 to go out in her best bonnet. Maggie took the opposite view 
 very strongly, and in consequence of this difference of opin- 
 ion, when her mother was brushing out the reluctant black 
 crop, Maggie suddenly rushed from under her hands and 
 dipped her head in a basin of water, in the vindictive deter- 
 mination that there should be no more chance of curls that 
 day. 
 
 "Maggie, Maggie!" exclaimed Mrs. Tulliver; "what is 
 to become of you if you're so naughty? I'll tell your Aunt 
 Glegg and your Aunt Pullet, and they'll never love you any 
 more. Oh, dear, oh, dear! Look at your clean pinafore, 
 wet from top to bottom." 
 
 Before this remonstrance was finished, Maggie was 
 already out of hearing, making her way toward the great 
 
 II 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 attic that was her favourite retreat. Here she fretted out 
 all her ill humours, and talked aloud to the worm-eaten 
 floors and the worm-eaten shelves, and the dark rafters fes- 
 tooned with cobwebs ; and here she kept a Fetish which she 
 punished for all her misfortunes. This was a large wooden 
 doll, which once stared with the roundest of eyes above the 
 roundest of cheeks; but was now entirely defaced by a long 
 career of vicarious suffering. Three nails driven into the 
 head commemorated as many crises in Maggie's nine years 
 of earthly struggle; that luxury of vengeance having been 
 suggested to her by the picture of Jael destroying Sisera in 
 the old Bible. The last nail had been driven in with a fiercer 
 stroke than usual, for the fetish on that occasion represented 
 Aunt Glegg. But immediately afterward Maggie had re- 
 flected that if she drove many nails in, she would not be so 
 well able to fancy that the head was hurt when she knocked 
 it against the wall, nor to comfort it, and make believe to 
 poultice it, when her fury was abated. Since then she had 
 driven no more nails in, but had soothed herself by alter- 
 nately grinding and beating the wooden head against the 
 great chimneys that made two pillars supporting the roof. 
 That was what she did this morning on reaching the attic, 
 sobbing until, standing by the window, she saw that the sun 
 was breaking out, the sound of the mill seemed cheerful 
 again, the granary doors were open, and there was Yap, the 
 terrier, trotting about and sniffing vaguely as if he were in 
 search of a companion. It was irresistible. Maggie ran 
 downstairs, dashed along the passage lest she should en- 
 counter her mother, and was quickly out in the yard, whirl- 
 ing around and singing as she whirled, "Yap, Yap, Tom is 
 coming home! " while Yap danced and barked around her. 
 "Hegh, hegh, Miss, you'll make yourself giddy, an' 
 tumble down i' th' dirt," said Luke, the head miller. 
 
 12 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 Maggie paused in her whirling, and said, staggering a 
 little, ^' Oh, no, it doesn't make me giddy, Luke ; may I go 
 into the mill with you? " 
 
 Maggie loved to linger in the great spaces of the mill, and 
 often came out with her black hair powdered to a whiteness 
 that made her dark eyes flash out with new fire. The 
 resolute din, the unresting motion of the great stones, the 
 meal forever pouring, pouring, the fine white powder soft- 
 ening all surfaces and making the very spider-nets look like 
 a fairy lace work, the sweet, pure scent of the meal — all 
 helped to make her feel that the mill was a little world apart 
 from her everyday life. But she liked best the corn-hutch 
 where there were great heaps of grain which she could sit on 
 and slide down continually. Now, as she sat sliding on the 
 heap near where Luke was busy, she said, " I think you 
 never read any book but the Bible, did you, Luke? " 
 
 ^' Nay, Miss, an' not much o' that," said Luke, with great 
 frankness. " I'm no reader, I aren't." 
 
 " Why, you're like my brother Tom, Luke," said Maggie, 
 wishing to make the conversation agreeable; "Tom's not 
 fond of reading, but I think he's clever, too, for all he doesn't 
 like books — he makes beautiful whip-cord and rabbit pens." 
 
 " Ah," said Luke, " but he'll be fine and vexed, as the rab- 
 bits are all dead." 
 
 "Dead!" screamed Maggie, jumping up; "what! the 
 lop-eared one and the spotted doe that he spent all his money 
 to buy?" 
 
 " As dead as moles," said Luke ; " you see. Miss, they were 
 in that far tool house, and it was nobody's business to see 
 to 'em." 
 
 " Oh, dear, Luke," said Maggie, while the big tears rolled 
 down her cheek: "Tom told me to take care of 'em every 
 day, and I forgot. How could I remember when they didn't 
 
 13 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 come into my head, you know? Oh ! he will be so angry with 
 me, and so sorry about his rabbits, and so am I sorry. Oh, 
 wh^it shall I do?" 
 
 " Don't you fret, Miss," said Luke soothingly, " they're 
 nash things, them lop-eared rabbits; they'd happen ha' died 
 if they'd been fed. Master Tom will know better nor buy 
 such things another time. Don't you fret. Miss. Will you 
 come along home wi' me and see my wife? I'm a-goin' 
 this minute." 
 
 The invitation offered an agreeable distraction to Mag- 
 gie's grief, and her tears gradually subsided as she trotted 
 along by Luke's side to his pleasant cottage, where his wife 
 exhibited her hospitality in bread and treacle, and showed 
 Maggie so many works of art that she actually forgot for 
 the time being that she had any special cause for sadness, and 
 did not dwell upon it painfully again until the hour for 
 Tom's arrival approached. 
 
 At last the sound of the gig wheels was heard, and in spite 
 of the wind, Mrs. Tulliver came outside the door, and even 
 held her hand on Maggie's offending head, forgetting all 
 the griefs of the morning. 
 
 *^ There he is, my sweet lad! But Lord ha' mercy! he's 
 got never a collar on ; it's been lost on the road, I'll be bound, 
 and spoilt the set." 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver stood with her arms open. Maggie jumped 
 first on one leg and then on the other, while Tom descended 
 from the gig and said with masculine reticence as to the 
 tender emotion, "Hello! Yap — what! are you there?" 
 
 Nevertheless he submitted to be kissed, while his blue- 
 grey eyes wandered towards the croft and the lambs and 
 the river, where he promised himself that he would begin to 
 fish the first thing to-morrow morning. He was one of those 
 lads that grow everywhere in England — a lad with light- 
 
 14 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 brown hair, cheeks of cream and roses, full lips, indetermi- 
 nate nose and eyebrows — a face in which it seems impossible 
 to discern anything but the generic character of boyhood. 
 
 "Maggie," said Tom confidentially, later, "you don't 
 know what I've got in my pockets!" 
 
 "No," said Maggie, "how stodgy they look, Tom! Is 
 it marls (marbles) or cobnuts?" Maggie's heart sank a lit- 
 tle, because Tom always said it was " no good " playing with 
 her at those games, she played so badly. 
 
 "Marls! no; I've swopped all my marls with the little 
 fellows, and cobnuts are no fun, you silly, only when the 
 nuts are green. But see here!" He drew something half 
 out of his right-hand pocket. 
 
 "What is it?" said Maggie, in a whisper. "I can see 
 nothing but a bit of yellow." 
 
 "Why, it's — a — new Guess, Maggie!" 
 
 " Oh, I can't guess, Tom," said Maggie impatiently. 
 
 " Don't be a spitfire, else I won't tell you," said Tom, 
 thrusting his hand back into his pocket and looking de- 
 termined. 
 
 "No," said Maggie, imploringly, laying hold of the arm 
 that was held stiffly in the pocket. " I'm not cross, Tom, it 
 was only because I can't bear guessing. Please be good 
 to me." 
 
 Tom's arm slowly relaxed, and he said, "Well, then, it's 
 a new fishline — two new 'uns — one for you, Maggie, all to 
 yourself. I wouldn't go halves in the toffee and gingerbread 
 on purpose to save the money; and Gibson and Spouncer 
 fought with me because I wouldn't. And here's hooks; see 
 here — I say, won't we go and fish to-morrow down by the 
 Round Pool? And you shall catch your own fish, Maggie, 
 and put the worms on, and everything — won't it be fun? " 
 
 Maggie's answer was to throw her arms round Tom's 
 
 15 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 neck and hug him, and hold her cheek against his without 
 speaking, while he slowly unwound some of the line, saying, 
 after a pause: 
 
 "Wasn't I a good brother, now, to buy you a line all to 
 yourself? You know, I needn't have bought it, if I hadn't 
 liked." 
 
 "Yes, very, very good — I do love you, Tom." 
 
 Tom had put the line back in his pocket before he spoke 
 again. 
 
 " And the fellows fought me, because I wouldn't give in 
 about the toffee." 
 
 "Oh, dear! I wish they wouldn't fight at your school, 
 Tom. Didn't it hurt you? " 
 
 " Hurt me? No," said Tom; " I gave Spouncer a black 
 eye, I know; that's what he got by wanting to leather me; I 
 wasn't going to go halves because anybody leathered me." 
 
 " Oh, how brave you are, Tom! I think you're like Sam- 
 son. If there came a lion roaring at me, I think you'd fight 
 him, wouldn't you, Tom? " 
 
 " How can a lion come roaring at you, you silly thing? 
 There's no lions, only in the shows." 
 
 "No; but if we were in the lion countries — I mean in 
 Africa, where it's very hot; the lions eat people there. I can 
 show it you in the book where I read it." 
 
 " Well, I should get a gun and shoot him." 
 
 " But if you hadn't got a gun — we might have gone out, 
 you know, not thinking, just as we go fishing; and then a 
 great lion might run toward us roaring, and we couldn't 
 get away from him. What should you do, Tom?" 
 
 "Oh, don't bother, Maggie! you're such a silly. I shall 
 go and see my rabbits." 
 
 Maggie's heart began to flutter with fear. She dared not 
 lell the sad truth at once, but she walked after Tom in 
 
 i6 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 trembling silence as he went out, thinking how she could 
 tell him the news so as to soften at once his sorrow and his 
 anger; for Maggie dreaded Tom's anger of all things; it 
 was quite a different anger from her own. 
 
 '^ Tom," she said, timidly, " how much money did you 
 give for your rabbits? " 
 
 "Two half-crowns and a sixpence," said Tom promptly. 
 
 " I think I've got a great deal more than that in my steel 
 purse upstairs. I'll ask mother to give it you." 
 
 "What for?" said Tom. " I've got a great deal more 
 money than you, because I'm a boy. I always have half- 
 sovereigns and sovereigns for my Christmas boxes, because 
 I shall be a man, and you only have five-shilling pieces, 
 because you're only a girl." 
 
 " Well, but, Tom — if mother would let me give you two 
 half-crowns and a sixpence out of my purse to put into your 
 pocket and spend, you know; and buy some more rabbits 
 with it?" 
 
 " More rabbits? I don't want any more." 
 
 " Oh, but, Tom, they're all dead." 
 
 Tom stopped immediately in his walk and turned round 
 toward Maggie. " You forgot to feed 'em, then, and Harry 
 forgot?" he said, his colour heightening for a moment, but 
 soon subsiding. " I'll pitch into Harry. I'll have him 
 turned away — and I don't love you, Maggie. You sha'n't 
 go fishing with me to-morrow. I told you to go and see the 
 rabbits every day." He walked on again. 
 
 "Yes, but I forgot — and I couldn't help it, indeed, Tom. 
 I'm so very sorry," said Maggie, while the tears rushed fast. 
 
 " You're a naughty girl," said Tom severely, " and I'm 
 sorry I bought you the fishline. I don't love you. Last 
 holidays you licked the paint off my lozenge box, and the 
 holidays before that you let the boat drag my fishline down 
 
 17 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 when I'd set you to watch it, and you pushed vour head 
 through my kite, all for nothing." 
 
 ''But I didn't mean to," said Maggie; "I couldn't 
 help it." 
 
 " Yes, you could," said Tom, " if you'd minded what you 
 wxre doing. And you're a naughty girl, and you sha'n't go 
 fishing with me to-morrow." 
 
 With this terrible conclusion, Tom ran away toward the 
 mill, to complain to Luke of Harry's negligence. 
 
 Maggie stood motionless for a minute or two, then she ran 
 up to her attic, where she sat on the floor and sobbed aloud. 
 She never thought of beating or grinding her fetish : she was 
 too miserable to be angry, but it soon seemed as though she 
 had been hours in the attic. Well, she would stay up there 
 and starve herself — hide herself and stay there all night — 
 and then they would all be frightened, and Tom would be 
 sorry. Thus Maggie thought in the pride of her heart as 
 she crept behind a tub; but presently she began to cry again 
 at the idea that they didn't mind her being there. If she 
 went down again to Tom now — would he forgive her? 
 Perhaps her father would be there, and he would take her 
 part. But, then, she wanted Tom to forgive her because he 
 loved her, not because his father told him. No, she would 
 never go down if Tom didn't come to fetch her. This 
 resolution lasted in great intensity for five dark minutes 
 behind the tub ; then she crept out, and just then she heard 
 a quick footstep on the stairs. 
 
 Tom had been too much interested in his talk with Luke 
 in going the round of the premises to think of Maggie, and 
 the effects his anger had produced on her. He meant to 
 punish her, and that business having been performed, he oc- 
 cupied himself with other matters, like a practical person. 
 But when he had been called in to tea, his father said, " Why, 
 
 i8 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 where's the little wench? " and Mrs. TuUiver almost at the 
 same moment said, ''Where's your little sister?" 
 
 " I don't know," said Tom. " I haven't seen her this two 
 hours." 
 
 " What! hasn't she been playing with you all this while? " 
 said the father; "she'd been thinking o' nothing but your 
 coming home." 
 
 " Perhaps she's up in the attic," said Mrs. TuUiver. 
 
 "You go and fetch her down, Tom," said Mr. TuUiver 
 rather sharply, suspecting that the lad had been hard on the 
 "little 'un," else she would never have left his side. "And 
 be good to her, do you hear? Else I'll let you know better." 
 
 Tom never disobeyed his father, so he went out rather 
 sullenly, and it was his step that Maggie heard on the stairs. 
 Her heart began to beat violently with the sudden shock of 
 hope. He only stood still at the top of the stairs, and said, 
 " Maggie, you're to come down." But she rushed to him 
 and clung round his neck, sobbing, " Oh, Tom, please for- 
 give me — I can't bear it — I will always be good — always 
 remember things — do love me — please, dear Tom! " 
 
 There were tender fibres in the lad that had been used to 
 answer Maggie fondly. He actually began to kiss her in 
 return and say, "Don't cry, then, Magsie; eat a bite o' 
 cake!" 
 
 Maggie's sobs began to subside, and she put out her mouth 
 for the cake and bit a piece; and then Tom bit a piece, just 
 for company, and they ate together and rubbed each other's 
 cheeks and brows and noses together while they ate, with a 
 resemblance to two friendly ponies. 
 
 " Come along, Magsie, and have tea," said Tom, at last, 
 when there was no more cake except what was downstairs. 
 
 So ended the sorrows of this day, and the next morning 
 Maggie was trotting with her own fishing rod in one hand 
 
 19 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 and a handle of the basket in the other, stepping always by 
 a peculiar gift in the muddiest places, and looking radiant 
 because Tom was good to her. They were on their way to 
 the Round Pool. The sight of the old favourite spot always 
 heightened Tom's good humour, and he spoke to Maggie 
 in the most amicable whispers as he opened the precious 
 basket and prepared their tackle. He threw her line for 
 her, and put the rod into her hand. Maggie thought it prob- 
 able that the small fish would come to her hook and the 
 large ones to Tom's. But she had forgotten all about the 
 fish, and was looking dreamily at the glassy water, when 
 Tom said in a loud whisper, "Look, look, Maggie!" and 
 came running to prevent her from snatching her line away. 
 
 Maggie was frightened lest she had been doing something 
 wrong, as usual, but presently Tom drew out her line and 
 brought a large tench bouncing on the grass, while he ex- 
 claimed, "Oh, Magsie, you little duck, empty the basket." 
 
 Maggie was not conscious of unusual merit, but it was 
 enough that Tom called her Magsie, and was pleased with 
 her. There was nothing to mar her delight, and she thought 
 it would make a very nice Heaven to sit by the pool in that 
 way and never be scolded. She never knew she had a bite 
 till Tom told her; but she liked fishing very much. 
 
 It was one of their happy mornings. They trotted along 
 and sat down together with no thought that life would ever 
 change much for them; they would only get bigger and not 
 go to school, and it would always be like the holidays. And 
 the mill with its booming; the great chestnut tree under 
 which they played at houses; their own little river, the Rip- 
 ple, where the banks seemed like home, and Tom was alway 
 seeing the water rats, while Maggie gathered the purple 
 plumy tops of the reeds — above all, the great Floss, along 
 which they wandered with a sense of travel to see the rush- 
 
 20 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 ing spring tide come up like a hungry monster — these things 
 would always be just the same to them, and people were at 
 a disadvantage who lived on any other spot of the globe — so 
 thought Tom and Maggie on that happy morning. 
 
 This was Easter week, and by the morrow the Tulliver 
 household was all agog with preparation for a family party. 
 Sister Glegg, Sister Pullet, and Sister Deane, with their 
 husbands, and Sister Deane's model child, Lucy, were all 
 coming to give their opinion about Tom's going to the new 
 school. 
 
 On the day before the party, there were such suggestive 
 scents as of plum-cakes in the oven and jellies in the hot 
 state, that Tom and Maggie made many inroads into the 
 kitchen, and were only induced to keep aloof for a time 
 by being allowed to carry away a sufficient load of booty. 
 
 "Tom," said Maggie, as they sat on the boughs of the 
 elder tree, eating their jam-pufifs, "shall you run away to- 
 morrow? " 
 
 "No," said Tom, slowly, when he had finished his pufT, 
 and was eyeing the third, which was to be divided between 
 them—" no, I sha'n't." 
 
 "Why, Tom? Because Lucy's coming?" 
 
 "No," said Tom, opening his pocket-knife and holding 
 it over the pufif (it was a difficult problem to divide it into 
 two equal parts). "What do I care about Lucy?" 
 
 "Is it the tipsy-cake, then?" said Maggie. 
 
 "No, you silly, that '11 be good the day after. It's the 
 pudden. I know what the pudden's to be — apricot roll-up. 
 Oh, my buttons ! " 
 
 With this interjection, the knife descended on the pufif, 
 and it was in two, but Tom eyed the halves doubtfully. At 
 last he said: 
 
 " Shut your eyes, Maggie." 
 
 21 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 Maggie obeyed. 
 
 ^'Now, which '11 you have, Maggie, right hand or left?" 
 
 " I'll have that with the jam run out," said Maggie, keep- 
 ing her eyes shut to please Tom. 
 
 " Why, you don't choose like that. You may have it if it 
 comes to you fair, but I sha'n't give it you without. Right 
 or left — you choose now. Ha-a-a!" said Tom in a tone of 
 exasperation, as Maggie peeped. " You keep your eyes shut 
 now, else you sha'n't have any." 
 
 Maggie's power of sacrifice did not extend so far, so she 
 shut her eyes till Tom told her to " say which," and then she 
 said, '' Left hand." 
 
 " You've got it," said Tom, in rather a bitter tone. 
 
 "What! the bit with the jam run out? Oh, please, Tom, 
 have it; I don't mind; I like the other. Please take this." 
 
 " No, I sha'n't," said Tom, almost crossly, beginning on 
 his own inferior piece. 
 
 Maggie, thinking it was no use to contend further, began 
 too, and ate up her half puff with considerable relish as well 
 as rapidity. She didn't know he was looking at her; she was 
 see-sawing on the elder bough, lost to everything but a vague 
 sense of jam and idleness. 
 
 ''Oh, you greedy thing! " said Tom, when she had swal- 
 lowed the last morsel. He was conscious of having acted 
 very fairly, and thought she ought to have considered this 
 and made up to him for it. 
 
 Maggie turned quite pale. "Oh, Tom, why didn't you 
 ask me? I wanted you to have it, you know I did ! " 
 
 " I wasn't going to ask you for a bit. You might have 
 thought of it without, when you knew I gave you the best bit. 
 I wasn't going to do what wasn't fair, like Spouncer. He 
 always takes the best bit if you don't punch him for it; and if 
 you choose the best with your eyes shut, he changes his hands. 
 
 22 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 But if I go halfs, I'll go 'em fair; only I wouldn't be a 
 greedy." 
 
 With this, Tom jumped down from his bough and threv/ 
 a stone to Yap, who had also been looking on while the eat- 
 ables vanished, with an agitation of his ears and feelings 
 which could hardly have been without bitterness. Maggie, 
 meanwhile, sat still and gave herself up to the keen sense 
 of unmerited reproach for ten minutes, by which time re- 
 sentment began to give way to the desire of reconciliation, 
 and she jumped from her bough to look for Tom. He was 
 no longer in the paddock behind the rick-yard; where was 
 he likely to be gone, and Yap with him? Maggie ran to the 
 bank where she could see far away toward the Floss. There 
 was Tom, on his way to the great river, and he had another 
 companion besides Yap — naughty Bob Jakin. Maggie 
 felt sure that Bob was wicked without very distinctly know- 
 ing why, only when Tom had Bob for a companion he 
 didn't mind about Maggie, and would never let her go with 
 him. 
 
 It must be owned that Tom was fond of Bob's company. 
 How could it be otherwise? Bob knew, directly he saw a 
 bird's egg, whether it was a swallow's or a tomtit's, or a 
 yellow-hammer's ; he found out all the wasp's nests ; he could 
 set all sorts of traps ; he could climb the trees like a squirrel ; 
 and had quite a magical power of detecting hedgehogs and 
 stoats; and he had courage to do many things which indi- 
 cated a daring spirit. Such qualities had a fascination for 
 Tom; and every holiday-time Maggie was sure to have days 
 of grief because he had gone off with Bob. 
 
 Well, there was no hope for it; he was gone now, and 
 Maggie could think of no comfort but to fancy it was all 
 different — refashioning her little world into just what she 
 would like it to be. However, sooner than she had dared to 
 
 23 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 hope, Tom came back again, and reconciliation brought 
 the day to a pleasant close. 
 
 On the next day, when Mrs. TuUiver's sisters were all 
 assembled together, they were certainly a handsome group, 
 and Mrs. Glegg was not the least handsome of the sisters, 
 though Tom and Maggie considered her as the type of 
 ugliness — Maggie's principal reason being Mrs. TuUiver's 
 great efforts to induce the child to wear Aunt Glegg's worn- 
 out clothes. In the instance of a leghorn bonnet and a dyed 
 silk frock, Maggie, declaring that the frock smelt of nasty 
 dye, had basted it with the roast beef the first Sunday she 
 wore it, and finding this scheme ans.wer, had later pumped 
 on the bonnet with its green ribbons, so it had a general 
 resemblance to a sage cheese garnished with withered let- 
 tuces. I must urge in excuse for Maggie that Tom had 
 laughed at her in the bonnet, and said she looked like an 
 old Judy. Aunt Pullet, too, made presents of clothes, but 
 these were always pretty enough to please Maggie as well 
 as her mother. Of all her sisters, Mrs. Tulliver preferred 
 her sister Pullet. Maggie and Tom, on their part, thought 
 her tolerable chiefly because she was not their Aunt Glegg. 
 Tom always declined to go more than once during his holi- 
 days to see either of them. Both his uncles tipped him that 
 once, of course, but at his Aunt Pullet's there were a great 
 many toads to pelt in the cellar area, so that he preferred to 
 visit her. Maggie shuddered at the toads, but liked her 
 Uncle Pullet's musical snufif-box. 
 
 While the sisters were together exchanging news of a con- 
 fidential nature, their conversation was curtailed by the 
 appearance of little Lucy Deane. Maggie, with her hair 
 rough as well as out of curl, rushed at once to Lucy, who put 
 up the neatest little rosebud mouth to be kissed; everything 
 about her was neat — her little round neck with the row of 
 
 24 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 coral beads, her little straight nose, her little clear eyebrows, 
 her hazel eyes which looked up with shy pleasure at Maggie, 
 taller by the head, though scarcely a year older. Maggie 
 always looked at Lucy with delight. She was fond of fancy- 
 ing a world where people never got any larger than children 
 of their own age, and she made the queen of it just like Lucy, 
 with a little crown on her head, and a little sceptre in 
 her hand — only the queen was Maggie herself in Lucy's 
 form. 
 
 "Oh, Lucy," she burst out, after kissing her, "you'll stay 
 with Tom and me, won't you? Oh, kiss her, Tom." 
 
 Tom, too, had come up to Lucy, but he was not going to 
 kiss her — no; he came up to her with Maggie, because it 
 seemed easier than saying "how do you do?" to all those 
 aunts and uncles; then he stood looking at nothing in partic- 
 ular, with the blushing awkward air and semi-smile which 
 are common to shy boys when in company. 
 
 " Go and speak to your aunts and uncles, my dears," said 
 Mrs. Tulliver, looking anxious and melancholy. She 
 wanted to whisper to Maggie to go and have her hair 
 brushed. 
 
 "Well, and how do you do? And I hope you're good 
 children, are you?" said Aunt Glegg in the loud emphatic 
 way she always addressed them. 
 
 "Well, my dears," said Aunt Pullet, in a compassionate 
 voice, "you grow wonderful fast. I doubt they'll outgrow 
 their strength," she added to their mother. " I'd have the 
 gell's hair thinned and cut shorter, sister, if I was you; it 
 isn't good for her health. It's that as makes her skin so 
 brown, I shouldn't wonder." 
 
 " No, no," said Mr. Tulliver, " the child's healthy enough ; 
 there's nothing ails her. There's red wheat as well as white, 
 for that matter, and some like the dark grain best. But it 
 
 25 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 'ud be as well if Bessy 'ud have the child's hair cut so as it 
 'ud lie smooth." 
 
 A dreadful resolve was gathering in Maggie's breast, but 
 it was arrested by the desire to know from her Aunt Deane 
 whether she would leave Lucy behind. After various 
 reasons for refusal, Mrs. Deane appealed to Lucy herself. 
 
 " You wouldn't like to stay behind without mother, should 
 you, Lucy?" 
 
 "Yes, please, mother," said Lucy, timidly, blushing very 
 pink all over her little neck. 
 
 When this point of Lucy's staying was settled, Mrs. TuUi- 
 ver whispered to Maggie, "Now go and get your hair 
 brushed ; do, for shame. I told you not to come in without 
 going to Martha first; you know I did." 
 
 As Maggie left the room, she pulled Tom's sleeve in pass- 
 ing him. " Come upstairs with me," she whispered. 
 " There's something I want to do before dinner." 
 
 Tom followed her upstairs willingly enough, and saw her 
 go to a drawer in her mother's room, from which she took 
 out a large pair of scissors. 
 
 "What are they for, Maggie?" said Tom, feeling his 
 curiosity awakened. 
 
 Maggie answered by seizing her front locks, and cutting 
 them straight across the middle of her forehead. 
 
 "Oh, my buttons, Maggie, you'll catch it!" exclaimed 
 Tom. " You'd better not cut any more off." 
 
 Snip! went the great scissors again, while Tom was speak- 
 ing, and he couldn't help feeling it was rather good fun; 
 Maggie would look so queer. 
 
 " Here, Tom, cut it behind for me," said Maggie, ex- 
 cited by her own daring and anxious to finish the deed. 
 
 "You'll catch it, you knov/," said Tom, hesitating a little 
 as he took the scissors. 
 
 26 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 " Never mind, make haste!" said Maggie, giving a little 
 stamp with her foot. Her cheeks were quite flushed. 
 
 The black locks were so thick nothing could be more 
 tempting to a lad who had already tasted the forbidden 
 pleasure of cutting the pony's mane. One delicious grinding 
 snip, and then another and another, and the hinder locks fell 
 heavily on the floor and Maggie stood cropped in a jagged 
 uneven manner, but with a sense of clearness and freedom, as 
 if she had emerged from a wood into the open plain. 
 
 " Oh, Maggie," said Tom, jumping around her, and slap- 
 ping his knees as he laughed. ^'What a queer thing you 
 look! Look at yourself in the glass." 
 
 Maggie felt an unexpected pang. She looked in the glass, 
 and still Tom laughed and clapped his hands, and Maggie's 
 flushed cheeks began to pale, and her lips to tremble a 
 little. 
 
 " Oh, Maggie, you'll have to go down to dinner directly," 
 said Tom. " Oh, my ! " 
 
 " Don't laugh at me, Tom," said Maggie, with an out- 
 burst of angry tears, stamping and giving him a push. 
 
 "Now, then, spit-fire!" said Tom. "What did you cut 
 it off for then? I shall go down; I can smell the dinner 
 going in." 
 
 He hurried downstairs, and left poor Maggie crying 
 before the glass. She felt it impossible to go down to dinner, 
 and endure the severe eyes and severe words of her aunts, 
 while Tom and Lucy and Martha, who waited at table, and 
 perhaps her father and uncles, would laugh at her; and if 
 she had only let her hair alone, she could have sat v/ith Tom 
 and Lucy, and had the apricot pudding and the custard! 
 
 " Miss Maggie, you're to come down this minute," said 
 Keziah, entering the room hurriedly. " Lorks! What have 
 you been a-doing? I niver seed such a fright!" 
 
 27 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 ^^ Don't, Keziah," said Maggie, angrily; ''go away; I 
 don't want any dinner; I sha'n't come." 
 
 " Maggie, you little silly," said Tom, peeping into the 
 room, " why don't you come and have your dinner? There's 
 lots o' goodies, and mother says you're to come." 
 
 Oh, it was dreadful ! Tom was so hard and unconcerned ; 
 if he had been crying on the floor, Maggie would have cried 
 too. And there was the dinner so nice, and she was so 
 hungry. It was very bitter. But Tom was not altogether 
 hard — he went and put his head near her, and said in a 
 comforting tone, "Won't you come, then, Magsie? Shall I 
 bring you a bit o' pudding, when I've had mine, and a 
 custard, and things?" 
 
 "Ye-ye-yes," said Maggie, beginning to feel life a little 
 more tolerable. 
 
 " Very well," said Tom, adding, " but you'd better come, 
 you know. There's the dessert — nuts, you know, and cow- 
 slip wine." 
 
 Maggie's tears had ceased. Tom's good nature had taken 
 off the keenest edge of her suffering. Slowly she rose from 
 amongst her scattered locks, and made her way downstairs, 
 peeping in the dining-room door. She saw Tom and Lucy 
 with an empty chair between them, and there were the 
 custards on a side table ; it was too much. She slipped in and 
 went toward the empty chair. But she had no sooner sat 
 down than she repented. 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver gave a scream as she saw her that made 
 all eyes turn toward Maggie, while Uncle Glegg said, 
 " Hey-dey, what little gell's this? Why, I don't know her. 
 Is it some little gell you've picked up in the road, Keziah? " 
 
 "Why, she's gone and cut her hair herself," said Mr. Tul- 
 liver, laughing with much enjoyment. " Did you ever know 
 such a little hussy as it is? " 
 
 28 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 "Why, little Miss, youVe made yourself look very 
 funny," said Uncle Pullet; while Aunt Glegg said severely, 
 " Fie, for shame! Little gells as cut their own hair should 
 be whipped, and fed on bread and water — not come and sit 
 down with their aunts and uncles." 
 
 " She's more like a gypsy nor ever," said Aunt Pullet, in 
 a pitying tone. " It's very bad luck, sister, as the gell should 
 be so brown ; the boy's fair enough. I doubt it '11 stand in her 
 way i' life to be so brown." 
 
 " She's a naughty child, as '11 break her mother's heart," 
 said Mrs. Tulliver, with tears in her eyes. 
 
 Maggie seemed to be listening to a chorus of reproach and 
 derision. She felt convinced also that Tom was rejoicing 
 in her ignominy. Her feeble power of defiance left her, her 
 heart swelled, and getting up from her chair, she ran to her 
 father, hid her face on his shoulder, and burst into loud 
 sobbing. 
 
 " Come, come, my wench," said her father soothingly, 
 putting his arms around her; "never mind, you was in the 
 right to cut it off if it plagued you; give over crying — 
 father'll take your part." Delicious words of tenderness! 
 Maggie never forgot them. They were as balm for her 
 wounds, and with the dessert, there came entire deliverance 
 for her, for the children were told they might have their 
 nuts and wine in the summer house, since the day was so 
 mild, and Mrs. Tulliver was eager to communicate Mr. 
 Tulliver's intention concerning Tom without the restraint 
 of the children's presence. There was much opposition 
 among the brothers and sisters to the plan for Tom's future, 
 and a heated debate, which would have ended in a family 
 quarrel, had not Mrs. Tulliver tactfully suggested that the 
 sisters go out and join the children. 
 
 No proposition could have been more seasonable. There 
 
 29 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 were few things the men liked better than being left by them- 
 selves to discuss current topics without frivolous interrup- 
 tion, and so the visit ended peacefully for all. 
 
 The next day began ill with Maggie, for as early as eleven 
 o'clock the hairdresser from St. Ogg's arrived and spoke in 
 the severest terms of the condition in which he found her 
 hair, holding up one jagged lock after another, and saying 
 " See here! Tut, tut, tut! " in a tone of mingled disgust and 
 pity, which to Maggie's imagination was equivalent to the 
 strongest expression of public opinion. 
 
 In the afternoon the children were to pay a visit with 
 Mrs. Tulliver to Garum Firs, Aunt Pullet's home, and the 
 preparation for a visit being always a serious affair, by 
 twelve o'clock Maggie was frowning and twisting her 
 shoulders in the prickliest of tuckers, and Tom's cheeks were 
 looking particularly brilliant as a relief to his best blue suit, 
 which he wore with becoming calmness, having, after a 
 little wrangling, effected what was always the one point of 
 interest to him in his toilet — he had transferred all the con- 
 tents of his everyday pockets to those actually in wear. 
 
 As for Lucy, she was just as pretty and neat as she had 
 been yesterday, and looked with wondering pity at Maggie 
 pouting and writhing under the exasperating tucker. They 
 were allowed to build card houses till dinner as a suitable 
 amusement for boys and girls in their best clothes. Tom 
 could build perfect pyramids of houses, but Maggie could 
 never bear the laying on of the roof. It happened that Lucy 
 proved wonderfully clever at building, and that Tom conde- 
 scended to admire her houses, the more readily because she 
 had asked him to teach her. Maggie, too, would have ad- 
 mired them without ill-temper if her tucker had not made 
 her peevish, and if Tom had not laughed when her houses 
 fell and told her she was a stupid. 
 
 30 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 " Don't laugh at me, Tom! " she burst out angrily; " I'm 
 not a stupid. I know a great many things you don't." 
 
 " Oh, I dare say. Miss Spit-fire! I'd never be such a cross 
 thing as you, making faces like that. Lucy doesn't do so. I 
 like Lucy better than you ; I wish Lucy was my sister." 
 
 ^' Then it's very wicked and cruel of you to wish so," said 
 Maggie, starting up hurriedly from the floor and upsetting 
 Tom's wonderful pagoda. Tom turned white with anger, 
 but said nothing, and Maggie stood in dismay and terror 
 while he walked away, and Lucy looked on mutely like a 
 kitten pausing from its lapping. 
 
 ^'Oh, Tom," said Maggie, at last going halfway toward 
 him, " I didn't mean to knock it down, indeed, I didn't." 
 
 But Tom took no notice of her, and thus the morning was 
 made heavy to her, and Tom's persistent coldness to her all 
 through their walk to Garum Firs spoiled the fresh air and 
 sunshine for her. He called Lucy to look at the half-bird's 
 nest without caring to show it to Maggie, and peeled a 'wil- 
 low switch for Lucy and himself without offering one to 
 Maggie. Lucy had said, " Maggie, shouldn't you like 
 one?" but Tom was deaf. 
 
 Still the sight of the peacock spreading his tail on the wall 
 just as they reached Garum Firs was enough to divert the 
 mind temporarily from personal grievances. And this was 
 only the beginning of beautiful sights at Garum Firs. All 
 the farmyard life was wonderful there — bantams, speckled 
 and top-knotted; Friesland hens with their feathers all 
 turned the wrong way; guinea-fowls that flew and screamed 
 and dropped their pretty spotted feathers; pouter-pigeons 
 and a tame magpie; nay, a goat, and a wonderful brindled 
 dog as large as a lion. Then there were white railings and 
 white gates and glittering weather-cocks and garden walks 
 paved with pebbles in beautiful patterns — nothing was quite 
 
 31 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 common at Garum Firs. As for the house, it was not less 
 remarkable. It had a receding centre, and two wings with 
 battlemented turrets and was covered with glittering white 
 stucco. 
 
 Uncle Pullet had seen the expected party approaching 
 and made haste to unchain the front door. Aunt Pullet, too, 
 appeared, saying, " Stop the children, Bessy! Don't let 
 them come up the doorsteps; Sally's bringing the old mat 
 and the duster to rub their shoes." Mrs. Pullet's front door- 
 mats were by no means intended to wipe shoes on, and Tom 
 rebelled particularly against this shoe-wiping, which he 
 always considered in the light of an indignity to his sex. He 
 felt it as the beginning of the disagreeables incident to a visit 
 to Aunt Pullet's. The next disagreeable was confined to his 
 feminine companions: it was mounting the polished stairs, 
 which were so glossy, that though Mrs. TuUiver ventured 
 on no comment, she felt it was a mercy when she and the 
 children were safe on the landing. While Tom waited 
 downstairs, the interval seemed long, for he was seated in 
 irksome constraint on the edge of a sofa directly opposite 
 his Uncle Pullet, who regarded him with twinkling grey 
 eyes and occasionally addressed him as " young sir." 
 
 The only alleviating circumstance in a tete-a-tete with 
 Uncle Pullet was that he kept a variety of lozenges and 
 peppermint drops about his person, and when at a loss for 
 conversation, he filled up the void by proposing a mutual 
 solace of this kind. 
 
 The appearance of the little girls suggested to Uncle Pul- 
 let the further solace of small sweet cakes, of which he also 
 kept a stock, but the three children had no sooner got the 
 tempting delicacy between their fingers than Aunt Pullet 
 desired them to wait till the tray and the plates came, else 
 they would make the floor " all over " crumbs. Lucy didn't 
 
 32 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 mind, for the cake was so pretty, she thought it was rather a 
 pity to eat it, but Tom, watching his opportunity while the 
 elders were talking, hastily stowed his in his mouth at two 
 bites, and chewed it furtively. As for Maggie, in an un- 
 lucky movement she let hers fall and crushed it beneath her 
 foot — which agitated her Aunt Pullet so much, that Mag- 
 gie, in conscious disgrace, began to despair of hearing the 
 musical snuff-box till it occurred to her to whisper to Lucy 
 to ask for a tune. Lucy, who always did what she was 
 desired to do, went up quietly to her uncle's knee, and blush- 
 ing while she fingered her necklace said, ^^ Will you please 
 play us a tune, uncle? " 
 
 When the fairy tune actually began, for the first time 
 Maggie quite forgot that she had a load on her mind, and 
 her face wore a bright look of happiness which made her 
 look pretty in spite of her brown skin. She sat immovable 
 with her hands clasped, until the magic music ceased, when 
 she jumped up and running toward Tom, put her arms 
 around his neck, and said, " Oh, Tom, isn't it pretty? " 
 
 As Tom at that moment had his glass of cow-slip wine in 
 his hand, she jerked him so as to make him spill half of it. 
 He must have been an extreme milk-sop not to say angrily, 
 " Look there, now! " which he did. 
 
 ^'Why don't you sit still, Maggie?" her mother said, 
 peevishly. 
 
 '' Little gells mustn't come to see me if they behave in that 
 way," said Aunt Pullet. 
 
 " Why, you're too rough. Miss," said Uncle Pullet. 
 
 Poor Maggie sat down again with the music all chased 
 out of her soul, and the seven small demons all in again. 
 
 Mrs. TuUiver, foreseeing nothing but misbehaviour while 
 the children remained in the house, suggested that they 
 might go and play in the garden, which invitation they 
 
 33 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 eagerly accepted, and remained out of doors until tea-time, 
 when instead of the tea tray, Sally appeared and introduced 
 an object so startling that both Mrs. Pullet and Mrs. TuUi- 
 ver screamed, causing Uncle Pullet to swallow his lozenge, 
 for the fifth time in his life — as he afterward noted. The 
 startling object was no other than little Lucy, from her 
 small feet to her bonnet crown, wet and discoloured with 
 mud, holding out two tiny blackened hands and making a 
 very piteous face. 
 
 When the children left the house, Tom, after tickling a fat 
 toad in the area with a piece of string for some time, began 
 to look round for some other sport. 
 
 '' I say, Lucy," he said, " I mean to go to the pond and 
 look at the pike. You may go with me if you like," said 
 the young sultan. 
 
 "Oh, Tom, dare you?" said Lucy. ''Aunt said we 
 mustn't go out of the garden." 
 
 "Oh," said Tom, "nobody'U see us. Besides, I don't 
 care if they do — I'll run off home." 
 
 " But I couldn't run," said Lucy, who had never before 
 been exposed to such severe temptation. 
 
 " Oh, never mind, they won't be cross with you," said 
 Tom. " You say I took you." 
 
 Tom walked along and Lucy trotted by his side, timidly 
 enjoying the rare treat of doing something naughty. Maggie 
 saw them leaving the garden and could not resist the impulse 
 to follow. So she kept a few yards behind them, unobserved 
 by Tom, who was presently absorbed in watching a water 
 snake in the pond. 
 
 " Here, Lucy! " he said, "come here! take care! keep on 
 the grass — don't step where the cows have been." 
 
 Lucy came carefully as she was bidden. Maggie had 
 drawn nearer and nearer; at last she was close by Lucy, and 
 
 34 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 Tom, who had been aware of her approach, but would not 
 notice her till he was obliged, turned round and said — 
 ^^ Now get away, Maggie; there's no room for you on the 
 grass here. Nobody asked you to come." 
 
 Poor Maggie was tragic in her loneliness and passion, 
 and with a fierce thrust of her small brown arms she pushed 
 poor little pink and white Lucy into the cow-trodden mud. 
 Then Tom could not restrain himself, and gave Maggie two 
 smart slaps, as he ran to pick up Lucy, who lay crying help- 
 lessly. Maggie retreated to the roots of a tree a few yards 
 off and looked on impenitently Usually her repentance 
 came quickly after one rash deed, but now Tom and Lucy 
 had made her so miserable, she was glad to spoil their 
 happiness. 
 
 " I shall tell mother, you know. Miss Mag," said Tom, 
 loudly and emphatically as soon as Lucy was ready to walk 
 away. Lucy, meanwhile, was entirely absorbed by the spoil- 
 ing of her pretty best clothes, and the discomfort of being 
 wet and dirty, and it was in this sorry plight that she re- 
 treated with Tom toward Garum Firs, while Maggie sat on 
 the roots of the tree and looked after them. 
 
 "Goodness gracious!" screamed Aunt Pullet, "keep her 
 at the door, Sally! Don't bring her off the oil cloth, what- 
 ever you do." 
 
 "Why, she's tumbled into some nasty mud," said Mrs. 
 Tulliver, anxiously examining the child's clothes, as she felt 
 herself responsible for Lucy while she was visiting at the 
 Mill. 
 
 " If you please, 'um, it was Miss Maggie as pushed her 
 in," said Sally. " Master Tom's been and said so, and they 
 must ha' been to the pond, for it's only there they could ha' 
 got into such dirt." 
 
 "There it is, Bessy," said Mrs. Pullet, in a tone of pro- 
 
 35 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 phetic sadness; ^' it's your children — there's no knowing 
 what they'll come to." 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver was mute, feeling herself a truly wretched 
 mother. Meanwhile tea was to be brought in, and the two 
 naughty children were to have theirs in an ignominious man- 
 ner in the kitchen. Mrs. Tulliver went out to speak to them, 
 and after some search, found Tom alone. 
 
 ^' Tom, you naughty boy, where did you leave your sister? " 
 asked Mrs. Tulliver, in a distressed voice. 
 
 " Sitting under the tree, against tht pond," said Tom 
 indifferently. 
 
 " Then go and fetch her in this minute, you naughty boy. 
 And how could you think o' going to the pond, and taking 
 your sister where there was dirt?" 
 
 Tom hurried away to the pond, but presently returned 
 with the news that Maggie was nowhere to be found.. This 
 terrified everyone, until Tom suggested that she had prob- 
 ably gone home, which suggestion was seized as a comfort 
 by his mother. 
 
 " Sister, for goodness sakes, let them put the horse in the 
 carriage and take me home. We shall perhaps find her on 
 the road. Lucy can't walk in her dirty clothes," she said, 
 looking at that innocent victim who was wrapped up in a 
 shawl, and sitting with naked feet on the sofa. 
 
 Aunt Pullet was quite willing to take the shortest means 
 of restoring her premises to order and quiet, and it was not 
 long before Mrs. Tulliver was in the chaise, looking anx- 
 iously at the most distant point before her. What the father 
 would say if Maggie was lost, was a question that pre- 
 dominated over every other. 
 
 Meanwhile Maggie's intentions, as usual, were on a larger 
 scale than Tom had imagined. Her resolution after he and 
 Lucy had walked away, was not so simple as going home. 
 
 36 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 No! She would run away and go to the gypsies, and cruel 
 Tom and the rest of her relations who found fault with 
 her should never see her any more. Maggie had been so 
 often told she was like a gypsy, and '' half wild," that this 
 was by no means a new idea to her. She had even once sug- 
 gested to Tom that he should stain his face brown, and they 
 should run away together ; but Tom rejected the scheme with 
 contempt, objecting that gypsies were thieves, and hardly 
 got anything to eat, and had nothing to drive but a donkey. 
 To-day, however, Maggie thought her misery had reached 
 a pitch at which gypsydom was her only refuge, and she rose 
 from her seat on the roots of the tree with the sense that 
 this was a great crisis in her life, and resolved to run straight 
 away till she came to Dunlow Common, where there 
 would certainly be gypsies. She thought of her father as 
 she ran along, but she reconciled herself to the idea of part- 
 ing with him, by determining that she would secretly send 
 him a letter by a small gypsy, without telling where she 
 was and just let him know that she was well and happy and 
 always loved him very much. 
 
 Maggie soon got out of breath with running, but by the 
 time Tom got to the pond again she was three long fields 
 away, on the edge of the lane leading to the highroad. For 
 over an hour she wandered on through gates and fields, by 
 hedgerows, until at a bend in the lane she actually saw a tent, 
 with blue smoke rising before it. She even saw a tall figure 
 by the column of smoke, doubtless the gypsy mother. It was 
 astonishing to her that she did not feel more delighted. It 
 was also startling to find the gypsies in a lane, for a mys- 
 terious illimitable Common had always made part of 
 Maggie's picture of gypsy life. The tall figure, who proved 
 to be a young woman with a baby on her arm, walked slowly 
 to meet her. Maggie looked up in the new face rather 
 
 37 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 tremblingly, and was reassured by the thought that her Aunt 
 Pullet and the rest were right when they called her a gypsy; 
 for this face with the bright dark eyes and the long hair was 
 really something like what she used to see in the glass before 
 she cut her hair off. 
 
 " My little lady, where are you going to? " the gypsy said 
 in a tone of coaxing deference. 
 
 It was delightful, and just what Maggie expected. 
 
 ^^Not any farther," she replied, feeling as if she were say- 
 ing what she had rehearsed in a dream. " I'm come to stay 
 with you, please." 
 
 "That's pretty; come, then. Why, what a nice little lady 
 you are, to be sure," said the gypsy, taking her by the hand. 
 Maggie thought her very agreeable, but wished she had not 
 been so dirty. 
 
 There was quite a group around the fire. An old gypsy 
 woman was seated on the ground nursing her knees, and 
 occasionally poking a skewer into the kettle that sent forth 
 an odorous steam. Two small shock-headed children were 
 lying prone and resting on their elbows, and a placid donkey 
 was bending his head over a tall girl, who was scratching 
 his nose and indulging him with a bite of stolen hay. The 
 slanting sunlight fell kindly upon them, and the scene was 
 really very pretty and comfortable, Maggie thought, only 
 she hoped they would soon set out the tea-cups. Everything 
 would be quite charming when she had taught the gypsies 
 to use a washing-basin, and to feel an interest in books. It 
 was a little confusing, though, when they began to speak in a 
 language which Maggie did not understand, while the tall 
 girl, who was feeding the donkey, stared at her without offer- 
 ing any salutation ! At last the old woman said : 
 
 "What! my pretty lady, are you come to stay with us? 
 Sit ye down, and tell us where ye come from." 
 
 38 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 It was just like a story: Maggie liked to be called pretty 
 lady and treated in this way. She sat down and said: 
 
 " I'm come from home because I'm unhappy, and I mean 
 to be a gypsy. I'll live with you if you like, and I can teach 
 you a great many things." 
 
 '' Such a clever little lady," said the woman, " and such a 
 pretty bonnet and frock," she added, taking off Maggie's 
 bonnet and looking at it while she made an observation to 
 the old woman, in the unknown language. The tall girl 
 snatched the bonnet and put it on her own head hind-fore- 
 most with a grin; but Maggie was determined not to show 
 any weakness on this subject. 
 
 " I don't want to wear a bonnet," she said. " I'd rather 
 wear a red handkerchief, like yours. My hair was quite 
 long till yesterday, when I cut it off; but I dare say it will 
 grow again," she added apologetically, thinking it proba- 
 ble that gypsies had a strong prejudice in favour of long 
 hair. 
 
 " Oh, what a nice little lady! — and rich, I'm sure," said the 
 old woman. " Didn't you live in a beautiful house at 
 home?" 
 
 " Yes, my home is pretty, and I'm very fond of the river, 
 where we go fishing, but I'm often very unhappy. I should 
 have liked to bring my books with me, but I came away in a 
 hurry, you know. But I can tell you almost everything 
 there is in them, and that will amuse you. And I can tell 
 you something about geography, too — that's about the world 
 we live in — very useful and interesting. Did you ever hear 
 about Columbus? " 
 
 Maggie's eyes had begun to sparkle and her cheeks to 
 flush — she was really beginning to instruct the gypsies, and 
 gaining great influence over them. The gypsies themselves 
 were not without amazement at this talk, though their atten- 
 
 39 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 tion was divided by the contents of Maggie's pocket, which 
 had by this time been emptied without attracting her notice. 
 
 " Is that where you live, my little lady? " said the old 
 woman, at the mention of Columbus. 
 
 " Oh, no! " said Maggie, with some pity; " Columbus was 
 a very wonderful man who found out half the world, and 
 they put chains on him and treated him very badly, you 
 know; it's in my catechism of geography, but perhaps it's 
 rather too long to tell before tea — I want my tea so!^' 
 
 The last words burst from Maggie, in spite of herself, 
 with a sudden drop from patronising instruction to simple 
 peevishness. 
 
 "Why, she's hungry, poor little lady," said the younger 
 woman. " Give her some of the cold vitual. You've been 
 walking a good way, I'll be bound, my dear. Where's your 
 home?" 
 
 " It's a good way off," said Maggie. " My father is Mr. 
 Tulliver, but we mustn't let him know where I am, else he'd 
 fetch me home again. Where does the queen of the gypsies 
 live?" 
 
 "What! do you want to go to her, my little lady?" said the 
 younger woman. 
 
 " No," said Maggie ; " I'm only thinking that if she isn't a 
 very good queen you might be glad when she died, and you 
 could choose another. If I was a queen, I'd be kind to 
 everybody." 
 
 " Here's a bit o' nice vitual," said the old woman, handing 
 Maggie a lump of dry bread and a piece of cold bacon. 
 
 "Thank you," said Maggie, " but will you give me some 
 bread and butter and tea instead? I don't like bacon." 
 
 "We've got no tea nor butter," said the old woman, with 
 something like a scowl. 
 
 " Oh, a little bread and treacle would do," said Maggie. 
 
 40 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 "We han't got no treacle," said the old woman, crossly. 
 Whereupon there ensued much incomprehensible chattering 
 between the two women in their unknown tongue. Maggie 
 felt very lonely and quite sure she should begin to cry before 
 long, but the tears were checked by a new terror, when two 
 men came up. One carried a bag, which he flung down, 
 while a black cur ran barking up to Maggie, and threw 
 her into a tremor that only found a new cause in the curses 
 with which the younger man called the dog off. 
 
 Maggie felt that it was impossible she should ever be 
 queen of these people or ever communicate to them amusing 
 and useful knowledge. 
 
 Both the men seemed to be inquiring about her in the un- 
 known tongue. At last, the younger woman said in her 
 previous deferential coaxing tone: 
 
 " This nice little lady has come to live with us ; aren't you 
 glad?" 
 
 " Ay, very glad," said the younger man, who sat looking 
 at Maggie's silver thimble and other small matters that had 
 been taken from her pocket. He returned them all except 
 the thimble to the younger woman with some observation, 
 and she immediately restored them to Maggie's pocket, 
 while the men began to attack the contents of the kettle — a 
 stew of meat and potatoes — ^which had been turned out into 
 a yellow platter. 
 
 " Here, my dear, try if you can eat a bit o' this," said the 
 younger woman, handing some of the stew on a brown dish 
 with an iron spoon to Maggie, who, remembering that the 
 old woman had seemed angry with her for not liking the 
 bread and bacon, dared not refuse the stew, though fear had 
 chased away her appetite. If her father would but come by 
 in the gig and take her up ! Or even if Jack the Giantkiller, 
 or Mr. Greatheart, or St. George, who slew the dragon on 
 
 41 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 the half-pennies, would happen to pass that way! But Mag- 
 gie thought with a sinking heart that these heroes were never 
 seen in the neighbourhood of St. Ogg's; nothing very won- 
 derful ever came there. 
 
 Her ideas about the gypsies had undergone a rapid modi- 
 fication in the last five minutes. From having considered 
 them very respectful companions, she had begun to think 
 that they meant perhaps to kill her as soon as it was dark, and 
 cut up her body for gradual cooking; the suspicion crossed 
 her that the fierce-eyed old man was in fact the devil, who 
 might at any moment turn either into the grinning black- 
 smith or a fiery-eyed monster with dragon's wings. It was 
 no use trying to eat the stew, and the young woman, observ- 
 ing that she did not even take a spoonful of it, said: "What! 
 you don't like the smell of it, my dear, try a bit, come." 
 
 "No, thank you," said Maggie, summoning all her force 
 for a desperate effort, and trying to smile in a friendly way. 
 " I haven't time, I think, it seems getting darker. I think 
 I must go home now, and come again another day, and then 
 I could bring you a basket with some jam tarts and things." 
 
 Maggie rose as she threw out this illusory prospect, de- 
 voutly hoping that ApoUyon was gullible, but her hopes 
 sank when the old woman said, " Stop a bit; we'll take you 
 home all safe, when we've done supper; you shall ride home 
 like a lady." 
 
 Maggie sat down again, with little faith in his promise, 
 but presently the younger man led the donkey forward, ask- 
 ing, " What's the name o' the place where you live? " 
 
 " Dorlcote Mill is my home," said Maggie, eagerly. 
 
 " What! a big mill a little way this side o' St. Ogg's? " 
 
 " Yes," said Maggie. " Is it far off? I think I should 
 like to walk there, if you please." 
 
 "No, no, it'll be getting dark; we must make haste. And 
 
 42 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 the donkey'll carry you as nice as can be, you'll see." As he 
 spoke he set Maggie on the donkey, tremulous with the hope 
 that she was really going home. 
 
 " Here's your pretty bonnet," said the younger woman, 
 putting that recently despised but now welcome article of 
 costume on Maggie's head; " and you'll say we've been very 
 good to you, won't you? and what a nice little lady we said 
 you was? " 
 
 "Oh, yes, thank you," said Maggie; "I'm very much 
 obliged to you. But I wish you'd go with me, too." 
 
 " Ah, you're fondest o' me, aren't you?" said the woman. 
 " But I can't go, you'll go too fast for me." 
 
 It now appeared that the man also was to be seated on the 
 donkey, holding Maggie before him; and she was as in- 
 capable of remonstrating against this arrangement as the 
 donkey himself, though no nightmare had ever seemed to 
 her more horrible. Poor Maggie, in this entirely natural 
 ride on a short-paced donkey with a gypsy behind her, who 
 considered that he was earning half a crown, was more terri- 
 fied than she had ever been before in her life. 
 
 At last — oh, sight of joy! There was a finger-post at a 
 corner which read, " To St. Ogg's, 2 miles." The gypsy 
 really meant to take her home. He was probably a good 
 man, after all, and might have been rather hurt at the 
 thought that she didn't like coming with him alone. The 
 idea became stronger as she felt more and more certain 
 that she knew the road quite well, and she was considering 
 how she might efface the impression of her cowardice, 
 when she caught sight of someone coming on a white-faced 
 horse. 
 
 "Oh, stop, stop!" she cried out. "There's my father! 
 Oh, father, father!" 
 
 The sudden joy was almost painful, and before her father 
 
 43 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 reached her, she was sobbing. Great was Mr. TuUiver's 
 wonder, for he had made a round from Basset, and had not 
 yet been home. 
 
 " Why, what's the meaning o' this? " he said, checking his 
 horse, while Maggie slipped from the donkey and ran to her 
 father's stirrup. 
 
 ^^The little miss lost herself, I reckon," said the gypsy. 
 " She'd come to our tent at the far end o' Dunlow Lane, and 
 I was bringing her where she said her home was. It's a 
 good way to come arter being on the tramp all day." 
 
 '' Oh, yes, father, he's been very good to bring me home," 
 said Maggie — "a very kind, good man!" 
 
 " Here, then, my man," said Mr. TuUiver, taking out five 
 shillings. " It's the best day's work you ever did. I 
 couldn't afford to lose the little wench; here, lift her up 
 before me." 
 
 "Why, Maggie, how's this, how's this?" he said, as they 
 rode along, while she laid her head against her father and 
 sobbed. " How came you to be rambling about and lose 
 yourself?" 
 
 "Oh, father," sobbed Maggie; "I ran away because I 
 was so unhappy; Tom was so angry with me. I couldn't 
 bear it." 
 
 "Pooh, pooh," said Mr. Tulliver, soothingly; "you 
 mustn't think o' running away from father. What 'ud 
 father do without his little wench?" 
 
 " Oh, no, I never will again, father — never." 
 
 Mr. Tulliver spoke his mind very strongly when he 
 reached home that evening; and the effect was seen in the 
 remarkable fact that Maggie never heard one reproach from 
 her mother, or one taunt from Tom, about this foolish busi- 
 ness of her running away to the gypsies. Maggie was rather 
 awe-stricken by this unusual treatment, and sometimes 
 
 44 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 thought that her conduct had been too wicked to be al- 
 luded to. 
 
 Very soon after this episode Tom was placed under the 
 distinguished care of the Reverend Walter Stelling, and his 
 sufferings during the first quarter were severe. He had not 
 been at King's Lorton for a fortnight before it was evident 
 to him that life, complicated not only with the Latin gram- 
 mar, but with a new standard of English pronunciation, was 
 a very difficult business, made all the more obscure by a 
 thick mist of bashfulness, which made the difficulty of enun- 
 ciating a monosyllable in reply to Mr. or Mrs. Stelling so 
 great, that he even dreaded to be asked at table whether he 
 would have more pudding. He was the solitary pupil, and 
 Mr. Stelling was determined that he should make rapid 
 progress in a short time. Not that Mr. Stelling was an 
 unkind man ; quite the contrary. He was jocose with Tom 
 at table, and corrected his provincialisms and his deport- 
 ment in the most playful manner; but poor Tom was only 
 the more cowed and confused by this, for he had never been 
 used to jokes at all like Mr. Stelling's, and for the first time 
 in his life he had a painful sense that he was all wrong 
 somehow. 
 
 When Mr. Stelling said, as the roast-beef was being un- 
 covered, '' Now, Tulliver, which would you rather decline, 
 roast beef or the Latin for it? " Tom, to whom in his cool- 
 est moments a pun would have been a hard nut, was thrown 
 into a state of embarrassed alarm that made everything dim 
 to him except the feeling that he would rather not have any- 
 thing to do with Latin. Of course he answered, ^' roast beef," 
 whereupon there followed much laughter and some practi- 
 cal joking with the plates, from which Tom gathered that 
 he had in some mysterious way refused beef, and, in fact, 
 made himself appear " a silly." 
 
 45 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 He was soon set down as a thoroughly stupid lad; for 
 though by hard labour he could get particular declensions 
 into his brain, anything so abstract as the relation between 
 cases and terminations could by no means get such a lodg- 
 ment there as to enable him to recognise a chance genitive 
 or dative. This struck Mr. Stelling as something more 
 than natural stupidity; he suspected obstinacy, or, at any 
 rate, indifference; and lectured Tom severely on his want of 
 application. Under this vigorous treatment, Tom became 
 more like a girl than he had ever been in his life before. 
 He was too clear-sighted not to be aware that Mr. Stell- 
 ing's standard of things was quite different than that of the 
 people he had been living amongst, and that, brought in 
 contact with it, he appeared uncouth and stupid, and his 
 pride got into an uneasy condition which quite nullified his 
 boyish self-satisfaction. He was of a very firm, not to say 
 obstinate disposition, and if it had occurred to him that 
 he could show some quickness at his lessons by standing on 
 one leg for an inconvenient length of time, or rapping his 
 head moderately against the wall, or any voluntary action 
 of that sort, he would certainly have tried it. But he 
 had never heard that these measures would brighten the 
 understanding or strengthen the memory; and he was not 
 given to hypothesis and experiment. It did occur to him 
 that he could perhaps get some help by praying for it, and 
 so one day when he had broken down, for the fifth time, in 
 the supines of the third conjugation, and Mr. Stelling had 
 lectured him very seriously, Tom more miserable than 
 usual, determined to try his sole resource. That evening, 
 after his usual form of prayer for his parents and " little 
 sister" (he had begun to pray for Maggie when she was 
 a baby), and that he might be able always to keep God's 
 commandments, he added, in the same low whisper, " and 
 
 46 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 please to make me always remember my Latin." He 
 paused a little to consider how he should pray about Euclid 
 — whether he should ask to see what it meant, or whether 
 there was any other mental state which would be more ap- 
 plicable to the case. But at last he added — ^'And make 
 Mr. Stelling say I sha'n't do Euclid any more. Amen." 
 
 The fact that he got through his supines without mistake 
 the next day encouraged him to persevere in this appendix 
 to his prayers. But his faith broke down under the apparent 
 absence of all help when he got into the irregular verbs. 
 
 The dreary, lonesome weeks dragged along, but finally 
 the half year was broken by a visit from Maggie. Mr. 
 Tulliver, coming for the first time to see Tom, brought with 
 him, at Mrs. Stelling's invitation, the little girl to stay 
 with her brother. 
 
 "Well, my lad," said Mr. Tulliver. "You look rarely! 
 School agrees with you." 
 
 Tom wished he had looked rather ill. 
 
 " I don't think I am well, father," he said; " I wish you'd 
 ask Mr. Stelling not to let me do Euclid; it brings on the 
 toothache, I think." 
 
 (The toothache was the only malady to which Tom had 
 ever been subject.) 
 
 "Euclid, my lad — why, what's that?" said Mr. Tulliver. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know; it's definitions, and axioms, and tri- 
 angles, and things. It's a book I've got to learn in — there's 
 no sense in it." 
 
 " Go, go!" said Mr. Tulliver, reprovingly. "You mustn't 
 say so. You must learn what your master tells you. He 
 knows what's right for you to learn." 
 
 "77/ help you now, Tom," said Maggie, with a little 
 air of patronising consolation. 
 
 ^'You help me, you silly little thing!" said Tom, in such 
 
 47 
 
1 n 
 
 BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 high spirits at this announcement that he quite enjoyed the 
 idea of confounding Maggie by showing her a page of 
 Euclid. " I should like to see you doing one of my lessons! 
 Why, I learn Latin, too!" 
 
 ^' I know what Latin is very well," said Maggie, con- 
 fidently. " Latin's a language. There are Latin words in 
 the dictionary. There's bonus, a gift." 
 
 " Now you're just wrong there, Miss Maggie! " said Tom, 
 secretly astonished. ^' You think you're very wise! But 
 bonus means ' good,' as it happens — bonus, bona, bonum. 
 
 " Well, that's no reason why it shouldn't mean ^ gift, 
 said Maggie, stoutly; '' almost every word means several 
 things. There's ' lawn ' — it means the grass-plot, as well as 
 the stufif pocket handkerchiefs are made of." 
 
 ^'Well done, little 'un," said Mr. Tulliver, laughing; 
 while Tom felt rather disgusted with Maggie's knowing- 
 ness, though beyond measure cheerful at the thought that 
 she was going to stay with him. Mrs. Stelling had not men- 
 tioned a longer time than a week for Maggie's stay; but Mr. 
 Stelling, who took her between his knees and asked her 
 where she stole her dark eyes from, insisted that she must 
 stay a fortnight, and Mr. Tulliver was quite proud to leave 
 her where she would have an opportunity of showing her 
 cleverness to appreciating strangers. 
 
 ^' Now then, come with me into the study, Maggie," said 
 Tom, as their father drove away. " What do you shake and 
 toss your head now for, you silly? " he continued ; for though 
 her hair was now brushed smoothly behind her ears, she 
 seemed still in imagination to be tossing it out of her eyes. 
 
 '' Oh, I can't help it," said Maggie, impatiently. '^ Don't 
 tease me, Tom. Oh, what books!" she exclaimed, as she 
 saw the bookcases in the study. ^' How I should like to 
 have as many books as that!" 
 
 48 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 "Why, you couldn't read one of 'em," said Tom, 
 triumphantly. " They're all Latin." 
 
 '' No, they aren't," said Maggie. " I can read the back 
 of this — ' History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman 
 Empire.'" 
 
 "Well, what does that mean? You don't know," said 
 Tom, wagging his head. 
 
 " But I could soon find out," said Maggie, scornfully. 
 
 "Why, how?" 
 
 " I should look inside, and see what it was about." 
 
 "You'd better not, Miss Maggie," said Tom, seeing her 
 hand on the volume. "Mr. Stelling lets nobody touch his 
 books without leave, and I shall catch it, if you take it out." 
 
 " Oh, very well. Let me see all your books, then," said 
 Maggie, turning to throw her arms round Tom's neck, and 
 rub his cheek with her small round nose. 
 
 Tom, in the gladness of his heart at having dear old 
 Maggie to dispute with and crow over again, seized her 
 round the waist, and began to jump with more and more 
 vigour, till Maggie's hair flew from behind her ears, and 
 twirled about like an animated mop. But the revolutions 
 round the table became more and more irregular in their 
 sweep, till at last reaching Mr. Stelling's reading-stand, 
 they sent it thundering down with its heavy lexicons to the 
 floor. 
 
 "Oh, I say, Maggie," said Tom, "we must keep quiet 
 here, you know. If we break anything, Mrs. Stelling '11 
 make us cry peccavi." 
 
 "What's that?" said Maggie. 
 
 " Oh, it's the Latin for a good scolding," said Tom, not 
 without some pride in his knowledge. 
 
 " Is she a cross woman?" said Maggie. 
 
 " I believe you! " said Tom, with an emphatic nod. 
 
 49 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 "I think all women are crosser than men," assented 
 Maggie. 
 
 "Well, you'll be a woman some day," said Tom, "so you 
 needn't talk." 
 
 "But I shall be a clever woman," said Maggie, with a 
 toss. "You won't hate me, will you, Tom?" 
 
 "Oh, bother! never mind! Come, it's time for me to 
 learn my lessons. See here, what I've got to do," said 
 Tom, showing her his theorem, while she pushed her hair 
 behind her ears, and prepared herself to prove her capabil- 
 ity of helping him with Euclid. She began to read with full 
 confidence in her own powers, but presently her face flushed 
 with irritation. She must confess her incompetency, and 
 she was not fond of humiliation. 
 
 "It's nonsense!" she said, " and very ugly stuff; nobody 
 need want to make it out." 
 
 "Ah, there now. Miss Maggie!" said Tom; "you see 
 you're not so clever as you thought you were." 
 
 " Oh," said Maggie, pouting, " I dare say I could make it 
 out if I'd learned what goes before, as you have." 
 
 " But that's what you just couldn't. Miss Wisdom," said 
 Tom. " For it's all the harder when you know what goes 
 before; for then you've got to say what definition 3 is, and 
 what axiom V. is. But get along with you now; I must go 
 on with this. Here's the Latin grammar. See what you 
 can make of that." 
 
 Maggie found the Latin grammar quite soothing after 
 her mathematical mortification; for she delighted in new 
 words and quickly found there was an English key at the 
 end, which would make her very wise about Latin, at slight 
 expense. She presently made up her mind to skip the rules 
 in the syntax, the examples became so absorbing. These 
 mysterious sentences, snatched from an unknown context, 
 
 50 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 gave boundless scope to her imagination, and were all the 
 more fascinating because they were in a peculiar tongue 
 which she could learn to interpret. It was really very in- 
 teresting — the Latin grammar that Tom had said no girls 
 could learn, and she was quite lost in its attractions, when 
 Tom called out: 
 
 "Now, then, Magsie, give us the grammar!" 
 
 " Oh, Tom," she exclaimed, " it's such a pretty book! It's 
 much prettier than the dictionary. I could learn Latin 
 very soon. I don't think it's at all hard." 
 
 "Oh, I know what you've been doing," said Tom; 
 " you've been reading the English at the end. Any donkey 
 can do that." 
 
 Tom seized the book, and opened it with a business-like 
 air, as much as to say that he had a lesson to learn which 
 no donkeys would find themselves equal to. Maggie, 
 rather piqued, turned to the bookcases to amuse herself with 
 puzzling out the titles. 
 
 Presently Tom called to her: " Here, Magsie, come and 
 hear if I can say this. Stand at that end of the table, where 
 Mr. Stelling sits when he hears me." 
 
 Maggie obeyed, took the open book and helped and 
 prompted to the full extent of her ability, until they were 
 fetched to spend the rest of the evening in the drawing- 
 room. From first to last it was a very happy fortnight to 
 Maggie. She was allowed to be in the study while Tom 
 had his lessons, and in her various readings got very deep 
 into the examples of the Latin grammar. The astronomer 
 who hated women caused her so much puzzling speculation 
 that she one day asked Mr. Stelling if all astronomers hated 
 women, or whether it was only this particular astronomer. 
 But forestalling his answer, she said: 
 
 " I suppose it's all astronomers ; because, you know, they 
 
 51 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 live up in high towers, and if the women came there, they 
 might talk and hinder them from looking at the stars." 
 
 Mr. Stelling liked her prattle immensely, and they were 
 on the best terms. She told Tom she knew she could do 
 Euclid, for she had looked into it again, and she saw what 
 ABC meant; they were the names of the lines. 
 
 "I'm sure you couldn't do it, now," said Tom; "and I'll 
 just ask Mr. Stelling if you could." 
 
 " I don't mind," said the conceited little minx, " I'll ask 
 him myself." 
 
 "Mr. Stelling," she said, "couldn't I do Euclid and 
 all Tom's lessons if you were to teach me instead of 
 him?" 
 
 " No, you couldn't," said Tom, indignantly. " Girls 
 can't do Euclid, can they, sir?" 
 
 " They can pick up a little of everything, I dare say," said 
 Mr. Stelling, "but they couldn't go far into anything. 
 They're quick and shallow." 
 
 Tom, delighted with this verdict, telegraphed his triumph 
 by wagging his head at Maggie behind Mr. Stelling's chair. 
 As for Maggie, she had hardly even been so mortified. She 
 had been so proud to be called " quick" all her little life 
 and now it appeared that this quickness was the brand of 
 inferiority. It would have been better to have been slow, 
 like Tom. 
 
 "Ha, ha! Miss Maggie!" said Tom, when they were 
 alone ; " you see it's not such a fine thing to be quick. You'll 
 never go far into anything you know." 
 
 And Maggie was so oppressed by this dreadful destiny 
 that she had no spirit for a retort. 
 
 But when this small apparatus of shallow quickness was 
 fetched away in the gig, Tom missed her grievously. But 
 the dreary half-year finally came to an end. How^ glad 
 
 52 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 Tom was to see the last yellow leaves fluttering before the 
 cold wind! The first December snow seemed to him far 
 livelier than the August sunshine; and that he might make 
 himself the surer about the flight of the days that were carry- 
 ing him homeward, he stuck twenty-one sticks in the garden, 
 when he was three weeks from the holidays and pulled one 
 up every day. 
 
 But it was worth purchasing, even at the heavy price of 
 the Latin grammar — the happiness of seeing the bright light 
 in the parlour at home, the happiness of passing from the 
 cold air to the warmth and the kisses and the smiles of that 
 familiar hearth and entering at once upon the joys of the 
 holiday season. 
 
 Snow lay on the croft and river bank; it lay on every 
 sloping roof, making the dark red gables stand out with a 
 new depth of colour; it weighed heavily on the laurels and 
 fir trees ; it clothed the rough turnip field with whiteness, and 
 made the sheep look like dark blotches; the gates were all 
 blocked up with the sloping drifts ; there was no sound nor 
 motion in anything but the dark flowing river. But old 
 Christmas smiled as he laid this spell on the outdoor world, 
 for he meant to light up home with new brightness, to pre- 
 pare a sweet imprisonment that would strengthen the fellow- 
 ship of kindred, and make the sunshine of familiar human 
 faces as welcome as the hidden day star. 
 
 And yet this Christmas day, in spite of Tom's fresh de- 
 light in home, was not quite so happy as it had always been 
 before. The red berries were just as abundant on the holly, 
 and he and Maggie had dressed all the windows and man- 
 telpieces and picture frames on Christmas eve with as much 
 taste as ever. There had been singing under the windows 
 after midnight — supernatural singing, Maggie always felt, 
 in spite of Tom's contemptuous insistence that the singers 
 
 53 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 were old Patch, the parish clerk, and the rest of the church 
 choir; she trembled with awe when their carolling broke in 
 on her dreams, and the image of men was always thrust away 
 by the vision of angels resting on the parted cloud. Then 
 there was the smell of hot toast and ale from the kitchen at 
 the breakfast hour; the favourite anthem, the green boughs, 
 and the short sermon gave the appropriate festal character 
 to the church going; and Aunt and Uncle Moss, with all 
 their seven children, were looking like so many reflectors 
 of the bright parlour fire when the churchgoers came back, 
 stamping the snow from their feet. The plum-pudding was 
 of the same handsome roundness as ever, the dessert was as 
 splendid as ever, in all these things Christmas was as it had 
 always been ; it was only distinguished, if by anything, by 
 superior sliding and snowballs. 
 
 Christmas was cheery, but not so Mr. Tulliver. He was 
 irate and defiant because of the actions of one Mr. Pivart, 
 who, having lands higher up the river, was taking measures 
 for their irrigation, which were bound to be an infringe- 
 ment on Mr. Tulliver's legitimate share of water power. 
 Lawyer Wakem, who was Mr. Pivart's lawyer, to Mr. Tul- 
 liver's certain knowledge was at the bottom of Pivart's irri- 
 gation; it was unquestionably Wakem who had caused Mr. 
 Tulliver to lose the suit about the right of road and the 
 bridge that made a thoroughfare of his land. And as an 
 extra touch of bitterness, the injured miller had recently, 
 through the necessity of borrowing five hundred pounds, 
 been obliged to carry a little business to Wakem's office on 
 his own account. For all these reasons Mr. Tulliver's un- 
 pleasant opinion of Lawyer Wakem was as exaggerated as 
 it was intense. 
 
 " Father," said Tom, one evening near the end of the 
 holidays, '' Uncle Glegg says Lawyer Wakem is going to 
 
 54 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 send his son to Mr. Stelling. You won't like me to go to 
 school with Wakem's son, shall you?" 
 
 "It's no matter for that, my boy," said Mr. Tulliver; 
 " don't you learn anything bad of him, that's all. The lad's 
 a poor deformed creatur, and I think there isn't much of 
 his father in him. It's a sign Wakem thinks high of Mr. 
 Stelling, as he sends his son to him, and Wakem knows meal 
 from bran." 
 
 Mr. Tulliver in his heart was rather proud of the fact 
 that his son was to have the same advantages as Wakem's; 
 but Tom was not at all easy on the point. It would have 
 been much clearer if the lawyer's son had not been de- 
 formed, for then Tom would have had the prospect of pitch- 
 ing into him with all that freedom which is derived from a 
 high moral sanction. 
 
 It was a cold wet January day on which Tom went back 
 to school. 
 
 " Well, Tulliver, we are glad to see you again," said Mr. 
 Stelling, heartily. " Come into the study till dinner. You'll 
 find a bright fire there and a new companion." 
 
 " Here is the new pupil for you to shake hands with, 
 Tulliver," continued Mr. Stelling, on entering the study — 
 " Master Philip Wakem. I shall leave you to make 
 acquaintance by yourselves. You already know something 
 of each other, I imagine; for you are neighbours at home." 
 
 Tom looked confused and awkward, while Philip rose 
 and glanced at him timidly. They remained without speak- 
 ing, while Tom went to the fire and warmed himself, casting 
 furtive glances at Philip, who seemed to be drawing on a 
 piece of paper he had before him. As he drew he was 
 thinking what he could say to Tom, and trying to overcome 
 his own repugnance to making the first advances. Tom 
 looked often and longer at Philip's face, and it was really 
 
 55 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 not a disagreeable face; though very old-looking, Tom 
 thought, a melancholy boy's face; the brown hair round it 
 curled at the ends like a girl's; Tom thought that truly piti- 
 able. This Wakem was a pale, puny fellow, and it was 
 quite clear he would not be able to play at anything worth 
 speaking of; but he handled his pencil in an enviable man- 
 ner. What was he drawing? Tom was quite warm now, 
 and wanted something new to be going forward. It was 
 certainly more agreeable to have an ill-natured humpback 
 as a companion than to stand looking out of the study win- 
 dow at the rain in solitude; something would happen now 
 every day — " a quarrel or something," Tom thought. He 
 suddenly walked across the hearth and looked over Philip's 
 paper. 
 
 "Why, that's a donkey with panniers, and a spaniel, and 
 partridges in the corn!" he exclaimed, his tongue being 
 completely loosed by surprise and admiration. "Oh, my 
 buttons! I wonder if I shall learn to make dogs and 
 donkeys ! " 
 
 "Oh, you can do them without learning," said Philip; " I 
 never learned drawing. It's very easy. You've only to 
 look well at things and draw them over and over again. 
 What you do wrong once, you can alter the next time." 
 
 " But haven't you been taught anything? " asked Tom. 
 " I thought you'd been to school a long while." 
 
 " Yes," said Philip, smiling; " I've been taught Latin and 
 Greek and mathematics and writing and such things." 
 
 " Oh, but I say, you don't like Latin, do you? " said Tom, 
 lowering his voice confidentially. 
 
 " Pretty well," said Philip. 
 
 " Ah, but perhaps you haven't got into the propria quae 
 marihus/' said Tom, nodding his head as much as to say that 
 was the test; it was easy talking till you came to that. 
 
 56 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 Philip felt some bitter complacency in the stupidity of 
 this well-made, active-looking boy; but made polite by his 
 own extreme sensitiveness as well as by his desire to con- 
 ciliate, he checked his inclination to laugh and said quietly: 
 " Fve done with the grammar; I don't learn that any 
 more." 
 
 '^Then you won't have the same lessons as I shall?" said 
 Tom, with a sense of disappointment. 
 
 " No, but I dare say I can help you. I shall be very glad 
 to, if I can." 
 
 Tom did not say " thank you," for he was quite absorbed 
 in the thought that Wakem's son did not seem so spiteful a 
 fellow as might have been expected. 
 
 " I say," he said presently, " do you love your father?" 
 
 "Yes," said Philip, colouring deeply; "don't you love 
 yours?" 
 
 " Oh, yes — I only wanted to know," said Tom, rather 
 ashamed of himself, now he saw Philip colouring and look- 
 ing uncomfortable. 
 
 " Shall you learn drawing now? " he said, by way of 
 changing the subject. 
 
 " No," said Philip. " My father wishes me to give all 
 my time to other things now." 
 
 "What! Latin and Euclid, and those things?" said 
 Tom. 
 
 " Yes," said Philip, who had left off using his pencil, and 
 was resting his head on one hand while Tom was leaning 
 forward on both elbows, and looking with increasing ad- 
 miration at the dog and the donkey. 
 
 " I can't think why anybody should learn Latin," said 
 Tom. " It's no good." 
 
 " It's a part of the education of a gentleman," said Philip. 
 " All gentlemen learn the same things. I don't mind, for 
 
 57. 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 I can remember things easily and there are some lessons 
 I'm very fond of. I'm very fond of everything about the 
 Greeks. I should like to have been a Greek and fought the 
 Persians, and then have come home and v^ritten like Soc- 
 rates, and have died a grand death." 
 
 ^^ Why, were the Greeks great fighters? " said Tom, who 
 saw a vista in this direction. ^' Is there anything like David 
 and Goliath and Samson in the Greek history?" 
 
 ^' Oh, there are very fine stories of that sort about the 
 Greeks — about the heroes of early times who killed the wild 
 beasts as Samson did. And in the Odyssey — that's a beauti- 
 ful poem — there's a more wonderful giant than Goliath — 
 Polypheme, who had only one eye in the middle of his fore- 
 head ; and Ulysses, a little fellow, but very wise and cunning, 
 got a red-hot pine tree and stuck it into this one eye, and 
 made him roar like a thousand bulls." 
 
 "Oh, what fun!" said Tom, jumping up and stamping 
 first with one leg and then the other. " I say, can you tell 
 a good many fighting stories? " 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Philip; "besides the Greek stories, I can 
 tell about William Wallace and Robert Bruce and James 
 Douglas — I know no end." 
 
 " You're older than I am, aren't you?" said Tom. 
 
 "Why, how old are you? I'm fifteen." 
 
 " I'm only going on fourteen," said Tom. " But I 
 thrashed all the fellows at Jacob's — that's where I was be- 
 fore I came here — and I beat 'em all at bandy and climbing. 
 And I wish Mr. Stelling would let us go fishing; I could 
 show you how to fish. You could fish, couldn't you? It's 
 only standing, and sitting still, you know." 
 
 Tom, in his turn, wished to make the balance dip in his 
 favour. Philip winced under this allusion to his unfitness 
 for active sports, and he answered almost peevishly: 
 
 58 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 " I can't bear fishing. I think people look like fools sit- 
 ting watching a line hour after hour, or else throwing and 
 throwing and catching nothing." 
 
 " Ah, but you wouldn't say they looked like fools when 
 they landed a big pike, I can tell you," said Tom, who had 
 never caught anything that was " big " in his life, but whose 
 imagination was on the stretch with indignant zeal for the 
 honour of sport. Wakem's son, it was plain, had his dis- 
 agreeable points, and must be kept in due check. Happily 
 for the harmony of this first interview, they were now called 
 to dinner, and Philip was not allowed to develop farther his 
 unsound views on the subject of fishing. 
 
 The alternations of feeling in that first dialogue between 
 Tom and Philip continued to mark their intercourse even 
 after many weeks of schoolboy intimacy. Tom never quite 
 lost the feeling that Philip, being the son of a " rascal," was 
 his natural enemy; but then it was impossible not to like 
 Philip's company when he was in a good humour. 
 
 In many ways the thumb-screw on Tom was a little re- 
 laxed during this second half-year. Having Philip to help 
 him, he was able to make some show of having applied his 
 mind, without being cross-examined into a betrayal that his 
 mind had been entirely neutral in the matter. He thought 
 school much more bearable under this modification of cir- 
 cumstances ; and he went on contentedly enough, picking up 
 a promiscuous education chiefly from things that were not 
 intended as education at all. 
 
 Nevertheless, there was a visible improvement in his 
 bearing, for which credit was due to Mr. Poulter, an old 
 Peninsular soldier, who was employed to drill Tom. The 
 drilling-lessons were always protracted by episodes of war- 
 like narrative, much more interesting to Tom than Philip's 
 stories out of the Iliad; for there were no cannon in the 
 
 59 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 Iliad, and, besides, Tom had felt some disgust on learning 
 that Hector and Achilles might possibly never have existed. 
 But the Duke of Wellington was really alive, and Bony had 
 not been long dead; therefore Mr. Poulter's reminiscences 
 of the Peninsular War were removed from all suspicion of 
 being mythical. 
 
 "Mr. Poulter," Tom would say, at any allusion to the 
 sword, " I wish you'd bring your sword and do the sword- 
 exercises!" 
 
 For a long while Mr. Poulter only shook his head in a 
 significant manner at this request, but one afternoon, when a 
 sudden shower had detained him twenty minutes longer 
 than usual, the sword was brought — just for Tom to look at. 
 
 " And this is the real sword you fought with in all the 
 battles, Mr. Poulter? " said Tom, handling the hilt. " Has 
 it ever cut a Frenchman's head off?" 
 
 " Head off? Ah! and would, if he'd had three heads." 
 
 " But you had a gun and a bayonet beside? " said Tom. " I 
 should like a gun and bayonet best, because you could shoot 
 'em first and spear 'em after." 
 
 " Ah, but the sword's the thing when you come to close 
 fighting," said Mr. Poulter, involuntarily falling in with 
 Tom's enthusiasm, and drawing the sword so suddenly that 
 Tom leapt back with much agility and considerable fright, 
 which he concealed by saying hastily: 
 
 "Oh, but, Mr. Poulter, if you are going to do the exer- 
 cises, let me go and call Philip. He knows a great deal 
 about fighting, and how they used to use bows and arrows 
 and battle-axes." 
 
 " Let him come then," said Mr. Poulter, drawing himself 
 up, while he gave a little preliminary play to his wrist. 
 
 Tom ran in to Philip, who was at the piano picking out 
 tunes and singing them. He was supremely happy, sending 
 
 60 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 forth with all his might impromptu syllables to a tune 
 which had hit his fancy. 
 
 " Come, Philip," said Tom, bursting in; " don't stay roar- 
 ing, ' la, la ' there. Come and see old Poulter do his sword 
 exercise in the carriage house! " 
 
 The jar of this interruption, the discord of Tom's tone 
 coming across the notes to which Philip was vibrating in 
 soul and body, would have been enough to unhinge his 
 temper, even if there had been no question of Poulter, the 
 drilling master. 
 
 He shuddered visibly, then turning red, said with violent 
 passion: 
 
 "Get away, you lumbering idiot! Don't come bellow- 
 ing at me; you're not fit to speak to anything but a cart- 
 horse! " 
 
 " Pm fit to speak to something better than you, you poor- 
 spirited imp!" said Tom, lighting up immediately at 
 Philip's fire. "You know I won't hit you, because you're 
 no better than a girl. But I'm an honest man's son, and 
 your father's a rogue; everybody says so!" 
 
 Tom flung out of the room and slammed the door after 
 him, which was an offence only to be wiped out by twenty 
 lines of Virgil. Mrs. Stelling descending from her room, 
 in double wonder at the noise and the cessation of Philip's 
 music, found him sitting in a heap, and crying bitterly. 
 
 "What's the matter, Wakem? What was that noise 
 about? Who slammed the door? " 
 
 Philip looked up, and hastily dried his eyes. " It was 
 TuUiver who came in — to ask me to go out with him." 
 
 " And what are you in trouble about? " said Mrs. Stelling. 
 
 " My toothache came on and made me hysterical again," 
 Philip explained. This had been the fact once, and he was 
 glad of the inspiration to excuse his crying. He had to 
 
 6i 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 accept eau-de-Cologne and to refuse creosote in conse- 
 quence; but that was easy. 
 
 Meanwhile Tom had returned to the carriage-house, 
 where he found Mr. Poulter entirely absorbed in the cut and 
 thrust — that solemn one, two, three, four; and Tom admired 
 the performance from as great a distance as possible. It 
 was not until Mr. Poulter paused and wiped the perspira- 
 tion from his forehead, that Tom felt the full charm of the 
 exercise, and wished it to be repeated. 
 
 " Mr. Poulter," said Tom, when the sword was being 
 finally sheathed, " I wish you'd lend me your sword a little 
 while. I'd give you my five-shilling piece if you'd let me 
 keep the sword a week. Look here! " reaching out the at- 
 tractively large round of silver. The young dog calculated 
 the effect as well as if he had been a philosopher. 
 
 Mr. Poulter demurred long enough to feel that he had 
 acted with scrupulous conscientiousness, when he pocketed 
 the crown piece and agreed to Tom's demand. So Tom 
 carried off the sword in triumph, mixed with a dread that 
 he might encounter Mr. or Mrs. Stelling — to his bedroom, 
 where he hid it in the closet behind some hanging clothes. 
 
 The breach between Tom and Philip was not readily 
 mended. Tom had blundered on Philip's tenderest point, 
 and had caused him as much acute pain as if he had studied 
 the means with the most envenomed spite. Tom saw no 
 reason why they should not make up this quarrel as they had 
 done many others, by behaving as if nothing had happened; 
 for though he had never before said to Philip that his father 
 was a rogue, this idea had so habitually been his feeling that 
 the mere utterance did not make such an epoch to him as it 
 did to Philip. But perceiving that his advances were not 
 met, he relapsed into his least favourable disposition toward 
 Philip. They were only so far civil to each other as was 
 
 62 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 necessary to prevent their state of feud from being observed 
 by Mr. Stelling, who would have "put down" such non- 
 sense with great vigour. 
 
 When Maggie came, however, she could not help look- 
 ing with interest at the new school-fellow, although he was 
 the son of that wicked Lawyer Wakem, who made her father 
 so angry. Tom some weeks ago had sent her word that 
 Philip knew no end of stories, and she was convinced that 
 he must be very clever; she hoped he would think her rather 
 clever, too^ when she came to talk to him. Maggie, more- 
 over, had a tenderness for deformed things, and was espe- 
 cially fond of petting objects that would think it very 
 delightful to be petted by her. 
 
 " I think Philip Wakem seems a nice boy, Tom," she said, 
 when they went together into the garden. " He couldn't 
 choose his father, you know, and I've read of very bad men 
 who had good sons. You like him, don't you? " 
 
 " Oh, he's a queer fellow," said Tom, curtly, " and he's as 
 sulky as can be with me, because I told him his father was a 
 rogue. And I'd a right to tell him so, for it was true; and 
 he began it, with calling me names. Now you stop here by 
 yourself, Magsie, will you? I've got something I want to 
 do upstairs." 
 
 "Can't I go too?" said Maggie, who in this first day of 
 meeting again loved Tom's shadow. 
 
 " No, it's something I'll tell you about by and by," said 
 Tom, skipping away. 
 
 That afternoon when lesson time was over Tom led 
 Maggie up to his room and locked the door. " I'll tell you 
 when to turn round," he said. " You mustn't squeal out, 
 you know." 
 
 "Oh, but if you frighten me, I shall," said Maggie, be- 
 ginning to look rather serious. 
 
 63 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 "You won't be frightened, you silly thing," said Tom. 
 " Go and hide your face, and mind you don't peek." 
 
 " Of course I shan't peek," said Maggie disdainfully; and 
 burying her face in the pillow she was absorbed in thoughts 
 of Philip, who was so clever, until Tom called out " Now, 
 then, Magsie! " 
 
 When Maggie looked up, Tom presented a striking figure 
 indeed ; dissatisfied with the pacific aspect of his flaxen eye- 
 brows, blue-grey eyes and round pink cheeks, he had used 
 burnt cork and made himself a pair of black eyebrows which 
 were matched by the blackness about the chin. He had 
 wound a red handkerchief round his cloth cap to give the 
 effect of a turban, and his red comforter across his breast 
 as a scarf — an amount of red which, with the tremendous 
 frown on his brow and the decision with which he grasped 
 the sword, would sufiice to convey some idea of his fierce 
 and bloodthirsty disposition. 
 
 Maggie looked bewildered for a moment, and Tom en- 
 joyed that moment keenly; but in the next she laughed, 
 clapped her hands and said, "Oh, Tom, you've made your- 
 self like Bluebeard at the show." 
 
 It was clear she had realised that the sword was not un- 
 sheathed; and Tom prepared for his master-stroke. Care- 
 fully he drew the sword from its sheath, and pointed it at 
 Maggie. 
 
 "Oh, Tom, please don't!" exclaimed Maggie, shrinking 
 into the corner; "I shall scream — I'm sure I shall! Oh, 
 don't! I wish I'd never come upstairs! " 
 
 The corners of Tom's mouth showed an inclination to 
 a smile of complacency that was immediately checked. 
 Slowly he let down the scabbard on the floor lest it should 
 make too much noise, and then said sternly: 
 
 " I'm the Duke of Wellington! March!" stamping for- 
 
 64 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 ward toward Maggie, who, trembling, got upon the bed as 
 the only means of widening the space between them. 
 
 Tom, happy in the spectator of his military performances, 
 proceeded to such an exhibition of the cut and thrust as 
 would be expected of the Duke of Wellington. 
 
 "Tom, I will not bear it, I will scream," said Maggie; 
 "you'll hurt yourself — you'll cut your head off!" 
 
 " One — two," said Tom, resolutely, though at " two " his 
 wrist trembled a little. "Three" came more slowly, and 
 with it the sword swung downward, and Maggie gave a 
 loud shriek. The sword had fallen, with its edge on Tom's 
 foot, and in a moment after he had fallen too. Maggie 
 leaped from the bed, still shrieking, and immediately there 
 was a rush of footsteps toward the room. Mr. Stelling, 
 from his upstairs study, was the first to enter. He found 
 both the children on the floor. Tom had fainted, and 
 Maggie was shaking him by the collar of the jacket, scream- 
 ing, with wild eyes. She thought he was dead, poor child! 
 and yet she shook him, as if that would bring him back to 
 life. 
 
 In another minute she was sobbing with joy because 
 Tom had opened his eyes. She couldn't sorrow yet that he 
 had hurt his foot; it seemed as if all happiness lay in his 
 being alive. 
 
 Poor Tom bore his severe pain heroically, and was 
 resolute in not " telling" of Mr. Poulter more than was un- 
 avoidable; the five shilling piece remained a secret even to 
 Maggie. But there was a terrible dread weighing on his 
 mind, which only Philip anticipated. It had been Philip's 
 first thought when he heard of the accident — "Will Tulli- 
 ver be lame? It will be very hard for him, if he is;" and 
 Tom's hitherto unforgiven ofifences were washed out by that 
 pity. Philip had only lived fourteen years, but those years 
 
 65 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 had most of them been steeped in the sense of a lot irremedi- 
 ably hard. 
 
 '' The surgeon says you'll soon be all right again, TuUi- 
 ver, did you know? " he said, rather timidly, as he stood for 
 the first time by Tom's bed. " I've just asked Mr. Stell- 
 ing, and he says you'll walk as well as ever again by 
 and by." 
 
 Tom looked up with that momentary stopping of the 
 breath which comes with a sudden joy; then he gave a long 
 sigh and turned his blue-grey eyes straight on Philip's face, 
 as he had not done for a fortnight or more. 
 
 " Good-bye, Tulliver," said Philip, putting out his small 
 delicate hand, which Tom clasped immediately with his 
 more substantial fingers. 
 
 " I say," said Tom, " ask Mr. Stelling to let you come and 
 sit with me sometimes, till I get up again, Wakem ; and tell 
 me about Robert Bruce, you know." 
 
 After that Philip spent all his time out of school hours 
 with Tom and Maggie. One day Philip and Maggie were 
 in the study together while Tom's foot was being dressed. 
 Philip was at his books and Maggie began to question him: 
 "What are you reading about in Greek? " 
 
 " It's about Philoctetes, the lame man I was telling you 
 of yesterday," he answered, resting his head on his hand, 
 and looking as if he were not at all sorry to be interrupted. 
 Presently, still leaning on his elbow and looking at her, he 
 said, " Maggie, if you had had a brother like me, do you 
 think you should have loved him as well as Tom?" 
 
 Maggie started a little on being roused from her reverie, 
 and said, "What?" Philip repeated his question. 
 
 " Oh, yes, better," she answered, immediately. " No, not 
 better; because I don't think I could love you better than 
 Tom. But I should be so sorry for you." 
 
 66 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 Philip coloured and winced under her pity. Maggie, 
 young as she was, felt her mistake. 
 
 " But you are so clever, Philip, and you can play and 
 sing," she added, quickly. ^^ I wish you were my brother. 
 You would stay at home with me when Tom went out, and 
 you would teach me everything, wouldn't you — Greek and 
 everything? " 
 
 "But you'll go away soon, and go to school, Maggie," 
 said Philip, '' and then you'll forget all about me." 
 
 "Oh, no," said Maggie, shaking her head very seriously. 
 " I never forget anything, and I think about everybody when 
 I'm away from them." 
 
 "I'm very fond of you, Maggie; I shall never forget 
 you!' said Philip, " and when I'm very unhappy, I shall 
 always think of you, and wish I had a sister with dark eyes, 
 just like yours." 
 
 "Why do you like my eyes?" said Maggie, well pleased. 
 She had never heard anyone but her father speak of her 
 eyes as if they had merit. 
 
 " I don't know," said Philip; "they're not like any other 
 eyes. They seem trying to speak kindly. I don't like other 
 people to look at me much, but I like you to look at me, 
 Maggie." 
 
 "Why, I think you are fonder of me than Tom is," said 
 Maggie rather sorrowfully. Then wondering how she 
 could convince Philip that she could like him just as well, 
 although he was crooked, she said : 
 
 " Should you like me to kiss you, as I do Tom? I will, if 
 you like." 
 
 "Yes, very much; nobody kisses me." 
 
 Maggie put her arm round his neck and kissed him quite 
 earnestly. 
 
 "There now," she said, " I shall always remember you, 
 
 6y 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 and kiss you when I see you again, if it's ever so long. But 
 I'll go now, because I think the surgeon's done with Tom's 
 foot." 
 
 When their father came the second time, Maggie said to 
 him, " Oh, father, Philip Wakem is so good to Tom; he is 
 such a clever boy, and I do love him. And you love him 
 too, Tom, don't you? Say you love him," she added en- 
 treatingly. 
 
 Tom coloured a little as he looked at his father, and said: 
 " I sha'n't be friends with him when I leave school, father; 
 but we've made it up now, since my foot has been bad, and 
 he's taught me to play at draughts, and I can beat him." 
 
 "Well, well," said Mr. TuUiver, "if he's good to you 
 try to make him amends, and be good to him. But don't 
 you be getting too thick with him, he's got his father's blood 
 in him." 
 
 Mr. Tulliver's admonition alone might have failed to 
 accomplish what the jarring natures of the two boys 
 effected. In spite of Philip's new kindness, and Tom's 
 answering regard in this time of his trouble, they never be- 
 came close friends. When Maggie was gone, and when 
 Tom began to walk about as usual, the friendly warmth that 
 had been kindled by pity and gratitude died out by degrees, 
 and left them in their old relation to each other. If boys 
 and men are to be welded together in the glow of real feel- 
 ing, they must be made of metal that will mix, else they in- 
 evitably fall asunder when the heat dies out. 
 
 So Tom went on even to the fifth half-year — till he was 
 turned sixteen — at King's Lorton, while Maggie had been 
 placed at Miss Firniss's boarding school in the town of Lace- 
 ham on the Floss, with Cousin Lucy for her companion. 
 In her early letters to Tom she had always sent her love to 
 Philip, and asked many questions about him, which were 
 
 68 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 answered by brief sentences that made her perceive they 
 were no longer very good friends. This pained her, but 
 when she reminded Tom that he ought always to love 
 Philip for being so good to him when his foot was bad, he 
 answered: "Well, 'tisn't my fault; I don't do anything to 
 him." She hardly ever saw Philip during the remainder 
 of their school life; in the mid-summer holidays he was al- 
 ways away at the seaside, and at Christmas she could only 
 meet him at long intervals in the streets of St. Ogg's. 
 
 Then when their father was actually engaged in the long 
 threatened lawsuit against Pivart, and Wakem as the agent 
 of Pivart was acting against him, even Maggie felt, with 
 some sadness, that they were not likely ever to have any inti- 
 macy with Philip again. 
 
 By the time Tom had reached his last quarter at King's 
 Lorton the years had made striking changes in him. He 
 was a tall youth now, carrying himself without the least 
 awkwardness and speaking without more shyness than was 
 a becoming symptom of blended diffidence and pride. 
 Philip had already left school at the autumn quarter, and 
 this change helped to give Tom the unsettled exultant feel- 
 ing that usually belongs to the last months before leaving 
 school. This quarter, too, there was some hope of his 
 father's lawsuit being decided; that made the prospect of 
 home more pleasurable. For Tom had no doubt that Pivart 
 would be beaten. 
 
 He had not heard anything from home for some weeks — 
 when to his great surprise, on the morning of a dark cold day 
 near the end of November, he was told that his sister was in 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 Maggie, too, was tall now, with braided and coiled hair; 
 she was almost as tall as Tom, though she was only thirteen, 
 and she really looked older than he did at that moment 
 
 69 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 Her young face had a strangely worn look as her eyes turned 
 anxiously toward the door. When Tom entered she did not 
 speak, but only went up to him, put her arms around his 
 neck, and kissed him earnestly. He was used to various 
 moods of hers, and felt no alarm at the unusual seriousness 
 of her greeting. 
 
 " Why, how is it you've come so early this cold morn- 
 ing, Maggie? Did you come in the gig? " said Tom, as 
 she backed toward the sofa, and drew him to her side. 
 
 "No, I came by the coach. I've walked from the turn- 
 pike." 
 
 " But how is it you're not at school? The holidays have 
 not begun yet." 
 
 " Father wanted me at home," said Maggie, with a slight 
 trembling of the lip. " I came home three or four days 
 ago." 
 
 "Isn't my father well?" said Tom, rather anxiously. 
 
 " Not quite," said Maggie. " He's very unhappy, Tom. 
 The lawsuit is ended, and I came to tell you because I 
 thought it would be better for you to know it before you 
 came home, and I didn't like only to send you a letter." 
 
 "My father hasn't lost?" said Tom, hastily, springing 
 from the sofa, and standing before Maggie, with his hands 
 suddenly thrust in his pockets. 
 
 " Yes, dear Tom," said Maggie, looking up at him with 
 trembling. 
 
 Tom was silent a minute or two, with his eyes fixed on the 
 floor. Then he said: 
 
 "My father will have to pay a good deal of money, 
 then?" 
 
 " Yes," said Maggie, rather faintly. 
 
 "Well, it can't be helped," said Tom, bravely, not trans- 
 lating the loss of a large sum of money into any tangible re- 
 
 70 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 suits. "But my father's very much vexed, I dare say?" 
 he added, looking at Maggie, and thinking that her 
 agitated face was only part of her girlish way of taking 
 things. 
 
 " Yes," said Maggie, again faintly. Then, urged to fuller 
 speech by Tom's freedom from apprehension, she said 
 loudly and rapidly, as if the words would burst from her: 
 " Oh, Tom, he will lose the mill and the land and every- 
 thing; he will have nothing left." 
 
 Tom's eyes flashed out one look of surprise at her, before 
 he turned pale, and trembled visibly. 
 
 Anxiety about the future had never entered Tom's mind. 
 He had never dreamed that his father would "fail"; that 
 was a form of misfortune which he had always heard spoken 
 of as a deep disgrace, and disgrace was an idea that he could 
 not associate with any of his relations, least of all with his 
 father. 
 
 Maggie was frightened at his silence. There was some- 
 thing else to tell him; something worse. She threw her 
 arms around him at last, and Tom turned his cheek pas- 
 sively to meet her kisses, and there gathered a moisture in 
 his eyes which he rubbed away with his hand. The action 
 seemed to rouse him, for he shook himself and said: " I shall 
 go home with you, Maggie. Didn't my father say I was to 
 go?" 
 
 " No, Tom, father didn't wish it," said Maggie, " but 
 mother wants you to come — poor mother — she cries so! 
 Oh, Tom, it's very dreadful at home." 
 
 Maggie's lips grew whiter, and she began to tremble 
 almost as Tom had done; when she spoke it was hardly 
 above a whisper. 
 
 " And — and — poor father " 
 
 Maggie could not utter it, but the suspense was intoler- 
 
 71 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 able to Tom. A vague idea of going to prison, as the con- 
 sequence of debt, was the shape his fears had begun to take. 
 
 "Where's my father?" he said impatiently. "Tell me, 
 Maggie." 
 
 " He's at home," said Maggie, but she added after a 
 pause, "not himself — he fell off his horse. He's known 
 nobody but me ever since — he seems to have lost his senses. 
 Oh, father, father " 
 
 With these last words Maggie's sobs burst forth violently. 
 Tom felt that pressure of the heart which forbids tears; he 
 had no distinct vision of their troubles, as Maggie had, who 
 had been at home; he only felt the crushing weight of what 
 seemed unmitigated misfortune. He tightened his arm 
 almost convulsively around Maggie, but she soon checked 
 herself abruptly; a single thought had acted on her like a 
 startling sound. 
 
 "We must set out now, Tom — we must not stay — father 
 will miss me. We must be at the turnpike at ten to meet the 
 coach." She said this with hasty decision, rubbing her eyes, 
 and rising to seize her bonnet. Tom at once felt the same 
 impulse, and rose, too. " Wait a minute, Maggie," he said. 
 " I must speak to Mr. Stelling, and then we'll go." 
 
 He thought he must go to the study, but on his way there 
 he met Mr. Stelling, who had heard from his wife that 
 Maggie appeared to be in trouble when she asked for her 
 brother. 
 
 " Please, sir, I must go home," Tom said abruptly. ^' I 
 must go back w^ith my sister directly. My father has lost 
 his lawsuit — he's lost all his property — and he's very ill." 
 
 Mr. Stelling felt like a kind-hearted man; he foresaw a 
 probable money loss for himself, but this had no appreciable 
 share in his feeling, while he looked with grave pity at the 
 brother and sister. When he knew how Maggie had come, 
 
 72 
 
TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER 
 
 and how eager she was to get home again, he hurried their 
 departure. 
 
 While they were standing on the doorstep ready to set 
 out, Mrs. Stelling came with a little basket, which she hung 
 on Maggie's arm, saying: " Do remember to eat something 
 on the way, dear." Maggie's heart went out toward this 
 woman whom she had never before liked, and she kissed her 
 silently. Mr. Stelling put his hand on Tom's shoulder, and 
 said, ''God bless you, my boy; let me know how you get 
 on." Then he pressed Maggie's hand, but there were no 
 audible good-byes. 
 
 Tom had so often thought how joyful he should be the 
 day he left school '' for good," and now his school years 
 seemed like a holiday that had come to an end. 
 
 The two slight youthful figures soon grew indistinct on 
 the distant road — were soon lost behind the projecting 
 hedgerow. They had gone forth together into their new life, 
 and they would never more see the sunshine undimmed by 
 remembered cares, for the golden gates of their childhood 
 had forever closed behind them. 
 
 73 
 
TOTTY POYSER 
 
 75 
 

 V 
 
 _A' ~^ 
 
 S^'-^'^-^-^^*^ 
 
 
 O/'^v 
 
 , ^y:r«0 
 
 T()'r'l■^' P()\si-:k. 
 
TOTTY POYSER 
 
 N the opposite side of the hill from Broxton, in 
 the parish of Hayslope, there is a very fine old 
 house of red brick softened by a pale powdery 
 lichen which brings the brick into terms of 
 friendly companionship with the limestone ornaments sur- 
 rounding the three gables, the windows, and the door-plate. 
 It is evident that the gate which is the entrance to the place 
 is never opened, for the long grass and the hemlocks grow 
 close against it, and its hinges and bars are rusty. 
 
 The windows are patched with wooden panes and the 
 door is like the gate — it is never opened — how it would 
 groan and grate against the stone floor if it were! But now 
 there is heard the booming bark of dogs echoing from great 
 buildings at the back; of a surety the house must be inhab- 
 ited, and we will see by whom. Put your face to the glass 
 panes in the right-hand window, what do you see? A large 
 open fireplace with rusty dogs in it, and a bare boarded 
 floor ; at the far end fleeces of wool stacked up, in the middle 
 of the floor some empty corn-bags. That is the furniture of 
 the dining-room. And what through the left-hand window? 
 Several clothes-horses, a pillion, a spinning-wheel, and an 
 old box stuffed full of coloured rags. At the edge of this 
 box lies a great wooden doll, in a state of almost total mutila- 
 tion. Near it there is a little chair and the butt-end of a 
 boy's leather long-leashed whip. 
 
 77 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 The history of the house is plain enough now. It was 
 once the Hall; it is now the Hall Farm, and life there has 
 changed its focus, and no longer radiates from the parlour, 
 but from the kitchen and the farmyard. 
 
 Plenty of life there, though this is the drowsiest time of 
 the year, just before hay harvest; and it is the drowsiest 
 time of the day too. But there is always a strong sense of 
 life when the sun is brilliant after rain; and now he is pour- 
 ing down his beams, and lighting up every patch of moss on 
 the red tiles of the cow shed, and turning even the muddy 
 water in the drain into a mirror for the yellow-billed ducks, 
 who are seizing the opportunity of getting a drink. There 
 is quite a concert of noises : the great bulldog, exasperated 
 by the unwary approach of a cock too near his kennel, sends 
 forth a thundering bark, which is answered by two fox 
 hounds shut up in the opposite cow house; the old top- 
 knotted hens, scratching with their chicks among the straw, 
 set up a sympathetic croaking as the discomfited cock joins 
 them; a sow with her brood throws in some deep staccato 
 notes, the calves are bleating from the home croft, and under 
 all there may be discerned the continuous hum of human 
 voices. 
 
 For the great barn doors are thrown wide open, and men 
 are busy there mending the harness, under the superintend- 
 ence of Mr. Goby, the "whittaw," otherwise saddler, who 
 entertains them with the latest village gossip. It is an 
 unfortunate day that has been chosen for having the whit- 
 taws, since it has turned out so wet; and Mrs. Poyser, mis- 
 tress of the Hall Farm, has spoken her mind pretty thor- 
 oughly as to the dirt which the men's shoes brought into the 
 house at dinner time. Indeed, she has not yet recovered 
 her equanimity on the subject, though it is now nearly three 
 hours since dinner, and the house floor is perfectly clean 
 
 78 
 
TOTTY POYSER 
 
 again; as clean as everything else in that wonderful house- 
 place where the only chance of collecting a few grains of 
 dust would be to climb on the salt coffer and put your 
 finger on the high mantle shelf on which the glittering brass 
 candlesticks are enjoying their summer rest — for at this time 
 of year on the Farm everyone goes to bed while it is yet 
 light enough to discern the outline of objects, after you 
 have bruised your shins against them. Surely, nowhere 
 else could an oak clock-case and an oak table have got to 
 such a polish by the hand: " genuine elbow polish" as Mrs. 
 Poyser called it. Hetty Sorrel, Mrs. Poyser's niece, who 
 lived at the farm, often when her aunt's back was turned, 
 looked at the pleasing reflection of herself in those polished 
 surfaces, and she could even see herself sometimes in the 
 great pewter dishes that were ranged on the shelves above 
 the dinner table, or in the hobs of the grate, which always 
 shone like jasper. 
 
 Everything was looking at its brightest at this moment, 
 for the sun shone right on the pewter dishes, and from their 
 reflecting surfaces pleasant jets of light were thrown on 
 mellow oak and bright brass. No scene could have been 
 more peaceful if Mrs. Poyser, who was ironing, had not 
 made a frequent clinking with her iron, and moving to and 
 fro whenever she wanted it to cool, carrying the keen glance 
 of her blue-grey eye from the kitchen to the dairy, where 
 Hetty was making up the butter, and from the dairy to the 
 back kitchen, where Nancy was taking the pies out of the 
 oven. Mrs. Poyser's tongue was not less keen than her eye, 
 and all who came within ear-shot now suffered in conse- 
 quence of having had to have the whittaws on churning day. 
 While Mrs. Poyser was scolding MoUie, the house-maid, 
 for conduct which had seemed exemplary to that young 
 woman, the harangue was suddenly interrupted. 
 
 79 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 "Munny, my iron's twite told; p'ease put it down to 
 
 warm." 
 
 The small chirruping voice that uttered this request came 
 from a little sunny-haired girl between three and four, who, 
 seated on a high chair at the end of the ironing-table, was 
 arduously clutching the handle of a miniature iron with her 
 tiny fat fist, and ironing rags with an assiduity that required 
 her to put her little red tongue out as far as anatomy would 
 allow. 
 
 " Cold, is it, my darling? Bless your sweet face!" said 
 Mrs. Poyser. "Never mind! mother's done her ironing 
 now. She's going to put the ironing things away." 
 
 " Munny, I tould 'ike to do into de barn to Tommy, to see 
 de whittawd." 
 
 "No, no, no; Totty Vd get her feet wet," said Mrs. 
 Poyser, carrying away her iron. " Run into the dairy, and 
 see Cousin Hetty make the butter." 
 
 " I tould 'ike a bit o' pum-take," rejoined Totty, who 
 seemed to be provided with several relays of requests; at 
 the same time taking the opportunity of her momentary 
 leisure to put her fingers into a bowl of starch and drag it 
 down, so as to empty the contents with tolerable complete- 
 ness on to the ironing sheet. 
 
 " Did ever anybody see the like?" screamed Mrs. Poyser, 
 running toward the table when her eye had fallen on the 
 blue stream. "The child's allays i' mischief if your back's 
 turned a minute. What shall I do wi' you, you naughty, 
 naughty gell?" 
 
 Totty, however, had descended from her chair with 
 great swiftness, and was already in retreat toward the dairy. 
 
 The starch having been wiped up by Molly's help, and the 
 ironing apparatus put by, Mrs. Poyser took up her knitting, 
 which always lay ready at hand, and was the work she liked 
 
 80 
 
TOTTY POYSER 
 
 best, because she could carry it on automatically as sHe 
 walked to and fro. But now she sat down and knitted her 
 grey worsted stocking as she talked with another niece, 
 Dinah Morris, who was making a visit at the Farm. Pres- 
 ently a noise caused her to go to the door, and come back 
 saying in rather a flurried, awe-struck tone: 
 
 "If there isn't Captain Donnithorne and Mr. Irwine 
 a-coming into the yard! " 
 
 Her prediction was true, and presently the two gentle- 
 men — one, grandson and heir of Squire Donnithorne of 
 Donnithorne Chase, the estate to which the Hall Farm be- 
 longed; the other, Rector of Broxton and Vicar of Hay- 
 slope — got down from their horses and entered the spotless 
 kitchen, where they chatted with Mrs. Poyser until Captain 
 Donnithorne suggested that he had never seen the dairy, to 
 which Mrs. Poyser presently led the way. 
 
 The dairy was certainly worth looking at — such coolness, 
 such purity, such fresh fragrance of new-pressed cheese, of 
 firm butter, of wooden vessels perpetually bathed in pure 
 water; such soft colouring of red earthernware and creamy 
 surfaces, brown wood and polished tin, grey limestone and 
 rich orange-red rust on the iron weights and hooks and 
 hinges. But one gets only a confused notion of these details 
 when they surround a distractingly pretty girl of seventeen, 
 rounding her dimpled arm to lift a pound of butter out of 
 the scale. 
 
 Moreover, Hetty was particularly clever at making up 
 the butter; it was the one performance of hers that her aunt 
 allowed to pass without severe criticism; so she handled 
 it with all the grace that belongs to mastery. 
 
 " I hope you will be ready for a great holiday on the 
 thirtieth of July, Mrs. Poyser," said Captain Donnithorne, 
 when he had sufficiently admired the dairy. " You know 
 
 8i 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 what is to happen, then, on my twenty-first birthday. I shall 
 expect you and your family among the guests who come 
 earliest and leave latest. And you must bring all your chil- 
 dren, you know, Mrs. Poyser; your little Totty, as well as 
 the boys. I want all the youngest children on the estate to 
 be there — all those who will be fine young men and women 
 when I'm a bald old fellow. But where is Totty to-day?" 
 he continued ; " I want to see her." 
 
 The proud mother, unable to resist the temptation to show 
 her Totty, passed at once into the back kitchen in search of 
 her, which gave Captain Donnithorne a chance to talk to 
 Hetty — a chance to which he by no means objected. The 
 reason why there was time for a satisfactory t^te-a-tSte was 
 because Totty was discovered rubbing a stray blueing-bag 
 against her nose, and in the same moment allowing some 
 liberal indigo drops to fall on her afternoon pinafore. But 
 soon she appeared holding her mother's hand — the end of 
 her round nose rather shiny from a hurried application of 
 soap and water. 
 
 " Here she is ! " said the Captain, lifting her up and setting 
 her on the low stone shelf. "Here's Totty! By-the-by, 
 what's her other name? She wasn't christened Totty." 
 
 " Oh, sir, we call her sadly out of her name. Charlotte's 
 her christened name. It's a name i' Mr. Poyser's family; 
 his grandmother was named Charlotte. But we began with 
 calling her Lotty, and now it's got to Totty. To be sure, it's 
 more like a name for a dog than a Christian child." 
 
 '^ Totty's a capital name. Why, she looks like a Totty. 
 Has she got a pocket on?" said the Captain, feeling in his 
 own waistcoat pockets. 
 
 Totty immediately with great gravity lifted up her frock 
 and showed a tiny pink pocket at present in a state of 
 collapse. 
 
 82 
 
TOTTY POYSER 
 
 " It dot not'in' in it," she said, as she looked down at it 
 very earnestly. 
 
 "No! What a pity! Such a pretty pocket! Well, I 
 think I've got some things in mine that will make a pretty 
 jingle in it. Yes! I declare I've got five little round silver 
 things, and hear what a pretty noise they make in Totty's 
 pink pocket." Here he shook the pocket with the five six- 
 pences in it, and Totty showed her teeth and wrinkled her 
 nose in great glee, but, divining that there was nothing more 
 to be got by staying, she jumped off the shelf and ran away 
 to jingle her pocket in the hearing of Nancy, while her 
 mother called after her, " Oh, for shame, you naughty gell, 
 not to thank the Captain for what he's given you ! I'm sure, 
 sir, it's very kind of you; but she's spoiled shameful; her 
 father won't have her said nay in anything, and there's no 
 managing her. It's being the youngest, and th' only gell." 
 
 " Oh, she's a funny little fatty; I wouldn't have her dif- 
 ferent. But I must be going now, for I suppose the rector 
 is waiting for me." 
 
 With a " good-bye," a bright glance, and a bow to Hetty, 
 Captain Donnithorne left the dairy, which seemed quite 
 desolate to Hetty after his departure. 
 
 One evening not long afterwards, as Hetty and Dinah 
 were coming home together, Mr. Poyser met them at the 
 gate, "Why, lassies, ye're rather late to-night," he said, 
 " the mother's begun to fidgit about you, and she's got the 
 little 'un ill." 
 
 They found Mrs. Poyser seated in a rocking-chair trying 
 to soothe Totty to sleep. But Totty was not disposed to 
 sleep; and when her cousins entered, she raised herself up 
 and showed a pair of flushed cheeks, which looked fatter 
 than ever now they were defined by the edge of her linen 
 nightcap. 
 
 83 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 Mrs. Poyser commenced to reproach Hetty for staying 
 away so late, but the scolding was interrupted by Totty, who 
 fearing that the arrival of her cousins was not likely to bring 
 anything satisfactory to her in particular, began to cry, 
 " Munny, munny," in an explosive manner. 
 
 " Well, then, my pet, mother's got her, mother won't 
 leave her; Totty be a good dilling and go to sleep now," 
 said Mrs. Poyser, trying to make Totty nestle against her. 
 But Totty only cried louder, and said "Don't yock!" So 
 the mother, with that wondrous patience which love gives 
 to the quickest temperament, sat up again, and pressed her 
 cheek against the linen nightcap and kissed it, and forgot 
 to scold Hetty, who went to the pantry for a bite of cold 
 supper, then came back and stood waiting for her aunt to 
 give the child into her hands. 
 
 " Wilt go to Cousin Hetty, my dilling, while mother gets 
 ready to go to bed? Then Totty shall go into mother's bed, 
 and sleep there all night." 
 
 Before her mother had done speaking, Totty had given 
 her answer in an unmistakable manner, by knitting her 
 brow, setting her tiny teeth against her under-lip, and lean- 
 ing forward to slap Hetty on the arm with her utmost force. 
 Then, without speaking, she nestled to her mother again. 
 
 " Hey, hey," said Mr. Poyser, while Hetty stood without 
 moving, "not go to Cousin Hetty? That's like a babby: 
 Totty's a little woman, an' not a babby." 
 
 " It's no use trying to persuade her," said Mrs. Poyser. 
 " She allays takes against Hetty when she isn't well. Hap- 
 pen she'll go to Dinah." 
 
 Dinah had hitherto kept quietly seated in the background, 
 not liking to thrust herself between Hetty and what was 
 considered Hetty's proper work. But now she came for- 
 ward and putting out her arms, said, " Come, Totty, come 
 
 84 
 
TOTTY POYSER 
 
 and let Dinah carry her upstairs along with mother; poor, 
 poor mother! She's so tired — she wants to go to bed." 
 
 Totty turned her face toward Dinah and looked at her 
 an instant, then lifted herself up, put out her little arms, and 
 let Dinah lift her from her mother's lap. Hetty turned 
 away without any sign of ill-humour; she considered all the 
 children, Marty and Tommy and Totty, the very nuisance 
 of her life. Marty, the oldest, was a baby when she first 
 came to the farm, and Hetty had had them all three, one 
 after the other, toddling by her side in the meadow, or play- 
 ing about her on wet days in the large old house. The boys 
 were out of hand, now, but Totty was still a day-long plague, 
 as was the making and mending of her clothes, and Hetty 
 was only too glad to be rid of the child for any length of 
 time. 
 
 The heavy wooden bolts now began to roll in the house 
 doors. Mrs. Poyser then led the way out of the kitchen, fol- 
 lowed by old Martin, the grandfather, and Dinah with 
 Totty in her arms. Mrs. Poyser, on her way, peeped into 
 the room where her two boys lay, just to see their ruddy 
 round cheeks on the pillow, and to hear for a moment their 
 light regular breathing — then the house was still for the 
 night. 
 
 On the following Sunday Mrs. Poyser, with impatience 
 in her voice and manner, called to Hetty, who was keeping 
 the church-goers from starting off: 
 
 " Hetty, Hetty, don't you know that church begins at 
 two, and it's gone half after one a'ready?" 
 
 "Well, aunt," answered Hetty, " I can't be ready as soon 
 as everybody else when I've got Totty's things to put on. 
 And I'd ever such work to make her stand still." 
 
 Hetty was coming downstairs, and Mrs. Poyser in her 
 plain bonnet and shawl was standing below. If ever a girl 
 
 85 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 looked as if she had been made of roses, that girl was Hetty 
 in her Sunday hat and frock. For her hat was trimmed 
 with pink, and her frock had pink spots sprinkled on a white 
 ground. There was nothing but pink and white about her 
 except in her dark hair and eyes and her little buckled shoes. 
 Mrs. Poyser was provoked at herself, for she could hardly 
 keep from smiling at the sight of such a pretty creature. So 
 she turned without speaking and joined the group outside 
 the house door, followed by Hetty. And now the little pro- 
 cession set off. Mr. Poyser was in his Sunday suit of drab, 
 with a red and green waistcoat, and a green watch-ribbon 
 having a large cornelian seal attached; a silk handkerchief 
 of a yellow tone round his neck, and grey-ribbed stockings 
 setting off the proportions of his leg. Mr. Poyser had no 
 reason to be ashamed of his leg. Still less had he reason to 
 be ashamed of his round jolly face, which was good-humour 
 itself as he said, "Come, Hetty — come, little 'uns!" and 
 giving his arm to his wife, led the way through the gate. 
 
 The "little 'uns " addressed were Marty and Tommy, 
 boys of nine and seven, in little fustian-tailed coats and knee- 
 breeches, relieved by rosy cheeks and black eyes, looking 
 as much like their father as a very small elephant is like a 
 very large one. Hetty walked between them, and behind 
 came patient Molly, whose task it was to carry Totty 
 through the yard, and over all the wet places on the road; 
 for Totty, having speedily recovered from her threatened 
 fever, had insisted on going to church to-day, and especially 
 on wearing her red and black necklace outside her tippet. 
 And there were many wet places for her to be carried over 
 this afternoon, for there had been heavy showers in the 
 morning, though now the clouds had rolled off. 
 
 When the grandfather saw the family ready to start, he 
 opened the gate for them, saying to the black-eyed young- 
 
 86 
 
TOTTY POYSER 
 
 sters: "Mind what the parson says — mind what the parsoa 
 says, my lads! " 
 
 " Dood-bye, dan-dad," said Totty. " Me doin' to church. 
 Me dot my netlace on. Dive me a peppermint." 
 
 Grand-dad, shaking with laughter at this " deep little 
 wench," slowly thrust his finger into the pocket on which 
 Totty had fixed her eyes, and then the procession moved 
 slowly through the fields. 
 
 Suddenly Mrs. Poyser, looking back, exclaimed: "Why, 
 goodness me, look where Molly is with them lads. They're 
 the field's length behind us. Anybody might as well set a 
 pictur to watch the children as you, Hetty! Run back and 
 tell them to come on." 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Poyser were now at the end of the second 
 field, so they set Totty on the top of one of the large stones 
 forming a stile, and awaited the loiterers; Totty observing 
 with complacency, " Dey naughty, naughty boys!" 
 
 The fact was that this Sunday walk through the fields 
 was fraught with great excitement to Marty and Tommy, 
 who saw a perpetual drama going on in the hedgerows. 
 Marty was quite sure he saw a yellow-hammer on the boughs 
 of the great ash, and while he was peeping he missed the 
 sight of a white-throated stoat, which had run across the 
 path and was described with much fervour by the junior 
 Tommy. Then there was a little green-finch, just fledged, 
 fluttering along the ground, and it seemed quite possible 
 to catch it, till it managed to flutter under the blackberry 
 bush. Hetty could not be got to give any heed to these 
 things, so Molly was called on for sympathy and peeped 
 with open mouth wherever she was told, and said " Lorks "I 
 whenever she was expected to wonder. 
 
 When Hetty came back and called to them that her aunt 
 was angry, Marty ran on first, shouting, "We've found the 
 
 87 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 speckled turkey's nest, mother!" with the instinctive con-' 
 fidence that people who bring good news are never in fault. 
 
 ^^Ah," said Mrs. Poyser, "that's a good lad; why, where 
 is it?" 
 
 " Down in ever such a hole, under the hedge. I saw it 
 first, looking after the green-finch, and she sat on the nest." 
 
 " You didn't frighten her, I hope," said the mother, " else 
 she'll forsake it." 
 
 "No, I went away as still as still, and whispered to Molly 
 —didn't I, Molly?" 
 
 " Well, well, now come on," said Mrs. Poyser, " and walk 
 before father and mother, and take your little sister by the 
 hand. We must go straight on now. Good boys don't look 
 after birds of a Sunday." 
 
 "But, mother," said Marty, "you said you'd give half a 
 crown to find the speckled turkey's nest. Mayn't I have the 
 half-crown put into my money box? " 
 
 " We'll see about that, my lad, if you walk along now like 
 a good boy." 
 
 The father and mother exchanged a significant glance 
 of amusement at their eldest horn's acuteness; but on 
 Tommy's round face there was a cloud. 
 
 " Mother," he said, half-crying, " Marty's got ever so 
 much more money in his box nor I've got in mine." 
 
 " Munny, me want half a toun in my bots," said Totty. 
 
 " Hush, hush, hush," said Mrs. Poyser. " Did anybody 
 ever hear such naughty children? Nobody shall ever see 
 their money boxes any more, if they don't make haste and go 
 on to church." 
 
 This dreadful threat had the desired effect, and through 
 the two remaining fields three pair of small legs trotted on 
 without any serious interruption, notwithstanding a small 
 pond full of tadpoles, which the lads looked at wistfully. 
 
 88 
 
TOTTY POYSER 
 
 And even with the interruption in their walk they arrived 
 at church in ample time for the service, after which there 
 was the quiet rising of the congregation for the benediction ; 
 the mothers tying on the bonnets of the little maidens who 
 had slept through the sermon, the fathers collecting the 
 prayer books, until all streamed out through the old arch- 
 way into the green churchyard, and began their neighbourly 
 talk, their simple civilities, and their invitations to tea; for 
 on a Sunday everyone was ready to receive a guest — it was 
 the day when all must be in their best clothes and their best 
 humour. Mr, and Mrs. Poyser paused a minute at the 
 church gate, then with Mr. Craig, the gardener at Donni- 
 thorne Chase, for company, went back to the pleasant bright 
 house-place at the Hall Farm. 
 
 On the next evening Adam Bede, a neighbour and life- 
 long friend of the Poysers, walked over to the farm to make 
 a visit. When he reached the house-door, Mrs. Poyser 
 called out from the dairy, "Come in, Mr. Bede, come in. 
 I canna justly leave the cheese. You might think you were 
 come to a dead-house," she continued, as he stood in the 
 doorway; "they're all i' the meadow; they're leaving the 
 hay cocked to-night, ready for carrying first thing to- 
 morrow. I'd be glad now, if you'd go into the garden, 
 where Hetty's gatherin' the red currans, and tell her to send 
 Totty in. The child '11 run in if she's told, and I know 
 Hetty's letting her eat too many currans. I'll be much 
 obliged to you, Mr. Bede, if you'll go and send her in; and 
 there's the York and Lankester roses beautiful in the garden 
 now — you'll like to see 'em. But you'd like a drink o' whey 
 first, p'r'aps." 
 
 "Thank you, Mrs. Poyser," said Adam, " a drink o' whey 
 is allays a treat to me. I'd rather have it than beer any day." 
 
 Then as he took the basin which had been dipped in the 
 
 89 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 whey-tub, he drained its contents, saying, " Here's to your 
 health, Mrs. Poyser; may you allays have strength to look 
 after your own dairy, and set a pattern t' all the farmers' 
 wives in the country." 
 
 After this gallant speech he set down the empty basin 
 and walked round by the rick-yard into the garden — a 
 true farmhouse garden with hardy perennial flowers, un- 
 pruned fruit trees, and kitchen vegetables growing together 
 in careless, half-neglected abundance. In that leafy, flow- 
 ery, bushy time, to look for anyone in this garden was 
 like playing at hide-and-seek. There were the tall holly- 
 hocks, pink, white, and yellow; there were the syringas and 
 Guelders roses; there were leafy walls of scarlet beans and 
 late peas; there was a row of bushy filberts in one direction, 
 and in another a huge apple tree. The very rose trees 
 looked as if they grew wild. Adam, after plucking a rose, 
 walked to the far end of the garden, where he remembered 
 there was the largest row of currant trees. But he had not 
 gone many steps beyond the roses when he heard the shaking 
 of a bough, and a boy's voice saying: 
 
 " Now, then, Totty, hold out your pinny — there's a 
 duck." 
 
 The voice came from the boughs of a tall cherry tree, 
 where Adam had no difficulty in discerning a small blue- 
 pinafored figure perched in a commodious position where 
 the fruit was thickest. Doubtless Totty was below, behind 
 the screen of peas. Yes — with her bonnet hanging down 
 her back, and her fat face, dreadfully smeared with red 
 juice, turned up toward the cherry tree, while she held her 
 little round hole of a mouth and her red stained pinafore to 
 receive the promised downfall. I am sorry to say, more 
 than half the cherries that fell were hard and yellow instead 
 of juicy and red ; but Totty spent no time in useless regrets, 
 
 90 
 
TOTTY POYSER 
 
 and she was already sucking the third juiciest when Adam 
 said, "There, now, Totty, you've got your cherries. Run 
 into the house with 'em to mother — she wants you — she's 
 in the dairy. Run in this minute — there's a good little 
 girl." 
 
 He lifted her up in his strong arms and kissed her as he 
 spoke, and when he set her down she trotted off quite silently 
 toward the house, sucking her cherries as she went along. 
 
 "Tommy, my lad, take care you're not shot for a little 
 thieving bird," Adam called back, as he walked on toward 
 the currant trees, where he found Hetty gathering the low 
 hanging fruit, and where he spent a half hour with her. 
 
 When he took up the basket of currants and they went 
 toward the house, the scene there was quite changed. Marty 
 was letting the screaming geese through the gate, and wick- 
 edly provoking the gander by hissing at him, and the horses 
 were being led out to watering amidst much barking of all 
 the three dogs. Everybody had come back from the 
 meadow, Mr. Poyser was seated, and the grandfather in a 
 large armchair opposite was looking on with pleasant ex- 
 pectation while the supper was being laid on the oak table. 
 The cold veal, the fresh lettuces, and the stuffed chine 
 looked very tempting, and soon all the family with the ex- 
 ception of Totty, who had been put to bed, were partaking 
 of the simple meal. 
 
 In the month following that quiet evening at the farm 
 there were busy days of harvesting for all hands, but they 
 passed quickly, as days of work always do, and soon the 
 thirtieth of July was come. The farmers and labourers in 
 Hayslope and Broxton thought the young Squire did well 
 to come of age just then, in the pause between hay and corn 
 harvest, when they could give their undivided minds to the 
 flavour of the great cask of ale which had been brewed the 
 
 91 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 autumn after " the heir " was born, and was to be tapped on 
 his twenty-first birthday. 
 
 The church bells rang merrily on the fete-day morning, 
 and all hands on the farm made haste to get through their 
 needful work before twelve, when it would be time to get 
 ready to go to Donnithorne Chase. 
 
 When Hetty went downstairs she found the whole 
 party assembled in their best clothes, ready to get into 
 the covered cart, without springs, which was ready to con- 
 vey them to the seat of the gayeties. All Broxton and all 
 Hayslope were to be at the Chase to make merry there in 
 honour of the heir — in accordance with English custom and 
 tradition. The church bells had struck up again now, and 
 before they had finished other music was heard approach- 
 ing, so that even the sober old horse that was drawing Mr. 
 Poyser's cart began to prick up his ears. It was the band of 
 the Benefit Club, which had mustered in all its glory in 
 honour of the day. 
 
 "Why, the Chase is like a fair, already!" exclaimed Mrs. 
 Poyser, as she got down from the cart, and saw the groups 
 scattered under the great oaks, and the boys running about 
 in the hot sunshine to survey the tall poles surmounted by 
 the fluttering garments that were to be the prize of the suc- 
 cessful climbers. " I should ha' thought there wasna so 
 many people i' the two parishes. Mercy on us! How hot 
 it is out o' the shade! Come here, Totty, else your little 
 face 'uU be burnt to a scratchin\ I shall go to the house- 
 keeper's room and sit down." 
 
 Through all the hours of that memorable day the pro* 
 gramme was carried on without a hitch. First in importance 
 came the elaborate dinner, after which draughts of the birth- 
 day ale were drunk by all, and the young squire made a little 
 speech of welcome, which was answered by Mr. Poyser, 
 
 92 
 
TOTTY POYSER 
 
 whose flattering response ended up with : " Now we'll drink 
 our young Squire's health — three times three." 
 
 Hereupon a glorious shouting, a rapping, a jingling, a 
 clattering, pleasanter than a strain of sublimest music in the 
 ears that receive such a tribute for the first time. Arthur 
 Donnithorne then thanked them all for their good wishes, 
 and proposed several toasts, which were drunk with en- 
 thusiasm, when the party broke up and dispersed over the 
 great lawns, where the band of the Benefit Club was playing 
 jigs and reels and hornpipes for any lads and lasses who 
 liked to dance on the shady grass, and where, too, there was 
 a grand band hired from a neighbouring village, to say 
 nothing of Joshua Rann's fiddle, which he had brought 
 with him in case anyone should have the good taste to prefer 
 dancing to a solo. 
 
 Presently, when the sun had moved off the great open 
 space in front of the house, the games began. There were 
 well-soaped poles to be climbed by the boys and youths, 
 races to be run by the old women, races to be run in sacks, 
 heavy weights to be lifted by the strong men, and a long list 
 of other challenges. To crown all, there was a donkey 
 race — conducted on the socialistic idea of everybody en- 
 couraging everybody else's donkey — and the sorriest don- 
 key winning. 
 
 And soon after four o'clock splendid old Mrs. Irwine, the 
 rector's mother, was led out by Arthur Donnithorne to her 
 raised seat under the striped marquee (tent) to give out the 
 prizes to the victors. Only one friend of the family, a Mr. 
 Gawaine, was invited to-day beside the rector and his 
 family. There was to be a grand dinner for the neighbour- 
 ing gentry on the morrow, but to-day all the forces were 
 required for the entertainment of the tenants. 
 
 At eight o'clock in the evening came the great ball, and 
 
 93 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 the entrance hall in which it was held was just the sort of 
 place to be ornamented well with green boughs, and Mr. 
 Craig had been proud to show his taste and his hothouse 
 plants on this occasion. The lights were charmingly dis- 
 posed in coloured paper lamps high up among the boughs, 
 and the farmers' wives and daughters thought no scene could 
 be more splendid. Arthur Donnithorne had put on his uni- 
 form to please the tenants, who thought as much of his 
 militia dignity as if it had been an elevation to the premier- 
 ship, and he had a pleasant word for everyone, while the old 
 Squire, aristocratic in speech and bearing, as always, made 
 polite speeches to the guests and their wives in his usual 
 polished manner. 
 
 In order to balance the honours given to the two parishes. 
 Miss Irwine danced with the largest Broxton farmer and 
 Mr. Gawaine led out the farmer's wife. Then the less dis- 
 tinguished couples took their places, and the glorious 
 country-dance, best of all dances, began. It was an evening 
 of complete enjoyment to almost everyone present, and 
 Hetty was amongst those least indifferent to its pleasures, 
 which would have been quite perfect had it not been for 
 one irritating incident. She was at the far end of the hall, 
 with the sleeping Totty in her arms, as Molly had gone to 
 fetch the children's shawls and bonnets, for the hour at 
 which they were to be taken home had come. Mrs. Poyser 
 had taken the two boys to the dining-room to give them 
 some cake before they went home, and Adam Bede was with 
 Hetty, who thankfully accepted his offer to hold Totty, for 
 the heavy child was no easy burden to hold standing. But 
 the transfer wakened Totty, and while Hetty was placing 
 her in Adam's arms, and had not yet withdrawn her own, 
 Totty fought out sleepily with her left fist at Adam's arm, 
 and with her right caught at the string of beads around 
 
 94 
 
TOTTY POYSER 
 
 Hetty's neck. This broke the string, and scattered the beads 
 wide on the floor, while the locket attached to them lay 
 open, exposing the picture it held to Adam's view, which 
 did not please Hetty, who by no means wanted him to see 
 it. This incident increased Hetty's dislike to fat little Totty 
 and marred her evening's pleasure, but to Adam Bede the 
 evening had been most enjoyable, because of the honours 
 paid to him at the celebration, and, also, because of his 
 pleasure in being where Hetty was. 
 
 Some weeks later, on a Sunday, Adam went home with 
 the Poysers from church, and after tea, when the boys were 
 going into the garden with Hetty, and Totty begged to go 
 with them, he had the pleasure of accompanying the little 
 party. Presently Totty was missing, and Hetty, who went 
 to find her, came back leading the child, who was making a 
 sour face, for she had been obliged to throw away an unripe 
 apple that she had set her small teeth in. 
 
 " Hegh, Totty," said Adam, " come and ride on my 
 shoulder — ever so high — you'll touch the tops o' the trees." 
 
 What little child ever refused to be comforted by that 
 glorious sense of being seized strongly and swung upward? 
 I don't believe Ganymede cried when the eagle carried him 
 away, and perhaps deposited him on Jove's shoulder at the 
 end. Totty smiled down complacently from her secure 
 height, and pleasant was the sight to the mother's eyes as 
 she stood at the door and saw Adam coming with his small 
 burthen. 
 
 " Bless your sweet face, my pet," she said, as Totty leaned 
 forward and put out her arms, the mother's strong love 
 filling her keen eyes and heart with mildness. 
 
 The next glimpse we have of Totty is over a year later. 
 Dinah, who is at the farm and by whose side Totty is sitting, 
 
 95 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 had borne patiently to have her thread broken three times 
 by Totty pulling at her arm with a sudden insistence that 
 she should look at '^ Baby," that is, at a large wooden doll 
 with no legs and a long skirt, whose bald head Totty was 
 pressing to her fat cheek with much fervour. Tommy, who 
 was near by, soon began with true brotherly sympathy to 
 turn dolly's skirt over her bald head and exhibit her trun- 
 cated body to the general scorn — an indignity which cut 
 Totty to the heart. 
 
 Totty is larger by more than two years' growth than when 
 you first saw her, and she has on a black frock under her 
 pinafore; Mrs. Poyser, too, has on a black gown, for in the 
 past eighteen months sorrow has come to the inmates of the 
 Hall Farm. In other respects there is little outward change 
 discernible in our old friends, or in the pleasant house- 
 place, bright with polished pewter, and little fat Totty could 
 have no happier home than that same farm where we first 
 saw her. As Mrs. Poyser talked with Dinah, she turned 
 hastily to look at the clock, and said: 
 
 "See there! It's tea-time. Totty, my chicken, you go 
 out into the rick-yard and tell father he mustn't go away 
 again without coming t' a have a cup o' tea, and tell your 
 brothers to come in, too." 
 
 Totty trotted off in her flapping bonnet, while Mrs. 
 Poyser reached down the teacups, and presently exclaimed, 
 " Look there. There's Adam Bede a-carrying the little 
 'un in." 
 
 Mrs. Poyser hastened to the door for the pleasure of 
 looking at her darling, love in her eyes, but reproach on her 
 tongue. 
 
 '^ Oh, for shame, Totty! Little gells o' five year old should 
 be ashamed to be carried. Why, Adam, she'll break your 
 arm, such a big gell as that. Set her down, for shame! " 
 
 96 
 
TOTTY POYSER 
 
 " Nay, nay," said Adam, " I can lift her with my hand. 
 I've no need to take my arm to it." 
 
 Totty, looking as serenely unconscious of remark as a fat 
 white puppy, was set down at the door-place, and the mother 
 enforced her reproof with a shower of kisses — ^which may 
 be accepted as a fair sign of the way in which the hardships 
 of Totty's future were always to be tempered by that which 
 makes a rose-garden of the veriest wilderness, that deepest, 
 tenderest affection which this world can give — a mother's 
 love. Happy little Totty! 
 
 97 
 
EPPIE 
 
 Lore. 
 
 99 
 

 Eppii-: and Silas Marner. 
 
EPPIE 
 
 IN the early years of this century a linen weaver, named 
 Silas Marner, worked at his vocation in a stone cottage 
 that stood among the hedgerows near the village of 
 Raveloe, not far from a deserted stone-pit. The sound 
 of Silas's loom, so unlike that of the winnowing-machine, 
 or the simpler rhythm of the flail, had a half-fearful fascina- 
 tion for the Raveloe boys, who would often leave ofif their 
 nutting or bird's nesting to peep in at the window of the 
 cottage. Sometimes it happened that Marner became aware 
 of the small scoundrels, and liked their intrusions so ill that 
 he would descend from his loom, and, opening the door, 
 would fix on them a gaze that was always enough to make 
 them take to their legs in terror. 
 
 It was fifteen years since Silas Marner had first come 
 to Raveloe; he was then simply a pallid young man, with 
 prominent short-sighted brown eyes, whose appearance 
 would have had nothing strange for people of average 
 culture and experience; but for the villagers it had myste- 
 rious peculiarities which corresponded with the exceptional 
 nature of his occupation, and his advent from an unknown 
 region called " North'ard." So had his way of life : — he in- 
 vited no comer to step across his doorsill, he never strolled 
 into the village to drink a pint at the Rainbow Inn, or to 
 gossip at the wheelwright's; he sought no man or woman 
 save for the purposes of his calling, or in order to supply 
 
 lOI 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 himself with necessaries. And the years rolled on, pro- 
 ducing scarcely any change in the impressions of the neigh- 
 bours concerning him. There was only one important 
 addition to what the Raveloe men said about him, which 
 was, that Master Marner had laid by a fine sight of money 
 somewhere, and that he could buy up bigger men than 
 himself. 
 
 But while opinion concerning him had remained nearly 
 stationary, and his daily habits had presented scarcely any 
 visible change, Marner's inner life had been the history of 
 a fervid nature which had been condemned through cir- 
 cumstances to solitude. His life before he came to Raveloe 
 had been an active one, for he had been one of the most 
 enthusiastic and useful citizens of the little hidden world 
 of Lantern Yard, until the time when he was unjustly ac- 
 cused of a crime which he himself knew to have been com- 
 mitted by his closest friend. That friend not only robbed 
 Marner of his good name, but won from him the affection 
 of the young woman to whom Marner was about to be 
 married. For a day the weaver sat alone. The second day 
 he took refuge in working away at his loom as usual, and 
 in little less than a month later it was known to the brethren 
 in Lantern Yard that Silas Marner had departed from the 
 town. 
 
 In the little cottage at Raveloe he worked unremittingly, 
 seeming to weave like the spider, from pure impulse, with- 
 out thinking of the money it would bring in. Every man's 
 work, pursued steadily, tends in this way to become an end 
 in itself, and so to bridge over the loveless chasms of his 
 life. Silas's hand satisfied itself with throwing the shuttle, 
 and his eye with seeing the little squares in the cloth com- 
 plete themselves under his effort. He had also in his 
 solitude, to provide his own meals, to fetch his own water 
 
 102 
 
EPPIE 
 
 from the well, and put his own kettle on the fire, and all 
 these promptings helped, along with the weaving, to reduce 
 his life to the unquestioning activity of a spinning insect. 
 Gradually the guineas, the crowns, and the half-crowns 
 grew to a heap. In this strange world, made a hopeless 
 riddle to him, the money had come to mark off his weaving 
 into periods, and the money not only grew, but it remained 
 with him. He handled the coins, he counted them, but it 
 was only in the night that he drew them out to enjoy their 
 companionship. He had taken up some bricks in his floor 
 where he made a hole in which he set the iron pot contain- 
 ing his guineas, covering the bricks with sand whenever he 
 replaced them. 
 
 So year after year Silas Marner had lived in this solitude 
 alone with his gold, until the Christmas of the fifteenth year, 
 when, one night, removing the bricks, he saw only an empty 
 hole, a sight which made his heart leap violently. But the 
 belief that his gold was gone could not come at once. He 
 searched in every corner, he even turned his bed over and 
 shook it, he looked in his brick oven where he laid his sticks. 
 When there was no other place to be searched, he felt once 
 more all round the hole. There was no untried refuge left 
 for a moment's shelter from the terrible truth. He could 
 see every object in his cottage — and his gold was not there. 
 He put his trembling hands to his head, and gave a wild 
 cry of desolation, then 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. He hastened from 
 the door and ran swiftly out in the rain until he entered the 
 village and passed through the door of the Rainbow. When 
 Marner entered the Inn with his tale of robbery, it created 
 intense excitement and gave the weaver a strange new feel- 
 ing of intimacy with his neighbours as he freely discussed 
 
 103 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 the matter with them. But from all their suggestions and 
 later investigation no light was thrown on the subject. The 
 loom was there, and the weaving, and the growing pattern 
 in the cloth; but the bright treasure in the hole under his 
 feet was gone; the prospect of handling it and counting it 
 was gone; the evening had no ghost of delight to still the 
 poor soul's craving. The thought of the money he would 
 get by his actual work could bring no joy, for its meagre 
 image was only a fresh reminder of his loss; and hope was 
 too heavily crushed by the sudden blow for his imagination 
 to dwell on the growth of a new hoard from that small 
 beginning. 
 
 As he sat weaving he every now and then moaned like 
 one in pain. And every evening, as he sat in his loneliness 
 by his dull fire, he leaned his elbows on his knees, and 
 clasped his head with his hands, and moaned very low — not 
 as one who seeks to be heard. 
 
 And yet he was not utterly forsaken in his trouble. His 
 misfortune had changed the repulsion which he had always 
 created in his neighbours to a kindlier feeling. This feel- 
 ing was shown in various ways, according to the respective 
 characters of his comforters, among whom was Mrs. Dolly 
 Winthrop. This good, wholesome woman was drawn 
 strongly toward Silas Marner now that he appeared in the 
 light of a sufferer; and one Sunday afternoon she took her 
 little boy Aaron with her and went to call on Silas, carry- 
 ing with her some flat, paste-like lard cakes, much esteemed 
 in Raveloe. 
 
 They had to knock loudly before Silas heard them, and 
 when he opened the door to admit them his greeting was 
 without cordiality. Dolly Winthrop removed the w^hite 
 cloth that covered her lard cakes and said in her gravest 
 way: 
 
 104 
 
EPPIE 
 
 " I'd a baking yisterday, Master Marner, and the lard 
 cakes turned out better nor common, and I'd asked you to 
 accept some, if you'd thought well." 
 
 Dolly sighed gently as she held out the cakes to Silas, 
 who thanked her kindly and looked very close at them, 
 absently, being accustomed to look so at everything he took 
 into his hand — eyed all the while by the wondering bright 
 orbs of the small Aaron, an apple-cheeked youngster of 
 seven, with a clean starched frill, who had made an outwork 
 of his mother's chair, and was peeping round from behind it. 
 
 "There's letters pricked on 'em," said Dolly. "I can't 
 read 'em myself, but they've a good meaning, for they're 
 the same as is on the pulpit cloth at church. What are they, 
 Aaron, my dear?" 
 
 Aaron retreated completely behind his outwork. 
 
 " Oh, go, that's naughty," said his mother mildly. " Well, 
 whativer the letters are, it's a stamp as has been in our 
 house, my husband says, ever since he was a little 'un, and 
 his mother used to put it on the cakes, and I've allays put 
 it on too; for if there's any good, we've need of it i' this 
 world." 
 
 " It's I. H. S.," said Silas, at which proof of learning 
 Aaron peeped round the chair again. 
 
 "Well, to be sure, you can read 'em ofif," said Dolly. 
 "They's good letters, else they wouldn't be in the church; 
 and I hope they'll bring good to you. Master Marner, for 
 it's with that will I brought you the cakes." 
 
 Silas was as unable to interpret the letters as Dolly, but 
 there was no possibility of misunderstanding the desire to 
 give comfort that made itself heard in her quiet tones. He 
 said with more feeling than before, " Thank you — thank 
 you kindly." But he laid down the cakes and seated himself 
 absently — drearily unconscious of any distinct benefit to- 
 
 105 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 ward which the cakes, the letters, or even Dolly's kindness, 
 could tend for him, while the good woman attempted to 
 urge upon him a bit of her simple Raveloe theology of 
 which she felt he was in sad need. 
 
 But little Aaron, having now become used to the weaver's 
 awful presence, had meanwhile advanced to his mother's 
 side, and Silas, seeming to notice him for the first time, tried 
 to return Dolly's signs of goodwill by offering him a bit 
 of lard cake. Aaron shrank back a little, 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 yet awhile! 
 He's wonderful hearty," she went on; "he's my youngest, 
 and we spoil him sadly. 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. Come, Aaron, 
 Stan' up and sing the carril to Master Marner, come." 
 
 Aaron was not indisposed to display his talents, and after 
 a few signs of coyness, such as rubbing his forehead against 
 his mother's shoulder, and 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 stood 
 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 by a body, as he began with a clear chirp, and 
 in a melody that had the rhythm of an industrious hammer, 
 sang: 
 
 * God rest you, merry gentlemen, 
 Let nothing you dismay, 
 For Jesus Christ our Saviour 
 Was born on Christmas Day.'* 
 
 Dolly listened with a devout look; "That's Christmas 
 music," she said when Aaron had ended and had secured his 
 
 io6 
 
EPPIE 
 
 piece of cake again. ^' There's no other music equil to the 
 Christmas music. And you may judge what it is at church, 
 Master Marner, with the bassoon and the voices, as you 
 can't help thinking youVe got to a better place a'ready. 
 The boy sings pretty, don't he. Master Marner? " 
 
 "Yes," said Silas absently, "very pretty." 
 
 Then, wishing to show Dolly that he was grateful, the 
 only mode that occurred to him was to ofer Aaron a bit 
 more cake. 
 
 "Oh, no, thank you. Master Marner," said Dolly, hold- 
 ing 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 of 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 couldn't help feeling relieved when she was gone — 
 relieved that he might weave again and moan at his ease, 
 and notwithstanding her honest persuasion, he spent his 
 Christmas day in loneliness, eating his meat in sadness of 
 heart, though the meat had come to him as a neighbourly 
 present. Toward evening the snow began to fall, shutting 
 him close up with his narrow grief. 
 
 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. So the days 
 wore out their slow lengths until the morning came when he 
 
 107 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 had been told by some of his neighbours that it was New 
 Year's Eve, and that he must sit up and hear the old year 
 rung out and the new rung in, because that was good luck, 
 and might bring his money back again. This was only a 
 friendly Raveloe way of jesting with the half-crazy oddities 
 of a miser, but it had helped to throw Silas into an excited 
 state. Since the oncoming of twilight he had opened his 
 door again and again, only to see all distance veiled by the 
 falling snow. But the last time he opened it the snow had 
 ceased, and the clouds were parting here and there. He 
 stood and listened, and gazed for a long while — there was 
 really something on the road coming toward him then, but 
 he caught no sign of it; and the stillness and the wide track- 
 less snow seemed to narrow his solitude, and touched his 
 yearning with the chill of despair. For a long while he 
 stood like a graven image looking at the untrodden world 
 without, until at last he became conscious that the light had 
 grown dim and that he was chilled and faint. 
 
 Meanwhile, not far from his cottage, a sick, benumbed 
 woman carrying a child had sunk down into a bed of 
 soft snow. Complete torpor came at last, her arms relaxed 
 their clutch on the slumbering little one, then the little head 
 fell away from the bosom, and the blue eyes opened wide on 
 the cold starlight. At first there was a little peevish cry of 
 "Mammy!" but mammy's ear was deaf, and the pillow 
 seemed to be slipping away backward. Suddenly the 
 child's eyes were caught by a bright glancing light on 
 the white ground, and it was immediately absorbed in 
 watching the bright living thing running toward it yet 
 never arriving. That bright living thing must be caught; 
 and in an instant the child had slipped on all fours, and 
 held out one little hand to catch the gleam. But the gleam 
 would not be caught in that way, and now the head was held 
 
 1 08 
 
EPPIE 
 
 up to see where it came from. It came from a very bright 
 place, and the little one, rising on its legs, toddled through 
 the snow, the old shawl in which it was wrapped trailing be- 
 hind it, and the queer little bonnet dangling at its back — 
 toddled on, to the open door of Silas Marner's cottage, past 
 Silas, — who stood as one in a trance, with eyes that seeing, 
 saw not, — and into the cottage, where there was a bright fire 
 which had thoroughly warmed the old sack (Silas' great 
 coat) spread out on the bricks to dry. The little one squatted 
 down on the sack, and spread its tiny hands toward the blaze, 
 in perfect contentment, making many inarticulate communi- 
 cations to the cheerful fire. But presently the warmth had 
 a lulling effect, and the little golden head sank down on the 
 old sack and the blue eyes were veiled by their delicate half- 
 transparent lids. Turning toward the hearth after his long 
 reverie at the open door, Silas Marner seated himself on his 
 fireside chair, and was stooping to push his logs together, 
 when to his blurred vision it seemed as if there were gold 
 on the floor in front of the hearth. Gold! — his own gold — 
 brought back to him as mysteriously as it had been taken 
 away! He felt his heart begin to beat violently, and for a 
 few moments he was unable to stretch out his hand and grasp 
 the restored treasure. The heap of gold seemed to glow 
 and get larger beneath his agitated gaze. He leaned for- 
 ward at last, and stretched forth his hand; but instead of the 
 hard coin with the familiar resisting outline, his fingers en- 
 countered soft warm curls. In utter amazement, Silas fell 
 on his knees and bent his head low to examine the marvel: 
 it was a sleeping child — a round, fair thing, with soft 
 yellow rings all over its head. Could this be his little sister 
 come back to him in a dream — his little sister whom he had 
 carried about in his arms for a year before she died, when 
 he was a small boy without shoes or stockings? That was 
 
 109 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 the first thought that darted across Silas's blank wonder- 
 ment. Was it a dream? He rose to his feet again, pushed 
 his logs together, which raised a flame; but the flame did not 
 disperse the vision — only lit up more distinctly the little 
 round form of the child, and its shabby clothing. It was 
 very much like his little sister. Silas sank into his chair 
 powerless, under the double presence of an inexplicable 
 surprise and a hurrying influx of memories. How and when 
 had the child come in without his knowledge? He had 
 never been beyond the door. 
 
 There was a cry on the hearth: the child had awakened, 
 and Marner stooped to lift it on his knee. It clung round 
 his neck, and burst louder and louder into cries of 
 " Mammy." Silas pressed it to him, and almost uncon- 
 sciously uttered sounds of hushing tenderness, while he be- 
 thought himself that some of his porridge, which had got 
 cool by the dying fire, would do to feed the child with if it 
 were only warmed up a little. 
 
 He had plenty to do through the next hour. The por- 
 ridge, sweetened with some dry brown sugar from an old 
 store which he had refrained from using for himself, stopped 
 the cries of the little one, and made her lift her blue eyes 
 with a wide quiet gaze at Silas, as he put the spoon into her 
 mouth. Presently she slipped from his knee and began to 
 toddle about, but with a pretty stagger that made Silas jump 
 up and follow her lest she should fall against anything that 
 would hurt her. But she only fell in a sitting posture on 
 the ground, and began to pull at her boots, looking up at 
 him with a crying face as if the boots hurt her. He took 
 her on his knee again, but it was some time before it oc- 
 curred to Silas's dull bachelor mind that the wet boots were 
 a grievance, pressing on her warm ankles. He got them 
 off with difficulty, and baby was at once happily occupied 
 
 no 
 
EPPIE 
 
 with the primary mystery of her own toes, inviting Silas, 
 with much chuckling, to consider the mystery, too. But 
 the wet boots had at last suggested to Silas that the child had 
 been walking on the snow, and this roused him from his en- 
 tire oblivion of any ordinary means by which it could have 
 entered or been brought into his house. Under the prompt- 
 ing of this new idea, and without waiting to form conjec- 
 tures, he raised the child in his arms, and went to the door. 
 As soon as he had opened it, there was the cry of '' mammy" 
 again, which Silas had not heard since the child's first 
 hungry waking. Bending forward, he could just discern 
 the marks made by the little feet on the snow, and he fol- 
 lowed their track to the furze bushes. "Mammy!" the 
 little one cried again and again, stretching itself forward 
 so as almost to escape from Silas's arm, and then Silas made 
 the discovery that the child's mother had gone to her last 
 resting place — that she would never claim the little one, if 
 he chose to keep her. 
 
 Silas Marner's determination to keep the "tramp's child" 
 was matter of hardly less surprise and iterated talk in the 
 village than the robbery of his money. That softening of 
 feeling toward him which dated from his misfortune, that 
 merging of suspicion and dislike in a rather contemptuous 
 pity for him as lone and crazy, was now accompanied with 
 a more active sympathy, especially amongst the women. 
 Mothers were equally interested in conjecturing how a lone 
 man would manage with a two-year-old child on his hands, 
 and were equally ready with their suggestions; the notable 
 chiefly telling him what he had better do, and the lazy ones 
 being emphatic in telling him what he would never be able 
 to do. 
 
 Among the notable mothers, Dolly Winthrop was the 
 one whose neigiibourly offices were the most acceptable to 
 
 III 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 Marner, lor they were rendered without any show of bus- 
 tling instruction. 
 
 "Eh, Master Marner," said Dolly, "there's no call to 
 buy, no more nor a pair o' shoes; for I've got the little 
 petticoats as Aaron wore five years ago, and it's ill spending 
 money on them baby-clothes, for the child 'ull grow like 
 grass i' May, bless it — that it will." 
 
 And the same day Dolly brought her bundle, and dis- 
 played to Marner, one by one, the tiny garments in their 
 due order of succession, most of them patched and darned, 
 but clean and neat as fresh-sprung herbs. This was the in- 
 troduction to a great ceremony with soap and water, from 
 which baby came out in new beauty, and sat on Dolly's 
 knee, handling her toes and chuckling and patting her palms 
 together with an air of having made several discoveries 
 about herself, which she communicated by alternate sounds 
 of " gug-gug-gug" and "mammy." 
 
 "Anybody 'ud think the angils in heaven couldn't be 
 prettier," said Dolly, rubbing the golden curls and kissing 
 them. "And to think of its being covered wi' them dirty 
 rags — and the poor mother — froze to death; but there's 
 Them as took care of it, and brought it to your door. Master 
 Marner. The door was open, and it walked in over the 
 snow, like as if it had been a little starved robin. Didn't 
 you say the door was open?" 
 
 "Yes," said Silas, meditatively. "Yes — the door was 
 open. The money's gone I don't know where, and this is 
 come from I don't know where." 
 
 " Ah," said Dolly, with soothing gravity, " it's like the 
 night and the morning, and the sleeping and the waking, 
 and the rain and the harvest — one goes and the other comes, 
 and we know nothing how nor where. We may strive and 
 scrat and fend, but it's little we can do arter all — the big 
 
 112 
 
EPPIE 
 
 things come and go wi' no striving o' our'n — they do, that 
 they do; and I think you're in the right on it to keep the 
 little un, Master Marner, seeing as it's been sent to you, 
 though there's folks as thinks different. You'll happen be 
 a bit moithered with it while it's so little ; but I'll come, and 
 welcome, and see to it for you; I've a bit o' time to spare 
 most days, tow'rt ten, afore it's time to go about the victual. 
 So, as I say, I'll come and see to the child for you, and 
 welcome." 
 
 "Thank you — kindly," said Silas, hesitating a little. 
 " I'll be glad if you'll tell me things. But," he added, un- 
 easily, leaning forward to look at Baby with some jealousy, 
 as she was resting her head backward against Dolly's arm, 
 and eyeing him contentedly from a distance — " But I want 
 to do things for it myself, else it may get fond o' somebody 
 else, and not fond o' me. I've been used to fending for my- 
 self in the house — I can learn, I can learn." 
 
 " Eh, to be sure," said Dolly, gently. " I've seen men as 
 are wonderful handy wi' children. You see this goes first, 
 next the skin," proceeded Dolly, taking up the little shirt, 
 and putting it on. 
 
 " Yes," said Marner, docilely, bringing his eyes very 
 close, that they might be initiated in the mysteries; where- 
 upon Baby seized his head with both her small arms, and 
 put her lips against his face with purring noises. 
 
 " See there," said Dolly, with a woman's tender tact, 
 " she's fondest o' you. She wants to go o' your lap, I'll be 
 bound. Go, then: take her, Master Marner; you can put 
 the things on, and then you can say as you've done for her 
 from the first of her coming to you." 
 
 Marner took her on his lap, trembling with an emotion 
 mysterious to himself, at something unknown dawning on 
 his life. Thought and feeling were so confused within him, 
 
 113 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 that if he had tried to give them utterance, he could only 
 have said that the child was come instead of the gold — that 
 the gold had turned into the child. He took the garments 
 from Dolly, and put them on under her teaching; inter- 
 rupted, of course, by Baby's gymnastics. 
 
 " There, then! why, you take to it quite easy, Master Mar- 
 ner," said Dolly; ''but what shall you do when you're 
 forced to sit in your loom? For she'll get busier and mis- 
 chievouser every day — she will, bless her. It's lucky as 
 you've got that high hearth i'stead of a grate, for that keeps 
 the fire more out of her reach: but if you've got anything 
 as can be spilt or broke, or as is fit to cut her fingers off, she'll 
 be at it — and it is but right you should know." 
 
 Silas meditated a little while in some perplexity. " I'll 
 tie her to the leg o' the loom," he said at last — " tie her with 
 a good long strip o' something." 
 
 "Well, mayhap that'll do, as it's a little gell*, for they're 
 easier persuaded to sit i' one place nor the lads. I know 
 what the lads are; for I've had four — four I've had, God 
 knows — and if you was to take and tie 'em up, they'd make 
 a fighting and a crying as if you was ringing the pigs. But 
 I'll bring you my little chair, and some bits o' red rag and 
 things for her to play wi'; an' she'll sit and chatter to 'em 
 as if they was alive. Eh, if it wasn't a sin to the lads to 
 wish 'em made different, bless 'em, I should ha' been glad 
 for one of 'em to be a little gell ; and to think as I could ha' 
 taught her to scour, and mend, and the knitting, and every- 
 thing. But I can teach 'em this little un, Master Marner, 
 when she gets old enough." 
 
 " But she'll be my little un," said Marner, rather hastily. 
 " She'll be nobody else's." 
 
 "No, to be sure; you'll have a right to her, if you're a 
 father to her, and bring her up according. But," added 
 
 114 
 
EPPIE 
 
 Dolly, coming to a point which she had determined before- 
 hand to touch upon, " you must bring her up like christened 
 folks's children, and take her to church, and let her learn 
 her catechism, as my little Aaron can say off — the ^ I be- 
 lieve,' and everything, and ^ hurt nobody by word or deed,^ 
 — as well as if her was the clerk. That's what you must do, 
 Master Marner, if you'd do the right thing by the orphan 
 child." 
 
 Marner's pale face flushed suddenly under a new 
 anxiety. 
 
 " And it's my belief," Dolly went on, " the poor little 
 creature has never been christened, and it's nothing but right 
 as the parson should be spoke to; and if you was noways un- 
 willing, I'd talk to Mr. Macey about it this very day. For 
 if the child ever went anyways wrong, and you hadn't done 
 your part by it. Master Marner — it 'ud be a thorn i' your 
 bed forever o' this side the grave." 
 
 Dolly had spoken from the depths of her own simple be- 
 lief, and was much concerned to know whether her words 
 would produce the desired effect on Silas. He was puzzled 
 and anxious, for Dolly's word " christened " conveyed no 
 distinct meaning to him. 
 
 "What is it you mean by * christened '? " he said at last, 
 timidly. "Won't folk be good to her without it? " 
 
 "Dear, dear! Master Marner," said Dolly, with gentle 
 distress and compassion. " Had you never no father nor 
 mother as taught you to say your prayers, and as there's 
 good words and good things to keep us from harm? " 
 
 " Yes," said Silas, in a low voice ; " I know a deal about 
 that — used to, used to. But your ways are different: my 
 country was a good way off." He paused a few moments, 
 and then added, more decidedly, " But I want to do every- 
 thing as can be done for the child. And whatever's right 
 
 115 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 for it i' this country, and you think 'uU do it good, I'll act 
 according, if you'll tell me." 
 
 " Well, then. Master Marner," said Dolly, inwardly re- 
 joiced, " I'll ask Mr. Macey to speak to the parson about it; 
 and you must fix on a name for it, because it must have a 
 name giv' it when it's christened." 
 
 ^' My mother's name was Hephzibah," said Silas, " and 
 my little sister was named after her." 
 
 " Eh, that's a hard name," said Dolly. " I partly think 
 it isn't a christened name." 
 
 " It's a Bible name," said Silas, old ideas recurring. 
 
 "Then I've no call to speak again' it," said Dolly, rather 
 startled by Silas's knowledge on this head. " But it was 
 awk'ard calling your little sister by such a hard name, when 
 you'd got nothing big to say, like — wasn't it, Master 
 Marner?" 
 
 "We called her Eppie," said Silas. 
 
 " Well, if it was noways wrong to shorten the name, it 'ud 
 be a deal handier. And so I'll go now. Master Marner, 
 and I'll speak about the christening afore dark; and I wish 
 you the best o' luck, and it's my belief as it'll come to you if 
 you do what's right by the orphin child; and there's the 
 'noculation to be seen to; and as to washing its bits o' things, 
 you need look to nobody but me, for I can do 'em wi' one 
 hand when I've got my suds about. Eh, the blessed angil! 
 You'll let me bring my Aaron one o' these days, and he'll 
 show her his little cart as his father's made for him, and the 
 black-and-white pup as he's got a-rearing." 
 
 Baby was christened, and on this occasion Silas, making 
 himself as clean and tidy as he could, appeared for the first 
 time within the church, and shared in the observances held 
 sacred by his neighbours. He had no distinct idea about 
 the baptism and the church-going, except that Dolly had 
 
 ii6 
 
EPPIE 
 
 said it was for the good of the child ; and in this way, as the 
 weeks grew to months, the child created fresh and fresh 
 links between his life and the lives from which he had 
 hitherto shrunk continually into narrower isolation. Un- 
 like the gold which needed nothing, and must be worshipped 
 in close-locked solitude, Eppie was a creature of endless 
 claims and ever-growing desires, seeking and loving sun- 
 shine, and living sounds, and living movements; making 
 trial of everything, with trust in new joy, and stirring the 
 human-kindness in all eyes that looked on her. The gold 
 had kept his thoughts in an ever-repeated circle, leading to 
 nothing beyond itself; but Eppie was an object composed 
 of changes and hopes that forced his thoughts onward, and 
 carried them far away from their old eager pacing toward 
 the same blank limit — carried them away to the new things 
 that would come with the coming years, when Eppie would 
 have learned to understand how her father Silas cared for 
 her; and made him look for images of that time in the ties 
 and charities that bound together the families of his neigh- 
 bours. The gold had asked that he should sit weaving longer 
 and longer, deafened and blinded more and more to all 
 things except the monotony of his loom and the repetition of 
 his web; but Eppie called him away from his weaving, and 
 made him think all its pauses a holiday, reawakening his 
 senses with her fresh life, even to the old winter-flies that 
 came crawling forth in the early spring sunshine, and warm- 
 ing him into joy because she had joy. 
 
 And when the sunshine grew strong and lasting, so that 
 the buttercups were thick in the meadows, Silas might be 
 seen in the. sunny mid-day, or in the late afternoon when the 
 shadows were lengthening under the hedgerows, strolling 
 out with uncovered head to carry Eppie beyond the Stone- 
 pits to where the flowers grew, till they reached some fav- 
 
 117 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 ourite bank where he could sit down, while Eppie toddled 
 to pluck the flowers, and make remarks to the winged things 
 that murmured happily above the bright petals, calling 
 " Dad-dad's " attention continually by bringing him the 
 flowers. Then she would turn her ear to some sudden bird- 
 note, and Silas learned to please her by making signs of 
 hushed stillness, that they might listen for the note to come 
 again: so that when it came, she set up her small back and 
 laughed with gurgling triumph. Sitting on the banks in 
 this way, Silas began to look for the once familiar herbs 
 again ; and as the leaves lay on his palm, there was a sense 
 of crowding remembrances from which he turned away 
 timidly, taking refuge in Eppie's little world, that lay 
 lightly on his enfeebled spirit. 
 
 It was an influence which must gather force with every 
 new year: the tones that stirred Silas's heart grew articulate, 
 and called for more distinct answers; shapes and sounds 
 grew clearer for Eppie's eyes and ears, and there was more 
 that "Dad-dad" was imperatively required to notice and 
 account for. Also, by the time Eppie was three years old, 
 she developed a fine capacity for mischief, and for devising 
 ingenious ways of being troublesome, which found much 
 exercise, not only for Silas's patience, but for his watchful- 
 ness and penetration. Sorely was poor Silas puzzled on 
 such occasions by the incompatible demands of love. Dolly 
 Winthrop told him that punishment was good for Eppie, 
 and that, as for rearing a child without making it tingle a 
 little in soft and safe places now and then, it was not to be 
 done. 
 
 " To be sure, there's another thing you might do, Master 
 Marner," added Dolly, meditatively; "you might shut her 
 up once in the coal-hole. That was what I did wi' Aaron ; 
 for I was that silly wi' the youngest lad as I could never bear 
 
 ii8 
 
EPPIE 
 
 to smack him. Not as I could find i' my heart to let him 
 stay i' the coal-hole more nor a minute, but it was enough 
 to colly him all over, so as he must be new washed and 
 dressed, and it was as good as a rod to him — that was. But 
 I put it upo' your conscience. Master Marner, as there's one 
 of 'em you must choose — ayther smacking or the coal-hole — 
 else she'll get so masterful there'll be no holding her." 
 
 Silas was impressed with the melancholy truth of this last 
 remark; but his force of mind failed before the only two 
 penal methods open to him, not only because it was painful 
 to him to hurt Eppie, but because he trembled at a moment's 
 contention with her, lest she should love him the less for it. 
 Let even an affectionate Goliath get himself tied to a small 
 tender thing, dreading to hurt it by pulling, and dreading 
 still more to snap the cord, and which of the two, pray, will 
 be master? It was clear that Eppie, with her short toddling 
 steps, must lead father Silas a pretty dance on any fine morn- 
 ing when circumstances favoured mischief. 
 
 For example: He had wisely chosen a broad strip of 
 linen as a means of fastening her to his loom when he was 
 busy: it made a broad belt round her waist, and was long 
 enough to allow of her reaching the trundle-bed and sitting 
 down on it, but not long enough for her to attempt any 
 dangerous climbing. One bright summer's morning Silas 
 had been more engrossed than usual in " setting up " a new 
 piece of work, an occasion on which his scissors were in req- 
 uisition. These scissors, owing to an especial warning of 
 Dolly's, had been kept carefully out of Eppie's reach; but 
 the click of them had had a peculiar attraction for her ear, 
 and, watching the results of that click, she had derived the 
 philosophic lesson that the same cause would produce the 
 same effect. Silas had seated himself in his loom, and the 
 noise of weaving had begun ; but he had left his scissors on 
 
 119 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 a ledge which Eppie's arm was long enough to reach; and 
 now, like a small mouse, watching her opportunity, she stole 
 quietly from her corner, secured the scissors, and toddled to 
 the bed again, setting up her back as a mode of concealing 
 the fact. She had a distinct intention as to the use of the 
 scissors; and having cut the linen strip in a jagged but 
 effectual manner, in two moments she had run out at the 
 open door, where the sunshine was inviting her, while poor 
 Silas believed her to be a better child than usual. It was 
 not until he happened to need his scissors that the terrible 
 fact burst upon him : Eppie had run out by herself — had 
 perhaps fallen into the Stone-pit. Silas, shaken by the 
 worst fear that could have befallen him, rushed out, calling 
 "Eppie!" and ran eagerly about the unenclosed space, ex- 
 ploring the dry cavities into which she might have fallen, 
 and then gazing with questioning dread at the smooth red 
 surface of the water. The cold drops stood on his brow. 
 How long had she been out? There was one hope — that 
 she had crept through the stile and got into the fields, where 
 he habitually took her to stroll. The meadow was searched 
 in vain; and he got over the stile into the next field, looking 
 with dying hope toward a small pond which was now re- 
 duced to its summer shallowness, so as to leave a wide mar- 
 gin of good adhesive mud. Here, however, sat Eppie, dis- 
 coursing cheerfully to her own small boot, which she was 
 using as a bucket to convey the water into a deep hoof-mark, 
 while her little naked foot was planted comfortably on a 
 cushion of olive-green mud. A red-headed calf was ob- 
 serving her with alarmed doubt through the opposite hedge. 
 Here was clearly a case of aberration in a christened child 
 which demanded severe treatment; but Silas, overcome with 
 convulsive joy at finding his treasure again, could do nothing 
 but snatch her up and cover her with half-sobbing kisses. 
 
 120 
 
EPPIE 
 
 It was not until he had carried her home, and had begun to 
 think of the necessary washing, that he recollected the need 
 that he should punish Eppie, and " make her remember.'' 
 The idea that she might run away again and come to harm 
 gave him unusual resolution, and for the first time he deter- 
 mined to try the coal-hole — a small closet near the hearth. 
 
 "Naughty, naughty Eppie," he suddenly began, holding 
 her on his knee, and pointing to her muddy feet and clothes 
 — " Naughty to cut with the scissors and run away. Eppie 
 must go into the coal-hole for being naughty. Daddy must 
 put her in the coal-hole." 
 
 He half-expected that this would be shock enough and 
 that Eppie would begin to cry. But instead of that she be- 
 gan to shake herself on his knee, as if the proposition opened 
 a pleasing novelty. Seeing that he must proceed to ex- 
 tremities, he put her into the coal-hole and held the door 
 closed, with a trembling sense that he was using a strong 
 measure. For a moment there was silence, but then came a 
 little cry, "Opy, opy!" and Silas let her out again, saying, 
 " Now Eppie 'uU never be naughty again, else she must go 
 in the coal-hole — a black naughty place." 
 
 The weaving must stand still a long while this morning, 
 for now Eppie must be washed, and have clean clothes on ; 
 but it was to be hoped that this punishment would have a 
 lasting effect, and save time in future — though, perhaps, it 
 would have been better if Eppie had cried more. 
 
 In half an hour she was clean again, and Silas, having 
 turned his back to see what he could do with the linen band, 
 threw it down again, with the reflection that Eppie would 
 be good without fastening for the rest of the morning. He 
 turned round again, and was going to place her in her little 
 chair near the loom, when she peeped out at him with black 
 face and hands again, and said, " Eppie in de toal-hole! " 
 
 121 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 This total failure of the coal-hole discipline shook Silas's 
 belief in the efficacy of punishment. '' She'd take it all for 
 fun," he observed to Dolly, '' if I didn't hurt her, and that 
 I can't do, Mrs. Winthrop. If she makes me a bit o' 
 trouble, I can bear it. And she's got no tricks but what 
 she'll grow out of." 
 
 ''Well, that's partly true. Master Marner," said Dolly, 
 sympathetically; ''and if you can't bring your mind to 
 frighten her off touching things, you must do what you can 
 to keep 'em out of her way." 
 
 So Eppie was reared without punishment, the burden of 
 her misdeeds being borne vicariously by father Silas. The 
 stone hut was made a soft nest for her, lined with downy 
 patience; and also in the world that lay beyond the stone 
 hut she knew nothing of frowns and denials. 
 
 Notwithstanding the difficulty of carrying her and his 
 yarn or linen at the same time, Silas took her with him in 
 most of his journeys to the farm houses, unwilling to leave 
 her behind at Dolly Winthrop's, who was always ready to 
 take care of her; and little curly-headed Eppie, the weaver's 
 child, became an object of interest at several outlying home- 
 steads, as well as in the village. Hitherto Silas had been 
 treated very much as if he had been a useful gnome or 
 brownie — a queer and unaccountable creature, with whom 
 one would be glad to make all greetings and bargains as 
 brief as possible, but must be dealt with in a propi- 
 tiatory way, and occasionally have a present of pork 
 or garden-stuff to carry home w^ith him, seeing that 
 without him there was no getting the yarn woven. But 
 now he was met with open, smiling faces and cheer- 
 ful questioning, as a person whose satisfactions and dif- 
 ficulties could be understood. Everywhere he must sit a 
 little and talk about the child, and words of interest were 
 
 122 
 
EPPIE 
 
 always ready for him: "Ah, Master Marner, you'll be 
 lucky if she takes the measles soon and easy! " — or, "Why, 
 there isn't many lone men 'ud ha' been wishing to take up 
 with a little un like that: but I reckon the weaving makes 
 you handier than men as do outdoor work — you're partly 
 as handy as a woman, for weaving comes next to spinning." 
 Elderly masters and mistresses, seated observantly in large 
 kitchen armchairs, shook their heads over the difficulties 
 attendant on rearing children, felt Eppie's round arms and 
 legs, and pronounced them remarkably firm, and told Silas 
 that, if she turned out well (which, however, there was no 
 telling), it would be a fine thing for him to have a steady 
 lass to do for him when he got helpless. Servant maidens 
 were fond of carrying her out to look at the hens and 
 chickens, or to see if any cherries could be shaken down in 
 the orchard; and the small boys and girls approached her 
 slowly, with cautious movement and steady gaze, like little 
 dogs face to face with one of their own kind, till attraction 
 had reached the point at which the soft lips were put out for 
 a kiss. No child was afraid of approaching Silas when 
 Eppie was near him: there was love between him and the 
 child that blent them into one, and there was love between 
 the child and the world. 
 
 Silas began now to think of Raveloe life entirely in rela- 
 tion to Eppie: she must have everything that was good in 
 Raveloe; and he listened docilely, that he might come to 
 understand better what this life was, from which, for fifteen 
 years, he had stood aloof, as some man who has a precious 
 plant to which he would give a nurturing home in a new 
 soil thinks of the rain, and the sunshine, and all influences, 
 in relation to his nursling, and asks industriously for all 
 knowledge that will help him to satisfy the wants of the 
 searching roots, or to guard leaf and bud from the invading 
 
 123 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 harm. The disposition to hoard had been utterly crushed 
 at the very first by the loss of his long-stored gold: the coins 
 he earned afterward seemed as irrelevant as stones brought 
 to complete a house suddenly buried by an earthquake; the 
 sense of bereavement was too heavy upon him for the old 
 thrill of satisfaction to arise again at the touch of the newly 
 earned coin. And now something had come to replace his 
 hoard which gave a growing purpose to the earnings, draw- 
 ing his hope and joy continually onward beyond the money. 
 
 It was a bright autumn Sunday, sixteen years after Silas 
 Marner had found his new treasure on the hearth. The 
 bells of the old Raveloe church were ringing the cheerful 
 peal which told that morning service was ended; and out 
 of the arched doorway in the tower came slowly, retarded 
 by friendly greetings and questions, the richer parishioners 
 who had chosen this bright Sunday morning as eligible for 
 church-going. It was the rural fashion of that time for the 
 more important members of the congregation to depart first, 
 while their humbler neighbours waited and looked on, 
 stroking their bent heads or dropping their curtsies to any 
 large rate-payer who turned to notice them. 
 
 It is impossible to mistake Silas Marner. His large 
 brown eyes seem 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 every- 
 thing else one sees signs of a frame much enfeebled by the 
 lapse of the sixteen years. The weaver's bent shoulders and 
 white hair gave 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 had vainly tried to chastise her curly auburn 
 hair into smoothness under her brown bonnet: the hair 
 
 124 
 
EPPIE 
 
 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 handker- 
 chief. 
 
 That good-looking young fellow in a new suit, who walks 
 behind her, thinks that perhaps straight hair is the best in 
 general, but he doesn't want Eppie's hair to be different. 
 She divines that there is some one behind her who is muster- 
 ing 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 her head from her father Silas. 
 
 " 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 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," eagerly said the 
 young man, who was now by Eppie's side. " 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." 
 
 *^ Eh, Aaron, my lad, are you there?" said Silas. "I 
 
 125 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 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 said, 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." 
 
 "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 
 
 126 
 
EPPIE 
 
 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 v^hat there's endless 
 waste in it for want o' somebody as could use everything 
 up. But I must go back now, else Mother 'uU be in trouble 
 as I arn't there." 
 
 Aaron turned back to the village, while Silas and Eppie 
 went on up the lonely sheltered lane. 
 
 "Oh, Daddy!" she began, when they were in privacy, 
 clasping and squeezing Silas's arm and skipping around 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 sha'n't," said Eppie, laughing and frisking; 
 " he likes it." 
 
 " Come, come, let me carry your prayer-book, else you'll 
 be dropping it, jumping that way." 
 
 Eppie was now aware that her behaviour was under ob- 
 servation, but it was only the observation of a friendly don- 
 key, browsing with a log fastened to his foot, whom Eppie 
 gratified with scratching his nose as usual, though this was 
 attended with the inconvenience of his following them, up 
 to the very door of their home. 
 
 But the sound of a sharp bark inside as Eppie put the 
 key into the door modified the donkey's views, and he limped 
 
 127 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 away again without bidding. The bark was the sign of an 
 excited welcome awaiting them from a knowing brown ter- 
 rier, who, after dancing at their legs in a hysterical manner, 
 rushed with a worrying noise at a tortoise-shell kitten under 
 the loom, while the lady mother of the kitten sat sunning 
 herself in the window. 
 
 Silas sat down and watched Eppie with a satisfied gaze 
 as she spread the clean cloth, and set on it the potatoe-pie, 
 warmed up slowly, in a safe Sunday fashion, by being put 
 into a dry pot over a slowly dying fire, as the best substitute 
 for an oven. For Silas would not consent to have an oven 
 added to his conveniences: he loved the old brick hearth as 
 he had loved his brown pot — and was it not there when he 
 had found Eppie? 
 
 He ate his dinner more silently than usual, soon laying 
 down his knife and fork, and watching, half abstractedly, 
 Eppie's play with Snap and the cat, by which her own din- 
 ing was made rather a lengthy business. Yet it was a sight 
 that might well arrest wandering thoughts ; Eppie, with the 
 rippling radiance of her hair and the whiteness of her 
 rounded chin and throat set off by the dark blue cotton 
 gown, laughing merrily as the kitten held on with her four 
 claws to one shoulder, while Snap on the right hand and 
 puss on the other put up their paws toward a morsel which 
 she held out of the reach of both — till she relented, caressed 
 them both, and divided the morsel between them. 
 
 But at last Eppie, glancing at the clock, checked the play 
 and said, '' Oh, Daddy, you're wanting to go into the sun- 
 shine to smoke your pipe. But I must clear away first; I 
 won't be long." 
 
 Silas had taken to smoking a pipe daily, having been 
 strongly urged to it by the sages of Raveloe. He did not 
 highly enjoy smoking, and often wondered how his neigh- 
 
 128 
 
EPPIE 
 
 hours could be so fond of it: but a humble sort of acquies- 
 cence in what was held to be good, had become a strong 
 habit of that new self which had been developed in him 
 since he had found Eppie on his hearth. By seeking what 
 was needful for her, by sharing the effect that everything 
 pioduced on her, he had himself come to appropriate the 
 forms of custom and belief which were the mould of Raveloe 
 life. The sense of presiding goodness and the human trust 
 which come with all pure peace and joy had given him a 
 dim impression that there had been some error, some mis- 
 take, which had thrown that dark shadow over the days of 
 his best years ; and as it grew more and more easy to him to 
 open his mind to Dolly Winthrop, he gradually told her a 
 large part of his past history, receiving from her in return 
 that part of her creed which was expressed in a simple lov- 
 ing faith in Divine love. 
 
 This was during Eppie's earlier years, when Silas had to 
 part with her for two hours every day that she might learn 
 to read at the Dame school, after he had vainly tried him- 
 self to guide her in that first step of learning. Now that she 
 was grown up, Silas had often been led to talk with her, too, 
 of the past, and how and why he had lived a lonely man until 
 she had been sent to him. For it would have been impossible 
 for him to hide from Eppie that she was not his own child. 
 Even if the most delicate reticence on the point could have 
 been expected from Raveloe gossips in her presence, her 
 own questions about her mother could not have been parried 
 as she grew up. 
 
 So Eppie had long known how her mother had died on the 
 snowy ground, and how she herself had been found on the 
 hearth by father Silas, who had taken her golden curls for 
 his lost guineas come back to him. Her knowledge of 
 Mrs. Winthrop, who was her nearest friend next to Silas, 
 
 129 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 made her feel that a mother must be very precious, and she 
 had again and again asked Silas how he had found her 
 mother against the furze-bush, led toward it by the little 
 footsteps and the outstretched arms. The furze-bush was 
 there still ; and this afternoon, when Eppie came out with 
 Silas into the sunshine, it was the first object that arrested 
 her eyes and thoughts. 
 
 " Father," she said, in a tone of gentle gravity, which 
 sometimes came across her playfulness, " we shall take the 
 furze-bush into the garden; it'll come into the corner, and 
 just against it I'll put snowdrops and crocuses, 'cause Aaron 
 says they won't die out, but'U always get more and 
 more." 
 
 "Ah, child," said Silas, always ready to talk when he had 
 his pipe in his hand, apparently enjoying the pauses more 
 than the puffs, " it wouldn't do to leave out the fruze-bush; 
 and there's nothing prettier, to my thinking, when it's yallow 
 with flowers. But it's just come into my head what we're 
 to do for a fence. Mayhap Aaron can help us to a thought; 
 but a fence we must have, else the donkeys and things 'uU 
 come and trample everything down. And fencing's hard to 
 be got at, by what I can make out." 
 
 "Oh, I'll tell you. Daddy," said Eppie, clasping her 
 hands suddenly, after a minute's thought. "There's lots o' 
 loose stones about, and we might lay 'em atop of one another, 
 an' make a wall. You and me could carry the smallest, 
 and Aaron 'ud carry the rest — I know he would." 
 
 "Eh, my precious un," said Silas, "there isn't enough 
 stones to go all round; and as for you carrying, why, wi' 
 your little arms you couldn't carry a stone no bigger than 
 a turnip. You're dillicate made, my dear," he added, with 
 a tender intonation — " that's what Mrs. Winthrop says." 
 
 " Oh, I'm stronger than you think. Daddy," said Eppie, 
 
 130 
 
EPPIE 
 
 ^^ and if there wasn't stones enough to go all round, why, 
 they'll go part o' the way, and then it'll be easier to get 
 sticks and things for the rest. See here, round the big pit, 
 what a many stones! " 
 
 She skipped forward to the pit, meaning to lift one of the 
 stones and exhibit her strength, but she started back in 
 surprise. 
 
 ^' Oh, father, just come and look here," she exclaimed — 
 " come and see how the water's gone down since yesterday. 
 Why, yesterday the pit was ever so full ! " 
 
 " Well, to be sure," said Silas, coming to her side. " Why, 
 that's the draining they've begun on, since harvest, I reckon. 
 The foreman said to me the other day, when I passed by 'em, 
 * Master Marner,' said he, ^ I shouldn't wonder if we lay 
 your bit o' waste as dry as a bone.' " 
 
 " How odd it'll seem to have the old pit dried up," said 
 Eppie, turning away, and stooping to lift rather a large 
 stone. " See, Daddy, I can carry this quite well," she 
 added, going along with much energy for a few steps, but 
 presently letting it fall. 
 
 " Ah, you're fine and strong, aren't you? " said Silas, while 
 Eppie shook her aching arms and laughed. ^' Come, come, 
 let us go and sit down on the bank against the stile there, 
 and have no more lifting. You might hurt yourself, child. 
 You'd need have somebody to work for you — and my arm 
 isn't over-strong." 
 
 Silas uttered the last sentence slowly, as if it implied more 
 than met the ear; and Eppie, when they sat down on the 
 bank, nestled close to his side, and, taking hold caressingly 
 of the arm that was not over-strong, held it on her lap, while 
 Silas puffed again dutifully at the pipe, which occupied his 
 other arm. An ash in the hedgerow behind made a fretted 
 screen from the sun, and threw happy, playful shadows all 
 
 131 \ 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 about them, and little did they dream in that peaceful hour 
 that presently the entire village would be aroused to a pitch 
 of intense excitement on their account. 
 
 Later in the afternoon in the stone pit now gone dry was 
 found Silas Marner's long-lost gold. And by its side, 
 wedged between two stones, was found the skeleton of the 
 man who had stolen the gold and then had fallen into the 
 pit with it, sixteen years before. From his watch and seals, 
 and from his gold-handled hunting whip, it was proved 
 that the skeleton was that of Godfrey Cass's brother, Dun- 
 stan, who had mysteriously disappeared also sixteen years 
 before. 
 
 Between eight and nine o'clock that evening Eppie and 
 Silas were seated alone in the cottage. After the great ex- 
 citement the weaver had undergone from the events of the 
 afternoon, he had felt a longing for this quietude, and had 
 even begged Mrs. Winthrop and Aaron, who had naturally 
 lingered behind every one else, to leave him alone with his 
 child. 
 
 Silas's face showed a sort of transfiguration as he sat in his 
 arm-chair and looked at Eppie. She had drawn her own 
 chair toward his knees, and leaned forward, holding both 
 his hands while she looked up at him. On the table near 
 them, lit by a candle, lay the recovered gold — the old long- 
 loved gold, ranged in orderly heaps, as Silas used to range 
 it in the days when it was his only joy. He had been telling 
 her how he used to count it every night, and how his soul 
 was utterly desolate till she was sent to him. 
 
 "At first, I'd a sort o' feeling come across me now and 
 then," he was saying in a subdued tone, " as if you might be 
 changed into the gold again; for sometimes, turn my head 
 which way I would, I seemed to see the gold; and I thought 
 I should be glad if I could feel it, and find it was come 
 
 132 
 
EPPIE 
 
 back. But that didn't last long. After a bit, I should have 
 thought it was a curse come again, if it had drove you from 
 me, for I'd got to feel the need o' your looks and your voice 
 and the touch o' your little fingers. You didn't know then, 
 Eppie, when you were such a little un — you didn't know 
 what your old father Silas felt for you." 
 
 " But I know now, father," said Eppie. " If it hadn't 
 been for you, they'd have taken me to the workhouse, and 
 there'd have been nobody to love me." 
 
 " Eh, my precious child, the blessing was mine. If you 
 hadn't been sent to save me, I should ha' gone to the grave in 
 my misery. The money was taken away from me in time ; 
 and you see it's been kept — kept till it was wanted for you. 
 It's wonderful — our life is wonderful." 
 
 Silas sat in silence a few minutes, looking at the money. 
 " It takes no hold of me now," he said, ponderingly — " the 
 money doesn't. I wonder if it ever could again. I doubt 
 it might, if I lost you, Eppie. I might come to think I was 
 forsaken again, and lose the feeling that God was good to 
 me." 
 
 At that moment there was a knocking at the door and 
 Eppie was obliged to rise without answering Silas. Beau- 
 tiful she looked, with the tenderness of gathering tears in 
 her eyes and a slight flush on her cheeks, as she opened the 
 door and saw Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey Cass from the Red 
 House, who had come to add to the events of that great 
 day. After Eppie had made her little rustic curtsy, and 
 the guests had taken the chairs which Eppie had placed for 
 them, they made known the object of their visit. 
 
 This was no other than the desire to take Eppie and pro- 
 vide for her as their own child, one of the reasons for which 
 desire was the idea that this might in some measure help to 
 atone for Dunstan Cass's crime toward Silas Marner. 
 
 133 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 When the proposition was made, Silas trembled violently; 
 then after a moment of silence he said faintly: 
 
 ^' Eppie, my child, speak. I won't stand in your way. 
 Thank Mr. and Mrs. Cass." 
 
 Eppie took her hand from her father's head, and came 
 forward a step. Her cheeks were flushed, but not with shy- 
 ness this time. The sense that her father was in doubt and 
 suffering banished self-consciousness. She dropped a curtsy 
 and said: 
 
 "Thank you, ma'am — thank you, sir. But I can't leave 
 my father, nor own anybody nearer than him. And I don't 
 want to be a lady — thank you all the same." (Here Eppie 
 dropped another curtsy.) "I couldn't give up the folks 
 I've been used to." 
 
 Eppie's lip began to tremble a little at the last words. 
 She retreated to her father's chair again and held him round 
 the neck: while Silas, with a subdued sob, put up his hand 
 to grasp hers. Presently Eppie came forward again and 
 curtsied as she had done before, in answer to their per- 
 sistent appeals that she should change her mind. She 
 grasped Silas's hand firmly while she spoke with colder de- 
 cision than before. 
 
 "Thank you, ma'am — thank you, sir, for your offers — 
 they're very great, and far above my wish. For I should 
 have no delight i' life any more if I was forced to go away 
 from my father, and knew that he was sitting at home, 
 a-thinking of me and feeling lone. We've been used to be 
 happy together every day, and I can't think of no happiness 
 without him. And he says he'd nobody i' th' world till I was 
 sent to him, and he'd have nothing when I was gone. And 
 he's took care of me and loved me from the first, and I'll 
 cleave to him as long as he lives, and nobody shall ever come 
 between him and me." 
 
 134 
 
EPPIE 
 
 The clear, girlish voice was sweet and strong with de- 
 cision, the beautiful eyes flashed with a depth of determina- 
 tion which even Silas had never seen in them before, and as 
 they rested tenderly upon Silas's meeker ones, the love which 
 answered her glance was reward enough for Eppie. 
 
 " I'll cleave to him as long as he lives, and nobody shall 
 ever come between him and me," — she had said, — and win- 
 some little Eppie never regretted her choice. 
 
 135 
 
THE GARTHS 
 
 137 
 

 The Gakths. 
 
THE GARTHS 
 
 THE Garth family, which was rather a large one, 
 for Mary, the oldest daughter, had four brothers 
 and one sister, was an easy-going, happy family, 
 despite the small income on which they lived, and 
 the few glimpses we have of them reveal the fact that it is 
 not always money which brings the greatest happiness. The 
 Garths were very fond of their old house, a homely place a 
 little way outside a town, with an orchard in front of it; 
 a rambling old-fashioned half-timbered building, which be- 
 fore the town had spread had been a farmhouse, but was 
 now surrounded with the private gardens of the townsmen. 
 All the children who were friends of the Garths were fond 
 of the old house too, and Fred Vincy, Mary's particular 
 friend, was especially devoted to it, knowing it by heart, 
 even to the attic, which smelt deliciously of apples and 
 quinces. 
 
 One afternoon Fred rode out from town on horseback 
 and found Mrs. Garth in the kitchen, busier than usual, for 
 she was carrying on several occupations at once — making 
 her pies, observing the house-maid's movements through an 
 open door, and giving lessons to her youngest boy and girl, 
 who were standing opposite to her at the table with their 
 books and slates before them. A tub and a clothes-horse at 
 the other end of the kitchen indicated an intermittent wash 
 of small things also going on. 
 
 139 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 Mrs. Garth, with her sleeves turned above her elbows, 
 deftly handling her pastry — applying her rolling pin and 
 giving ornamental pinches, while she expounded with gram- 
 matical fervour what were the right views about the con- 
 cord of verbs and pronouns, with " nouns of multitude or 
 signifying many," — ^was a sight agreeably amusing. She 
 was of the same curly-haired, square-faced type as Mary, 
 but handsomer, with more delicacy of feature, a pale skin, 
 and a remarkable firmness of glance. 
 
 "Now let us go through that once more," said Mrs. 
 Garth, pinching an apple puff which seemed to distract 
 Ben from due attention to the lesson. '^ ^ Not without re- 
 gard to the import of the word as conveying unity or plural- 
 ity of idea ' — tell me again what that means, Ben." 
 
 (Mrs. Garth, like more celebrated educators, had her 
 favourite ancient paths, and in a general wreck of society 
 would have tried to hold her " Lindley Murray" above the 
 waves.) 
 
 "Oh — It means — you must think what you mean," said 
 Ben, rather peevishly. " I hate grammar. What's the use 
 of it?" 
 
 " To teach you to speak and write correctly, so that you 
 can be understood," said Mrs. Garth, with severe precision. 
 "Should you like to speak as old Job does?" 
 
 "Yes," said Ben, stoutly; "it's funnier. He says, ^Yo 
 goo ' — that's just as good as ^ You go.' " 
 
 " But he says, ' A ship's in the garden,' instead of ' A 
 sheep,' " said Letty, with an air of superiority. " You might 
 think he meant a ship off the sea." 
 
 "No, you mightn't, if you weren't silly," said Ben. 
 " How could a ship off the sea come there?" 
 
 " These things belong only to pronunciation, which is the 
 least part of grammar," said Mrs. Garth. "That apple- 
 
 140 
 
THE GARTHS 
 
 peel is to be eaten by the pigs, Ben; if you eat it, I must 
 give them your piece of pasty. Job has only to speak about 
 very plain things. How do you think you would write or 
 speak about anything more difficult, if you knew no more of 
 grammar than he does? You would use wrong words, and 
 put words in the wrong places, and instead of making peo- 
 ple understand you, they would turn away from you as a 
 tiresome person. What would you do then?" 
 
 " I shouldn't care, I should leave off," said Ben, with a 
 sense that this was an agreeable issue where grammar was 
 concerned. 
 
 " I see you are getting tired and stupid, Ben," said Mrs. 
 Garth, accustomed to these obstructive arguments from her 
 male offspring. Having finished her pies, she moved to- 
 ward the clothes-horse, and said, " Come here and tell me 
 the story I told you on Wednesday, about Cincinnatus." 
 
 " I know, he was a farmer," said Ben. 
 
 " Now, Ben, he was a Roman — let me tell," said Letty, 
 using her elbow contentiously. 
 
 "You silly thing, he was a Roman farmer, and he was 
 ploughing." 
 
 "Yes, but before that — that didn't come first — people 
 wanted him," said Letty. 
 
 "Well, but you must say what sort of a man he was first," 
 insisted Ben. " He was a wise man, like my father, and 
 that made the people want his advice. And he was a brave 
 man, and could fight. And so could my father — couldn't 
 he, mother?" 
 
 "Now, Ben, let me tell the story straight on, as mother 
 told it us," said Letty, frowning. " Please, mother, tell Ben 
 not to speak." 
 
 " Letty, I am ashamed of you," said her mother, wringing 
 out the caps from the tub. " When your brother began, you 
 
 141 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 ought to have waited to see if he could not tell the story. 
 How rude you look, pushing and frowning, as if you wanted 
 to conquer with your elbows! Cincinnatus, I am sure, 
 would have been sorry to see his daughter behave so." (Mrs. 
 Garth delivered this awful sentence with much majesty of 
 enunciation, and Letty felt that between repressed volubil- 
 ity and general disesteem, that of the Romans inclusive, life 
 was already a painful affair.) "Now then, Ben." 
 
 "Well — of — well, why, there was a great deal of fighting, 
 and they were all blockheads, and — I can't tell it just as you 
 told it — but they wanted a man to be captain and king and 
 everything " 
 
 " Dictator," said Letty, with injured looks, and not with- 
 out a wish to make her mother repent. 
 
 "Very well, dictator!" said Ben, contemptuously. " But 
 that isn't a good word: he didn't tell them to write on 
 slates." 
 
 " Come, come, Ben, you are not so ignorant as that," said 
 Mrs. Garth, carefully serious. " Hark, there is a knock at 
 the door! Run, Letty, and open it." 
 
 The knock was Fred's, who was greeted with great joy 
 by Mrs. Garth's pupils. 
 
 "We needn't go on about Cincinnatus, need we?" said 
 Ben, who had taken Fred's whip out of his hand, and was 
 trying its efficiency on the cat. 
 
 " No, go out now, but put that whip down. How very 
 mean of you to tease poor old Tortoise ! Pray take the whip 
 from him, Fred." 
 
 " Will you let me ride on your horse to-day?" asked Ben, 
 rendering up the whip with an air of not being obliged to 
 do it. 
 
 "Not to-day — another time. I am not riding my own 
 horse," said Fred. 
 
 142 
 
THE GARTHS 
 
 " Enough, enough, Ben! run away!" said Mrs. Garth, and 
 Ben reluctantly obeyed, followed by Letty. 
 
 " Are Letty and Ben your only pupils now, Mrs. Garth? " 
 asked Fred when the children were gone. 
 
 " I have one other; only one. Fanny Hackbutt comes at 
 half past eleven. I'm not getting a great income now," 
 said Mrs. Garth, smiling, "but IVe saved my little purse 
 for Alfred's premium: I have ninety-two pounds. He can 
 go to Mr. Hanmer's now, he is just at the right age." 
 
 At that moment Mr. Garth came in and the conversation 
 branched off in other directions. 
 
 The next time we see the Garths they are grouped around 
 the breakfast table in the large parlour where maps and 
 desks were ; father, mother, and five of the children. Mary, 
 who had been away, but was just now at home waiting for 
 a situation, while Christy, the boy next to her, was getting 
 cheap learning and cheap fare in Scotland, having to his 
 father's disappointment taken to books instead of to business. 
 
 The letters, nine of them, had just come, and Mr. Garth 
 was forgetting his tea and toast while he read his, not neg- 
 lecting to cut off a large red seal from one for Letty, who 
 snatched it up like an eager terrier. 
 
 Two of the nine letters had been for Mary. After read- 
 ing them she had passed them to her mother, and sat play- 
 ing with her teaspoon absently, till with a sudden recollec- 
 tion she returned to her sewing, which she had kept on her 
 lap during breakfast. 
 
 " Oh, don't sew, Mary ! " said Ben, pulling her arm down. 
 " Make me a peacock with this bread crumb." He had 
 been kneading a small mass for the purpose. 
 
 " No, no. Mischief! " said Mary, good humouredly, while 
 she pricked his hand lightly with her needle. " Try and 
 
 143 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 mould it yourself; you have seen me do it often enough. I 
 must get this sewing done." 
 
 "Have you made up your mind, my dear," said Mrs. 
 Garth, laying the letters down. 
 
 " I shall go to the school at York," said Mary. " I am 
 less unfit to teach in a school than in a family. I like to 
 teach classes best." 
 
 " It must be very stupid to be always in a girls' school," 
 said Alfred. "Such a set of nincompoops, like Mrs. Bal- 
 lard's pupils walking two and two." 
 
 "And they have no games worth playing at," said Jim. 
 "They can neither throw nor leap. I don't wonder at 
 Mary's not liking it." 
 
 "What is that Mary doesn't like, eh?" said the father, 
 looking over his spectacles and pausing before he opened his 
 next letter. 
 
 " Being among a lot of nincompoop girls," said Alfred. 
 
 "Is it the situation you had heard of, Mary?" asked 
 Caleb, gently, looking at his daughter. 
 
 " Yes, father: the school at York. I have determined to 
 take it. It is quite the best. Thirty-five pounds a year, 
 and extra pay for teaching the smallest strummers at the 
 piano." 
 
 " Poor child! I wish she could stay at home with us, 
 Susan," said Garth, looking plaintively at his wife. 
 
 "Mary would not be happy without doing her duty," 
 said Mrs. Garth, magisterially, conscious of having done 
 her own. 
 
 " It wouldn't make me happy to do such a nasty duty as 
 that," said Alfred — at which Mary and her father laughed 
 silently, but Mrs. Garth said, gravely: 
 
 " Do find a fitter word than nasty, my dear Alfred, for 
 everything that you think disagreeable. And suppose that 
 
 144 
 
THE GARTHS 
 
 Mary could heip you to go to Mr. Hanmer's with the 
 money she gets?" 
 
 "That seems to me a great shame. But she's an old 
 brick," said Alfred, rising from his chair, and pulling 
 Mary's head backward to kiss her. 
 
 Mary coloured and laughed, but could not conceal that 
 the tears were coming. Caleb, looking on over his spec- 
 tacles, with the angles of his eyebrows falling, had an ex- 
 pression of mingled delight and sorrow, as he returned to 
 the opening of his last letter; and even Mrs. Garth, her lips 
 curling with a calm contentment, allowed that inappro- 
 priate language to pass without correction, although Ben 
 immediately took it up, and sang, " She's an old brick, old 
 brick, old brick! " to a cantering measure, which he beat out 
 with his fist on Mary's arm. 
 
 But Mrs. Garth's eyes were now drawn toward her hus- 
 band's face, while he read his letter, for she saw there an 
 expression of grave surprise which alarmed her until she 
 saw him suddenly shaken by a little joyous laugh as he 
 turned back to the beginning of the letter, and looking at her 
 above his spectacles said in a low tone, " What do you think, 
 Susan?" 
 
 Then she went and stood behind him, putting her hand 
 on his shoulder while they read the letter together. It con- 
 tained an offer of the agency for some estates lying near by; 
 a position which he had once creditably filled for a number 
 of years. 
 
 " Here is an honour to your father, children," said Mrs. 
 Garth, looking round at the five pairs of eyes all fixed on the 
 parents. " He is asked to take a post again by those who 
 dismissed him long ago. That shows that he did his work 
 well, so that they feel the want of him." 
 
 "Like Cincinnatus — hooray!" said Ben, riding on his 
 
 145 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 chair, with a pleasant confidence that discipline was 
 relaxed. 
 
 ^'Will they come to fetch him, mother?" said Letty, 
 thinking of the Mayor and Corporation in their robes. 
 
 Mrs. Garth patted Letty's head and smiled, but seeing 
 that her husband was gathering up his letters and likely soon 
 to be out of reach, in that sanctuary '* business," she pressed 
 his shoulders and said emphatically: 
 
 ^' Now, mind you ask fair pay, Caleb." 
 
 ^' Oh, yes," said Caleb, in a deep voice of assent, as if it 
 would be unreasonable to suppose anything else of him. 
 '^ It'll come to between four and five hundred, the two to- 
 gether." Then with a little start of remembrance he said, 
 ^' Mary, write and give up that school. Stay and help your 
 mother. Fm as pleased as Punch, now IVe thought of 
 that." 
 
 No manner could have been less like that of Punch tri- 
 umphant than Caleb's, but his talents did not lie in finding 
 phrases, though he was very particular about his letter-writ- 
 ing, and regarded his wife as a treasury of correct language. 
 
 There was almost an uproar among the children now, and 
 Mary held up the cambric embroidery toward her mother 
 entreatingly, that it might be put out of reach while the boys 
 dragged her into a dance. Mrs. Garth, in placid joy, began 
 to put the cups and plates together, while Caleb pushing his 
 chair from the table still sat holding his letters in his hand 
 and meditating. At last he laid them down, thrust his 
 fingers between the buttons of his waistcoat and sat upright, 
 saying, with some awe in his voice, and moving his head 
 slowly aside — " It's a great gift of God, Susan." 
 
 '^ That it is, Caleb," said his wife, with answering fervour. 
 "And it will be a blessing to your children to have had a 
 father who did such work: a father whose good work re- 
 
 146 
 
THE GARTHS 
 
 mains, though his name may be forgotten." She could not 
 say any more to him then about the pay. There was no 
 question about it; the Garths were a very happy family that 
 day. 
 
 The only other time when we catch a glimpse of them 
 together is on a summer afternoon later, when Fred Vincy 
 had gone to call on them, as he frequently did. He found 
 the family group, dogs and cats included, under the great 
 apple tree in the orchard. It was a festival with Mrs. Garth, 
 for Christy, her peculiar joy and pride, had come home for 
 a short holiday from his tutoring. He was lying on the 
 ground now by his mother's chair, with his straw hat laid 
 flat over his eyes, while Jim on the other side was reading 
 aloud from " Ivanhoe." He was in the great archery scene 
 at the tournament, but suffered much interruption from Ben, 
 who had fetched his own old bow and arrows and was mak- 
 ing himself very disagreeable, Letty thought, by begging 
 all present to observe his random shots, which no one wished 
 to do except Brownie, the active-minded but probably shal- 
 low mongrel, while the grizzled Newfoundland lying in the 
 sun looked on with the dull-eyed neutrality of extreme old 
 age. Letty herself, showing as to her mouth and pinafore 
 some slight signs that she had been assisting at the gathering 
 of the cherries which stood in a coral heap on the tea-table, 
 was seated on the grass, listening open-eyed to the reading, 
 when the centre of interest was changed for all by the arrival 
 of Fred Vincy. 
 
 Seating himself on a garden-stool, with the children 
 gathered round him, he began to talk about a matter 
 which was of extreme importance to him, with Mrs. Garth, 
 when they were interrupted by a sudden rush under 
 the apple tree where the tea things stood. Ben, bouncing 
 
 147 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 across the grass with Brownie at his heels, and seeing the 
 kitten drag some knitting by a lengthening line of wool, 
 shouted and clapped his hands; Brownie barked, the kitten, 
 desperate, jumped on the tea-table and upset the milk, then 
 jumped down again and swept half the cherries with it; and 
 Ben, snatching up the half-knitted sock-top, fitted it over the 
 kitten's head as a new source of madness, while Letty, ar- 
 riving from the garden, cried out to her mother against this 
 cruelty — it was a history as full of sensation as " This is the 
 house that Jack built." Mrs. Garth was obliged to inter- 
 fere, the other young ones came up, and the tete-a-tete with 
 Fred was ended. 
 
 Truly the Garths were an easy-going, happy family, and 
 these few pictures we have of life in their home circle make 
 even those of us who are rich and famous sigh for vanished 
 youth and gaiety. 
 
 148 
 
LITTLE LIZZIE 
 
 149 
 
LITTLE LIZZIE 
 
 THE large bow-window of Mrs. Jerome's parlour 
 was open, and that lady herself was seated within 
 its ample semicircle, having a table before her 
 on which her best tea-tray, her best china, and her 
 best urn rug had been standing in readiness for half an 
 hour. Mrs. Jerome's best tea service was of delicate white 
 fluted china, with gold sprigs upon it — as pretty a tea 
 service as you need wish to see. Mrs. Jerome was like her 
 china, handsome and old-fashioned. She was a buxom lady 
 of sixty, in an elaborate lace cap fastened by a frill under 
 her chin, and with a snowy neckkerchief exhibiting its ample 
 folds as far as her waist, and a stiff grey silk gown. She had 
 a clean damask napkin pinned before her to guard her dress 
 during the process of tea-making; her favourite geraniums 
 in the bow-window were looking as healthy as she could 
 desire; her own handsome portrait, painted when she was 
 twenty years younger, was smiling down on her with agree- 
 able flattery; and altogether, she seemed to be in as peaceful 
 and pleasant a position as a buxom, well-dressed elderly 
 lady need desire. But, as in so many other cases, ap- 
 appearances were deceptive. Her mind was greatly per- 
 turbed, and her temper ruffled by the fact that it was more 
 than a quarter past five, even by the losing timepiece — that 
 it was half-past by her large gold watch, which she held 
 in her hand, as if she were counting the pulse of the after- 
 
 151 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 noon — and that, by the kitchen clock, which she felt sure 
 was not an hour too fast, it had already struck six. The 
 lapse of time was rendered the more unendurable to Mrs. 
 Jerome by her wonder that Mr. Jerome could stay out in 
 the garden with Lizzie in that thoughtless way, taking it so 
 easily that tea-time was long past, and that, after all the 
 trouble of getting down the best tea-things, Rev. Mr. Tryan, 
 the expected guest, would not come. 
 
 Finally Mrs. Jerome felt that the present lingering pace 
 of things, united with Mr. Jerome's absence, was not to be 
 borne any longer. So she rang the bell for Sally. 
 
 " Goodness me, Sally! go into the garden an' see after your 
 master. Tell him it's goin' on for six, an' Mr. Tryan 'uU 
 niver think o' comin' now, an' it's time we got tea over. An' 
 he's lettin' Lizzie stain her frock, I expect, among them 
 strawberry-beds. Make her come in this minute." 
 
 No wonder Mr. Jerome was tempted to linger in the 
 garden, for though the house was pretty, and well deserved 
 its name, — " the White House," — the tall damask roses that 
 clustered over the porch being thrown into relief by rough 
 stucco of the most brilliant white, yet the garden and 
 orchards were Mr. Jerome's glory, as well they might be; 
 and there was nothing in which he had a more innocent 
 pride — peace to a good man's memory! all his pride was 
 innocent — than in conducting a hitherto uninitiated visitor 
 over his grounds, and making him in some degree aware 
 of the incomparable advantages possessed by the inhabitants 
 of the White House in the matter of red-streaked apples, 
 russets, northern greens (excellent for baking), swan-egg 
 pears, and early vegetables, to say nothing of flowering 
 shrubs, pink hawthornes, lavender bushes, more than ever 
 Mrs. Jerome could use; and, in short, a superabundance of 
 everything that a person retired from business could desire 
 
 152 
 
LITTLE LIZZIE 
 
 to possess himself, or to share with his friends. The garden 
 was one of those old-fashioned paradises which hardly exist 
 any longer, except as memories of our childhood; no finical 
 separation between flower and kitchen garden there; no 
 monotony of enjoyment for one sense to the exclusion of 
 another; but a charming paradisiacal mingling of all that 
 was pleasant to the eyes and good for food. The rich flower- 
 border running along every walk, with its endless succession 
 of spring flowers, anemones, auriculas, wall-flowers, sweet- 
 williams, campanulas, snapdragons, and tiger-lilies, had its 
 taller beauties, such as moss and Provence roses, varied with 
 espalier apple trees; the crimson of a carnation was carried 
 out in the lurking crimson of the neighbouring strawberry- 
 beds; you gathered a moss-rose one moment, and a bunch 
 of currants the next; you were in a delicious fluctuation 
 between the scent of jasmine and the juice of gooseberries. 
 Then, what a high wall at one end, flanked by a summer- 
 house so lofty, that, after ascending its long flight of steps, 
 you could see perfectly well there was no view worth look- 
 ing at; what alcoves and garden-seats in all directions; and 
 along one side, what a hedge, tall, and firm, and unbroken, 
 like a green wall! 
 
 It was near this hedge that Mr. Jerome was standing 
 when Sally found him. He had set down the basket of 
 strawberries on the gravel walk, and had lifted up little 
 Lizzie in his arms to look at a bird's nest. Lizzie peeped, 
 and then looked at her grandpa with round blue eyes, and 
 then peeped again. 
 
 " D'ye see it, Lizzie? " he whispered. 
 
 "Yes," she whispered in return, putting her lips very 
 near grandpa's face. At this moment Sally appeared. 
 
 " Eh, eh, Sally; what's the matter? Is Mr. Tryan come? " 
 
 "No, sir; an' Missis says she's sure he won't come now, 
 
 153 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 an' she wants you to come in an' hev tea. Dear heart, Miss 
 Lizzie, youVe stained your pinafore, an' I shouldn't wonder 
 if it's gone through to your frock. There'll be fine work! 
 Come along wi' me, do." 
 
 "Nay, nay, nay; we've done no harm, we've done no 
 harm, hev we, Lizzie? The wash-tub '11 make all right 
 again." 
 
 Sally, regarding the wash-tub from a different point of 
 view, looked sourly serious, and hurried away with Lizzie, 
 who trotted submissively along, her little head in eclipse 
 under a large nankin bonnet, while Mr. Jerome followed 
 leisurely with his large good-natured features and white 
 locks shaded by a broad-brimmed hat. 
 
 "Mr. Jerome, I wonder at you!" said Mrs. Jerome, in 
 a tone of indignant remonstrance, evidently sustained by a 
 deep sense of injury, as her husband opened the parlour 
 door. "When will you leave off invitin' people to meals 
 an' not lettin' 'em know the time? I'll answer for't, you 
 niver said a word to Mr. Tryan as we should take tea at five 
 o'clock. It's just like you ! " 
 
 " Nay, nay, Susan," answered her husband in a soothing 
 tone; "there's nothin' amiss. I told Mr. Tryan as we took 
 tea at five punctial; mayhap, summat's a-detainin' on him. 
 He's a deal to do, an' to think on, remember." 
 
 "Why, it's struck six i' the kitchen a'ready. It's non- 
 sense to look for him comin' now. So you may's well ring 
 for th' urn. Now, Sally's got th' heater in the fire, we may's 
 well h'ev th' urn in, though he doesn't come. I niver seed 
 the like o' you, Mr. Jerome, for axin' people an' givin' me 
 the trouble o' gettin' things down an' hevin' crumpets made, 
 an' after all, they don't come. I shall hev to wash every 
 one o' these tea-things myself, for there's no trustin' Sally 
 — she'd break a fortin i' crockery i' no time! " 
 
 154 
 
LITTLE LIZZIE 
 
 **But why will you give yourself sich trouble, Susan? 
 Our everyday tea-things would ha' done as well for Mr. 
 Tryan; an' they're a deal convenienter to hold." 
 
 "Yes, that's just your way, Mr. Jerome; you're al'ys 
 a-finding fault wi' my chany, because I bought it myself 
 afore I was married. But let me tell you, I knowed how to 
 choose chany if I didn't know how to choose a husband. 
 An' where's Lizzie? You've niver left her i' the garden by 
 herself, with her white frock on, an' clean stockin's?" 
 
 "Be easy, my dear Susan, be easy; Lizzie's come in wi' 
 Sally. She's hevin' her pinafore took off, I'll be bound. 
 Ah! there's Mr. Tryan a-comin' through the gate." 
 
 Mrs. Jerome began hastily to adjust her damask napkin 
 and the expression of her countenance for the reception of 
 the clergyman, and Mr, Jerome went out to meet his guest, 
 whom he greeted outside the door. 
 
 "Mr. Tryan, how do you do, Mr. Tryan? Welcome to 
 the White House! I'm glad to see you, sir — I'm very glad 
 to see you." 
 
 If you had heard the tone of mingled good-will, venera- 
 tion, and condolence in which this greeting was uttered, 
 even without seeing the face that completely harmonised 
 with it, you would have no difficulty in inferring the ground- 
 notes of Mr. Jerome's character. To a fine ear, that tone 
 said as plainly as possible — "Whatever recommends itself 
 to me, Thomas Jerome, as piety and goodness, shall have my 
 love and honour." 
 
 Mr. Tryan, who was a new-comer in town, had not 
 hitherto been to the White House, but meeting Mr. Jerome 
 in the street, had at once accepted his cordial invitation to 
 tea. He appeared warm and fatigued, and after shaking 
 hands with Mrs. Jerome, threw himself into a chair and 
 looked out on the pretty garden with an air of relief, until 
 
 155 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 the preparations for tea were crowned by the simultaneous 
 appearance of Lizzie and the crumpet. It is a pretty sur- 
 prise, when one visits an elderly couple, to see a little figure 
 enter in a white frock with a blonde head as smooth as satin, 
 round blue eyes, and a cheek like an apple-blossom. A 
 toddling little girl is a centre of common feeling which 
 makes the most dissimilar people understand each other; 
 and Mr. Tryan looked at Lizzie with that quiet pleasure 
 which is always genuine. 
 
 "Here we are, here we are!" said the proud grandpa. 
 " You didn't think we'd got such a little gell as this, did 
 you, Mr. Tryan? Why, it seems but th' other day since 
 her mother was just such another. This is our little Lizzie, 
 this is. Come an' shake hands wi' Mr. Tryan, Lizzie; 
 come." 
 
 Lizzie advanced without hesitation, and put out one hand, 
 while she fingered her coral necklace with the other, and 
 looked up into Mr. Tryan's face with a reconnoitering gaze. 
 He stroked the satin head, and said in his gentlest voice, 
 " How do you do, Lizzie? Will you give me a kiss? " She 
 put up her little bud of a mouth, and then retreated a little 
 and, glancing down at her frock, said: 
 
 " Dit id my noo fock. I put id on 'tod you wad toming. 
 Tally taid you wouldn't 'ook at it." 
 
 " Hush, hush, Lizzie! Little gells must be seen and not 
 heard," said Mrs. Jerome; while grandpapa, winking sig- 
 nificantly, and looking radiant with delight at Lizzie's ex- 
 traordinary promise of cleverness, set her up on her high 
 cane-chair by the side of grandma, who lost no time in 
 shielding the beauties of the new frock with a napkin. 
 Then she entered with great animation into a grave dis- 
 cussion of church matters with Mr. Tryan and her husband. 
 
 Tea being over, Mr. Tryan proposed a walk in the gar- 
 
 156 
 
LITTLE LIZZIE 
 
 den. Little Lizzie's appeal, " Me go, gandpa! " could not 
 be rejected; so she was duly bonneted and pinafored, and 
 then they turned out into the evening sunshine. As they 
 walked and talked and examined the pretty pasture where 
 the large, spotted, short-horned cow quietly chewed the cud 
 as she lay and looked sleepily at her admirers, Mr. Jerome 
 said: 
 
 " I've a good bit more land besides this, worth your while 
 to look at; but mayhap it's further nor you'd like to walk 
 now. Bless you! I've welly an acre of potato ground yon- 
 ders; I've a good big family to supply, you know." (Here 
 Mr. Jerome winked and smiled significantly.) " And that 
 puts i' mind, Mr. Tryan, o' summat I wanted to say to you. 
 Clergymen like you, I know, see a deal more poverty than 
 other folks, and if you'll make use o' my purse any time, or 
 let me know where I can be of any help, I'll take it very 
 kind on you." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Jerome, I will do so, I promise you," 
 said Mr. Tryan gratefully. He was beginning to appreciate 
 to a slight extent the measure of this simple man's goodness. 
 
 Dear Mr. Jerome! Deep was the fountain of pity in the 
 good old man's heart. He often ate his dinner stintingly, 
 oppressed by the thought that there were men, women, and 
 children with no dinner to sit down to, and would relieve 
 his mind by going out in the afternoon to look for some 
 need that he could supply; some honest struggle in which 
 he could lend a helping hand. That any living being should 
 want, was his chief sorrow; that any rational being should 
 waste, was the next. Sally, indeed, having been scolded 
 by master for a too lavish use of sticks in lighting the kitchen 
 fire, and various instances of recklessness with regard to 
 candle-ends, considered him " as mean as enythink," but 
 he had as kindly a warmth as the morning sunlight, and, like 
 
 157 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 the sunlight, his goodness shone on all that came in his way, 
 from the saucy rosy-cheeked lad whom he delighted to make 
 happy with a Christmas box, to the pallid sufferers up dim 
 entries, languishing under the tardy death of want and 
 misery. 
 
 It was very pleasant to Mr. Tryan to listen to the simple 
 chat of the old man, to walk in the shade of the incom- 
 parable orchard, to drink in the sweet evening breath of the 
 garden, and, indeed, he was not the only one to whom this 
 was both relaxation and rest. There was nothing that neigh- 
 bours and friends liked better than to take an early tea at 
 the White House; and of all the pretty pictures which you 
 may see in a lifetime, you will never see a prettier one than 
 the kind-faced, white-haired old man, telling fragments of 
 his simple experience to a friend as he walked, with 
 shoulders slightly bent, among the moss-roses and apple 
 trees, little Lizzie, with her nankin bonnet hanging down 
 her back, toddling beside him. Let us leave the dear old 
 man there among his favourite surroundings, with the pretty 
 child who was at once his most precious treasure and the 
 brightest spot in his declining years. 
 
 15S 
 
JACOB COHEN 
 
 159 
 
Iacop. Cohen and Mordecai. 
 
JACOB COHEN 
 
 DANIEL DERONDA, the adopted son of Sir 
 j Hugo Mallinger, was rambling through those 
 parts of London which are most inhabited by 
 common Jews; his object was a most important 
 one — that of finding a man by the name of Ezra Cohen, and 
 his reason for the search was as important as the object of it. 
 Some months before this date, Deronda, rowing idly up 
 the Thames, discovered upon its right bank a young girl, 
 hardly more than eighteen, of slim figure, with a most deli- 
 cate little face, her dark curls pushed behind her ears under 
 a large black hat, a long woolen cloak over her shoulders. 
 Deronda had been singing as he rowed, but when he saw 
 the young girl, whose eyes were fixed on the river with a 
 look of statue-like despair, he not only ceased singing, but 
 felt an outleap of interest and compassion toward her, sure 
 that she needed help. When he approached her he found 
 his supposition was correct. She was discouraged, helpless, 
 and alone in the world, and Deronda carried her away with 
 him to the home of his college chum, Hans Meyrick, where 
 he knew she would be tenderly cared for by that kindly 
 family, who became immediately interested in her sweet 
 personality. That she was a Jewess, by name Mirah Cohen, 
 took nothing from their interest, and Deronda finding that 
 she had an elder brother, Ezra, from whom she had been 
 long separated, but who she believed to be still in London, 
 
 i6i 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 took upon himself to find him for her. For this reason we 
 find him haunting the Jewish quarters of the city, and gaz- 
 ing anxiously at the name over every small shop window. 
 
 Presently his attention was caught by some fine old clasps 
 in chased silver, displayed in a shop window. He saw that 
 the shop was a kind of pawn-broker's, also that a placard in 
 one corner announced — *^ Watches and jewelry exchanged 
 and repaired," and over the shop window he saw the name 
 ^* Ezra Cohen/' 
 
 There might be a hundred Ezra Cohens lettered above 
 shop windows, but Deronda had not seen them. He went 
 home deep in debate as to whether the shopkeeper might 
 not be Mirah's brother, who was grown up while she was 
 still a little child. He intended to return to the pawnshop 
 at once, but was hindered for several days, and when he 
 returned to the neighbourhood he first paused for a moment 
 before the window of a second-hand bookshop in which he 
 saw a volume which he wished to purchase. 
 
 Entering, he confronted a figure that was somewhat 
 startling in its unusualness — a frail-looking man in thread- 
 bare clothing, whose age was difficult to guess — who, from 
 his face and features, might have been a prophet of the 
 Exile or some New Hebrew poet of the mediaeval time. 
 The features were clear-cut and not large, the brow not 
 high, but broad, and fully defined by the crisp black hair. 
 It might never have been a particularly handsome face, 
 but it must always have been forcible; and to Deronda's 
 mind it brought so strange a blending of the unwonted with 
 the common that there was a perceptible interval of mutual 
 observation before he asked the price of the book he wished 
 to buy. 
 
 " You are a man of learning — you are interested in Jewish 
 history?" asked the bookseller. 
 
 162 
 
JACOB COHEN 
 
 "I am certainly interested in Jewish history," said 
 Deronda. 
 
 Immediately the strange Jew rose from his sitting posture, 
 and Deronda felt a thin hand pressing his arm tightly, while 
 a hoarse excited voice said in a loud whisper: 
 
 " You are perhaps of our race? " 
 
 Deronda coloured deeply, and answered " No." At once 
 the eagerness of the face collapsed into uninterested melan- 
 choly as the stranger said, with distant civility, 
 
 " I believe Mr. Ram, for whom I'm keeping the shop 
 while he is gone to dinner, will be satisfied with half-a- 
 crown, sir." 
 
 The effect of this change on Deronda was oddly embar- 
 rassing and humiliating, as if some high dignitary had dis- 
 missed him. There was nothing further to be said, however, 
 so he paid his half-crown and carried off his book with a 
 mere ^'Good morning," and presently entered the neigh- 
 bouring shop with Ezra Cohen over its door, and was con- 
 fronted by Ezra Cohen himself, whose flourishing face glis- 
 tening on the way to fatness was hanging over the counter 
 in negotiation with a customer. Seeing Deronda enter, he 
 called out, "Mother! mother!" and then with a familiar 
 nod and smile said, " Coming, sir — coming directly." 
 
 Deronda, with some anxiety in his expression, saw a 
 vigorous, elderly Jewess approach to serve him, and he 
 sincerely hoped she was not Mirah's mother; in fact, it 
 seemed impossible that she might have had a lovely daugh- 
 ter whose type of feature and expression was like Mirah's. 
 
 Meanwhile, two new customers entered, and the repeated 
 call, " Addy!" brought from the back of the shop a group 
 that Deronda turned frankly to stare at, feeling sure that 
 the stare would be held complimentary. The group con- 
 sisted of a black-eyed young woman, who carried a black- 
 
 163 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 eyed little one, its head already well-covered with black 
 curls, and deposited it on the counter; also a robust boy of 
 six and a younger girl, both with black eyes and black-ringed 
 hair. The young woman answering to " Addy" — a sort of 
 paroquet in a bright blue dress, with coral necklace and 
 earrings, her hair set up in a huge bush — looked as com- 
 placently lively and unrefined as her husband ; and by certain 
 differences from the mother, deepened in Deronda the un- 
 welcome impression that the latter was not so utterly 
 common a Jewess as to exclude her being the mother of 
 Mirah. While that thought was glancing through his mind, 
 the boy had run forward into the shop with an energetic 
 stamp, and setting himself about four feet from Deronda, 
 with his hands in the pockets of his miniature knicker- 
 bockers, looked at him with a precocious air of survey. 
 Perhaps it was chiefly with a diplomatic design to linger 
 and ingratiate himself that Deronda patted the boy's head, 
 saying: 
 
 "What is your name, sirrah?" 
 
 "Jacob Alexander Cohen," said the small man, with 
 much ease and distinctness. 
 
 " You are not named after your father, then? " 
 
 " No; after my grandfather. He sells knives and razors 
 and scissors — my grandfather does," said Jacob, wishing 
 to impress the stranger with that high connection. " He 
 gave me this knife." 
 
 Here a pocket-knife was drawn forth, and the small 
 fingers, both naturally and artificially dark, opened two 
 blades and a corkscrew with much quickness. 
 
 " Is not that a dangerous plaything?" said Deronda, turn- 
 ing to the grandmother. 
 
 "He'll never hurt himself, bless you!" said she, con- 
 templating her grandson with placid rapture. 
 
 164 
 
JACOB COHEN 
 
 " Have you got a knife? " said Jacob, coming closer. His 
 small voice was hoarse in its glibness, as if it belonged to an 
 aged commercial soul, fatigued with bargaining through 
 many generations. 
 
 "Yes. Do you want to see it?" said Deronda, taking a 
 small penknife from his waistcoat-pocket. 
 
 Jacob seized it immediately and retreated a little, holding 
 the two knives in his palms and bending over them in medi- 
 tative comparison. By this time the other clients were gone, 
 and the whole family had gathered to the spot, centring 
 their attention on the marvellous Jacob ; the father, mother, 
 and grandmother behind the counter, with baby held stag- 
 gering thereon, and the little girl in front leaning at her 
 brother's elbow to assist him in looking at the knives. 
 
 " Mine's the best," said Jacob, at last, returning Deronda's 
 knife, as if he had been entertaining the idea of exchange, 
 and had rejected it. 
 
 Father and mother laughed aloud with delight. "You 
 won't find Jacob choosing the worst," said Mr. Cohen, 
 winking with much confidence in the customer's admiration. 
 Deronda, looking at the grandmother, who had only an 
 inward silent laugh, said: 
 
 "Are these the only grandchildren you have?" 
 
 " All. This is my only son," she answered, in a communi- 
 cative tone, Deronda's glance and manner as usual convey- 
 ing the impression of sympathetic interest — which on this 
 occasion answered his purpose well. Then, to stimulate 
 conversation still further, he continued: 
 
 " A loan of fifty pounds at once would be a help to me. 
 I have a fine diamond ring to offer as security — I will come 
 again this evening and bring it with me, if that suits your 
 convenience." 
 
 Cohen assented to this proposition, but here the marvel- 
 
 165 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 lous Jacob showed that he had been listening with much 
 comprehension, by saying, " You are coming again? Have 
 you got any more knives at home?" 
 
 " I think I have one," said Deronda, smiling down at 
 him. 
 
 " Has it two blades and a hook — and a white handle like 
 that? " said Jacob, pointing to the waistcoat-pocket. 
 
 " I dare say it has." 
 
 "Do you like a corkscrew?" said Jacob, exhibiting that 
 article in his own knife again, and looking up with serious 
 inquiry. 
 
 "Yes," said Deronda, experimentally. 
 
 " Bring your knife, then, and we'll shwop," said Jacob, 
 returning the knife to his pocket, and stamping about with 
 the sense that he had concluded a good transaction. 
 
 The grandmother and the whole family watched De- 
 ronda radiantly when he caressingly lifted the little girl, to 
 whom he had not hitherto given attention, and seating her 
 on the counter, asked for her name also. She looked at him 
 in silence, and put her fingers to her gold earrings, which 
 he did not seem to have noticed. 
 
 "Adelaide Rebekah is her name," said her mother 
 proudly. " Speak to the gentleman, lovey." 
 
 " Shlav'm Sfiabbes fyock on," said Adelaide Rebekah. 
 
 " Her Sabbath frock, she means," said the father, in ex- 
 planation. 
 
 " She'll have her Sabbath frock on this evening." 
 
 "And will you let me see you in it, Adelaide?" said 
 Deronda, with that gentle intonation which came very easily 
 to him. 
 
 " Say yes, lovey — yes, if you please, sir," said her mother, 
 enchanted with this handsome young gentleman, who ap- 
 preciated remarkable children. 
 
 i66 
 
JACOB COHEN 
 
 "And will you give me a kiss this evening?" said De- 
 ronda, with a hand on each of her little brown shoulders. 
 
 Adelaide Rebekah immediately put up her lips to pay 
 the kiss in advance; whereupon her father, rising into still 
 more glowing satisfaction with the general meritorious- 
 ness of his circumstances, and with the stranger who was 
 an admiring witness, said cordially: 
 
 "You see, there's somebody will be disappointed if you 
 don't come this evening, sir. You won't mind sitting down 
 in our family place and waiting a bit for me, if I'm not in 
 when you come, sir? I'll stretch a point to accommodate a 
 gent of your sort. Bring the diamond, and I'll see what I 
 can do for you." 
 
 Deronda thus left the most favourable impression behind 
 him, as a preparation for more easy intercourse. But for 
 his own part his spirits were heavy. If these were really 
 Mirah's relatives, he could not imagine that even her fervid 
 filial piety could give the reunion with them any sweetness 
 beyond the fulfilment of a painful duty. He took refuge 
 in disbelief. To find an Ezra Cohen when the name was 
 running in your head was no more extraordinary than to 
 find a Josiah Smith under like circumstances, he argued 
 with himself as he left the little shop. 
 
 When he again arrived there at five o'clock, the shop was 
 closed and the door was opened for him by the Christian 
 servant. When she showed him into the room behind the 
 shop he was surprised at the prettiness of the scene. The 
 house was old, and rather extensive at the back: probably 
 the large room he now entered was gloomy by daylight, 
 but now it was agreeably lit by a fine old brass lamp with 
 seven oil-lights hanging above the snow-white cloth spread 
 on the central table. The ceiling and walls were smoky, 
 and all the surroundings were dark enough to throw into 
 
 167 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 relief the human figures, which had a Venetian glow of col- 
 ouring. The grandmother was arrayed in yellowish brown 
 with a large gold chain in lieu of the necklace, and by this 
 light her yellow face, with its darkly-marked eyebrows and 
 framing rouleau of grey hair, looked as handsome as was 
 necessary for picturesque effect. Young Mrs. Cohen was 
 clad in red and black, with a string of large artificial pearls 
 wound round and round her neck; the baby lay asleep in 
 the cradle under a scarlet counterpane; Adelaide Rebekah 
 was in braided amber; and Jacob Alexander was in black 
 velveteen with scarlet stockings. As the four pairs of black 
 eyes all glistened a welcome at Deronda, he was almost 
 ashamed of the supercilious dislike these happy-looking 
 creatures had raised in him by daylight. Nothing could be 
 more cordial than the greeting he received, and both mother 
 and grandmother seemed to gather more dignity from being 
 seen on the private hearth, showing hospitality. He looked 
 round with some wonder at the old furniture: the oaken 
 bureau and high side table must surely be mere matters of 
 chance and economy, and not due to the family taste. A 
 large dish of blue-and-yellow ware was set up on the side 
 table, and flanking it were two old silver vessels; in front of 
 them a large volume in darkened vellum with a deep- 
 ribbed back. In the corner at the farther end was an open 
 door into an inner room, where there was also a light. 
 
 Deronda took in these details while he met Jacob's press- 
 ing solicitude about the knife. He had taken the pains to 
 buy one with the requisites of a hook and white handle, and 
 produced it on demand, saying: 
 
 " Is that the sort of thing you want, Jacob? '^ 
 It was subjected to a severe scrutiny, the hook and blades 
 were opened, and the article of barter with the corkscrew 
 was drawn for comparison. 
 
 i68 
 
JACOB COHEN 
 
 " Why do you like a hook better than a corkscrew? " said 
 Deronda. 
 
 " 'Caush I can get hold of things with a hook. A cork- 
 screw won't go into anything but corks. But it's better for 
 you, you can draw corks." 
 
 ^^ You agree to change, then? " said Deronda, observing 
 that the grandmother was listening with delight. 
 
 "What else have you got in your pockets?" said Jacob, 
 with deliberate seriousness. 
 
 "Hush, hush, Jacob, love," said the grandmother. And 
 Deronda, mindful of discipline, answered: 
 
 " I think I must not tell you that. Our business was with 
 the knives." 
 
 Jacob looked up into his face scanningly for a moment 
 or two, and apparently arriving at his conclusions, said 
 gravely : 
 
 "I'll shwop," handing the corkscrew knife to Deronda, 
 who pocketed it with corresponding gravity. 
 
 Immediately the small son of Shem ran off into the next 
 room, whence his voice was heard in rapid chat; and then 
 ran back again — when, seeing his father enter, he seized a 
 little velveteen hat which lay on a chair and put it on to 
 approach him. Cohen kept on his own hat, and took no 
 notice of the visitor, but stood still while the two children 
 went up to him and clasped his knees: then he laid his hands 
 on each in turn and uttered his Hebrew benediction; where- 
 upon the wife, who had lately taken baby from the cradle, 
 brought it up to her husband, and held it under his out- 
 stretched hands, to be blessed in its sleep. For the moment 
 Deronda thought that this pawnbroker, proud of his voca- 
 tion, was not utterly prosaic. 
 
 " That is the ring I spoke of," said Deronda, taking it 
 from his finger. " I believe it cost a hundred pounds. It 
 
 169 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 will be a sufficient pledge to you for fifty, I think. I shall 
 probably redeem it in a month or so." 
 
 Cohen took the ring, examined and returned it, saying 
 with indifference, " Good, good. We'll talk of it after our 
 meal. Perhaps you'll join us, if you've no objection. Me 
 and my wife '11 feel honoured, and so will mother; won't 
 you, mother?" 
 
 The invitation was doubly echoed, and Deronda gladly 
 accepted it. All now turned and stood round the table. No 
 dish was at present seen except one covered with a napkin; 
 and Mrs. Cohen had placed a china bowl near her husband 
 that he might wash his hands in it. But after putting on 
 his hat again, he paused, and called in a loud voice, 
 ^^Mordecai!" 
 
 Can this be part of the religious ceremony? thought Der- 
 onda, not knowing what might be expected of the ancient 
 hero. But he heard a " Yes " from the next room, which 
 made him look toward the open door; and there, to his 
 astonishment, he saw the figure of the frail-looking Jew 
 whom he had that morning met with in the bookshop. 
 Their eyes met, and Mordecai looked as much surprised as 
 Deronda — neither in his surprise, however, making any sign 
 of recognition. 
 
 Cohen now washed his hands, pronouncing Hebrew 
 words the while; afterwards he took off the napkin cover- 
 ing the dish and disclosed the two long flat loaves be- 
 sprinkled with seed — the memorial of the manna that fed 
 the wandering forefathers — and breaking off small pieces 
 gave one to each of the family, including Adelaide Rebekah, 
 who stood on the chair with her whole length exhibited in 
 her amber-coloured garment, her little Jewish nose length- 
 ened by compression of the lip in the effort to make a suit- 
 able appearance. Cohen then began another Hebrew 
 
 170 
 
JACOB COHEN 
 
 blessing, in which Jacob put on his hat to join with close 
 imitation. After that, the heads were uncovered, all seated 
 themselves, and the meal went on without any peculiarity 
 that interested Deronda. He was not very conscious of what 
 dishes he ate from, being preoccupied with a desire to turn 
 the conversation in a way that would enable him to ask some 
 leading question; and also with thinking of Mordecai, 
 between whom and himself there was an exchange of fasci- 
 nated, half-furtive glances. It was noticeable that the thin 
 tails of the fried fish were given to Mordecai; and in general 
 the sort of share assigned to a poor relation. 
 
 Mr. Cohen kept up the conversation with much liveli- 
 ness, introducing as subjects always in taste (the Jew was 
 proud of his loyalty) the Queen and the royal family, the 
 Emperor and Empress of the French — into which both 
 grandmother and wife entered with zest. 
 
 " Our baby is named Eugenie Esther," said young Mrs. 
 Cohen vivaciously. 
 
 " It's wonderful how the Emperor's like a cousin of 
 mine in the face," said the grandmother; " it struck me like 
 lightning when I caught sight of him. I couldn't have 
 thought it." 
 
 " Mother and me went to see the Emperor and Empress 
 at the Crystal Palace," said Mr. Cohen. " I had a fine piece 
 of work to take care of mother; she might have been 
 squeezed flat — though she was pretty near as lusty then as 
 she is now. I said, if I had a hundred mothers, I'd never 
 take one of 'em to the Crystal Palace again; and you may 
 think a man can't afiford it when he's got but one mother 
 — not if he'd ever so big an insurance on her." He stroked 
 his mother's shoulder affectionately, and chuckled a little 
 at his own humour. 
 
 " Your mother has been a widow a long while, perhaps," 
 
 171 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 said Deronda, seizing his opportunity. "That has made 
 your care for her the more needful." 
 
 " Ay, ay, it's a good many years since I had to manage 
 for her and myself," said Cohen quickly. " I went early 
 to it. It's that makes you a sharp knife." 
 
 "What does — what makes a sharp knife, father?" said 
 Jacob, his cheek very much swollen with sweet-cake. 
 
 The father winked at his guest and said, " Having your 
 nose put on the grindstone." 
 
 Jacob slipped from his chair with the piece of sweet- 
 cake in his hand, and going close up to Mordecai, who had 
 been totally silent hitherto, said, "What does that mean — 
 putting my nose to the grindstone?" 
 
 " It means that you are to bear being hurt without making 
 a noise," said Mordecai, turning his eyes benignantly on the 
 small face close to his. Jacob put the corner of the cake 
 into Mordecai's mouth as an invitation to bite, saying mean- 
 while, " I sha'n't, though! " and keeping his eyes on the cake 
 to observe how much of it went in this act of generosity. 
 Mordecai took a bite and smiled, evidently meaning to 
 please the lad, and the little incident made them both look 
 more lovable. Deronda, however, felt with some vexation 
 that he had discovered little by his question, and turned to 
 Mordecai, whose personality interested him greatly. Their 
 conversation was interrupted by Mr. Cohen, who was now 
 ready to give his valuation of Deronda's ring. Forty pounds 
 was the sum agreed upon for the loan, after which Deronda 
 said, " Very well; I shall redeem it in a month or so." 
 
 " Good. I'll make you out the ticket by-and-by," an- 
 swered Cohen indifferently. Then he held up his finger 
 as a sign that conversation must be deferred. He, Morde- 
 cai, and Jacob put on their hats, and Cohen opened a thanks- 
 giving, which was carried on by responses, till Mordecai 
 
 172 
 
JACOB COHEN 
 
 delivered himself alone at some length, in a solemn chanting 
 tone, with his chin slightly uplifted and his thin hands 
 clasped before him. No sooner had he finished his devo- 
 tional strain than, rising with a slight bend of his head to 
 the stranger, he walked back into his room and shut the door 
 behind him. 
 
 " That seems to be rather a remarkable man," said De- 
 ronda, turning to Cohen. "Does he belong to your 
 family?" 
 
 " No, no," said Cohen. " Charity! charity! He worked 
 for me, and when he got weaker and weaker I took him in. 
 He is an incumbrance; but he brings a blessing down, and 
 he teaches the boy. Besides, he does the repairing at the 
 watches and jewelry." 
 
 Deronda was amused at this mixture of kindliness and 
 calculation, but spoke no further on the subject of Morde- 
 cai, and having settled the business which was the pretext 
 of his visit, took his leave, with no more decided result than 
 the advance of forty pounds and the pawn-ticket in his 
 pocket, to make a reason for returning when he came up to 
 town after Christmas. He was resolved that he would then 
 endeavour to gain a little more insight into the character 
 and history of Mordecai ; from whom he might also gather 
 something decisive about the Cohens. 
 
 During the months before Deronda's return to the shop, 
 Mordecai was occupied in his customary way. It was now 
 two years since he had taken up his abode under Ezra 
 Cohen's roof, during which time little Jacob had advanced 
 into knickerbockers, and into that quickness of apprehension 
 which has been already made manifest in relation to hard- 
 ware and exchange. He had also advanced in attachment 
 to Mordecai, whose habitual tenderness easily turned into 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 the teacher's fatherhood. The boy moved him with that 
 idealising affection which merges the qualities of the indi- 
 vidual child in the glory of childhood and the possibilities 
 of a long future. And this feeling had drawn him on to 
 a sort of outpouring in the ear of the boy which might have 
 seemed wild enough to any man of business who overheard 
 it. But none overheard when Jacob went up to Mordecai's 
 room, and, after a brief lesson in English reading or in 
 enumeration, was induced to remain standing at his teacher's 
 knees, or chose to jump astride them, often to the patient 
 fatigue of the wasted limbs. The inducement was perhaps 
 the mending of a toy, or some little mechanical device in 
 which Mordecai's well-practised finger-tips had an excep- 
 tional skill ; and with the boy thus tethered, he would begin 
 to repeat a Hebrew poem of his own, telling Jacob to say 
 the words after him. 
 
 " The boy will get them engraved within him," thought 
 Mordecai; "it is a way of printing." 
 
 None readier than Jacob at this fascinating game of imi- 
 tating unintelligible words; and if no opposing diversion 
 occurred, he would sometimes carry on his share in it as 
 long as the teacher's breath would last out. For Mor- 
 decai threw into each repetition the fervour befitting a 
 sacred occasion. In such instances, Jacob would show no 
 other distraction than reaching out and surveying the con- 
 tents of his pockets; or drawing down the skin of his cheeks 
 to make his eyes look awful, and rolling his head to com- 
 plete the effect; or alternately handling his own nose and 
 Mordecai's. Under all this the fervid reciter would not 
 pause, satisfied if the young organs of speech would submit 
 themselves. But most commonly a sudden impulse sent 
 Jacob leaping away into some antic or active amusement, 
 when, instead of following the recitation, he would return 
 
 174 
 
JACOB COHEN 
 
 upon the foregoing words most ready to his tongue and 
 mouth, or gabble, with a see-saw suited to the action of his 
 limbs, a verse on which Mordecai had spent some of his too 
 scanty heart's blood. Yet he waited with such patience 
 as a prophet needs, and began his strange printing again 
 undiscouraged on the morrow, saying inwardly: 
 
 " My words may rule him some day. Their meaning may 
 flash out on him." 
 
 Meanwhile Jacob's sense of power was increased and his 
 time enlivened by a store of magical articulation with which 
 he made the baby crow, or drove the large cat into a dark 
 corner, or promised himself to frighten any incidental 
 Christian of his own years. One week he had unfortunately 
 seen a street mountebank, and this carried off his muscular 
 imitativeness in sad divergence from New Hebrew poetry. 
 Mordecai had arrived at a fresh passage in his poem; for 
 as soon as Jacob had got well used to one portion, he was led 
 on to another, and a fresh combination of sounds generally 
 answered better in keeping him fast for a few minutes. 
 Mordecai's voice had more than its usual excitement while 
 he intoned Hebrew verses with absorbing enthusiasm. In 
 his absorbtion he was unconscious that Jacob had ceased 
 to follow him, and had started away from his knees; but 
 pausing, he saw that the lad had thrown himself on his 
 hands with his feet in the air, mountebank fashion, and was 
 picking up with his lips a bright farthing which was a 
 favourite among his pocket treasures. 
 
 " Child, child! a curse is on your generation! " Mordecai 
 exclaimed with a strange cry; then leaned forward, grasping 
 the little shoulders, and spoke again in a quick hoarse whis- 
 per which shook Jacob's little frame with awe and made him 
 feel that the house was tumbling in, and they were not 
 going to have dinner any more. But when the mysterious 
 
 175 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 and terrible speech had ended, and the pinch was relaxed, 
 the shock resolved itself into tears, and Jacob lifted up his 
 small countenance and wept aloud. This sign of childish 
 grief at once recalled Mordecai to his usual gentle self, and 
 with a maternal action he drew the curly head toward him 
 and pressed it against his breast. On this, Jacob, feeling 
 the danger well-nigh over, howled at ease, beginning to 
 imitate his own performance and improve upon it. Indeed, 
 the next day he undertook to terrify Adelaide Rebekah in 
 like manner, and succeeded very well. 
 
 Glistening was the gladness in the faces of the Cohens 
 when Deronda reappeared among them. Cohen himself 
 took occasion to intimate that although the diamond ring, 
 let alone a little longer, would have bred more money, he 
 did not mind that — not a sixpence — when compared with 
 the pleasure of the women and children in seeing a young 
 gentleman whose first visit had been so agreeable that they 
 had " done nothing but talk of it ever since." Young Mrs. 
 Cohen was very sorry that baby was asleep, and then very 
 glad that Adelaide was not yet gone to bed, entreating De- 
 ronda not to stay in the shop, but to go forthwith into the 
 parlour to see "mother and the children." He willingly 
 accepted the invitation, having provided himself with 
 portable presents ; a set of paper figures for Adelaide, and 
 an ivory cup and ball for Jacob. 
 
 The grandmother had a pack of cards before her and was 
 making " plates " with the children. A plate had just been 
 thrown down and kept itself whole. 
 
 " Stop ! " said Jacob, running up to Deronda as he entered. 
 " Don't tread on my plate. Stop and see me throw it up 
 again." 
 
 Deronda complied, exchanging a smile of understanding 
 with the grandmother, and the plate bore several tossings 
 
 176 
 
JACOB COHEN 
 
 before It came to pieces ; then the visitor was allowed to come 
 forward and seat himself, and inquire if Mordecai was in 
 — feeling it necessary to disclose the fact that he had had 
 some intercourse with Mordecai lately at Ram's book- 
 shop, and that he had promised to go out with him that 
 night. 
 
 Jacob, who had been listening inconveniently near to 
 Deronda's elbow, said with obliging familiarity, " I'll call 
 Mordecai for you, if you like." 
 
 "No, Jacob," said his mother; "open the door for the 
 gentleman, and let him go in himself. Hush! Don't make 
 a noise." 
 
 Skilful Jacob seemed to enter into the play, and turned 
 the handle of the door as noiselessly as possible, while De- 
 ronda went behind him and stood on the threshold. Later, 
 when he and Mordecai came out together, ready to go to 
 a meeting of " The Philosophers' Club," Jacob seized Mor- 
 decai by the arm, and said, " See my cup and ball!" and 
 Mordecai smiled and said, "Fine, fine!" 
 
 ** Shall you come again?" asked Jacob, advancing to 
 Deronda. " See, I can catch the ball ; I bet I can catch it 
 without stopping, if you come again." 
 
 " He has clever hands," said Deronda, looking at the 
 grandmother. " Which side of the family does he get them 
 from?" 
 
 But the grandmother only nodded toward her son, who 
 said promptly, " My side." Here Cohen winked at Jacob's 
 back, saying, " There's nothing some old gentlemen won't 
 do, if you set 'em to it," and Jacob began to stamp about, 
 singing, "Old gentlemen, old gentlemen," in chiming 
 cadence. 
 
 That evening, after the club meeting was over, Mordecai 
 and Deronda had a long, intimate, and serious personal 
 
 177 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 conversation, during which, unknown to Mordecai, De- 
 ronda made a great discovery. Mordecai's real name was 
 Ezra Mordecai Cohen, although he was no relation of the 
 Cohens with whom he lived, and he was no other than 
 Mirah's long-lost brother. This Deronda learned from a 
 chance disclosure of Mordecai's, and he did not at once 
 reveal the startling, and to him, joyful, news to Mordecai, 
 fearing that the excitement might be too much for his high- 
 strung nature to bear at the end of the evening, but simply 
 parted with him at the Cohens' door with a silent pressure 
 of the hand. 
 
 As soon, however, as necessary arrangements had been 
 made, Deronda lost no time in returning to the little shop, 
 after having prepared Mordecai for his visit by a letter in 
 which he asked for a conversation with him on a matter of 
 grave importance. 
 
 He was received at the shop with the usual friendliness, 
 and when he said, " I suppose Mordecai is at home," Jacob, 
 who had profited by family remarks about the intimacy 
 between Mordecai and Deronda, went up to his knee and 
 said, " What do you want to talk to Mordecai about? " 
 
 " Something that is very interesting to him," said De- 
 ronda, pinching the lad's ear, " but that you can't under- 
 stand." 
 
 " Can you say this? " said Jacob, immediately giving forth 
 a string of his rote-learned Hebrew verses with a wonderful 
 mixture of the throaty and the nasal, and nodding his small 
 head at his hearer. 
 
 "No, really," said Deronda, keeping grave; "I can't 
 say anything like it." 
 
 " I thought not," said Jacob, performing a dance of tri- 
 umph with his small scarlet legs, while he took various 
 objects out of the deep pockets of his knickerbockers and re- 
 
 178 
 
JACOB COHEN 
 
 turned them thither, as a slight hint of his resources ; after 
 which, running to the door of the workroom, he opened it 
 wide and said, '' Mordecai, here's the young swell " 
 
 He was called back with hushes by mother and grand- 
 mother, and Deronda, entering and closing the door behind 
 him, found Mordecai ready to greet him, with an air of 
 solemn expectation in his face, such as would have seemed 
 perfectly natural if his letter had declared that some revela- 
 tion was to be made about the lost sister. After an hour 
 of solemn conversation, during which the great disclosure 
 was made, and Deronda had communicated the fact that 
 he had prepared a home for Mordecai to take his sister to, 
 Mordecai said in a melancholy tone, " But I shall grieve to 
 part from these parents and the little ones. You must 
 tell them, for my heart would fail me." 
 
 " I felt that you would want me to tell them. Shall we 
 go at once? " said Deronda. 
 
 "Yes; let us not defer it," said Mordecai, rising with the 
 air of a man who has to perform a painful duty. 
 
 When they entered the parlour he said to the alert Jacob, 
 "Ask your father to come, and tell Sarah to mind the shop. 
 My friend has something to say," he continued, turning to 
 the elder Mrs. Cohen. Then Cohen entered and rubbed his 
 hands, saying with loud satisfaction, "Well, sir! I'm glad 
 you're doing us the honour to join our family party again. 
 We are pretty comfortable." 
 
 He looked round with shiny gladness. And when all 
 were seated round the hearth, the scene was worth peeping 
 in upon; on one side baby under her scarlet quilt in the 
 corner being rocked by the young mother, and Adelaide 
 Rebekah seated on the grandmother's knee; on the other, 
 Jacob between his father's legs; while the two markedly dif- 
 ferent figures of Deronda and Mordecai were in the middle 
 
 179 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 — Mordecai a little backward in the shade, anxious to con- 
 ceal his agitated susceptibility to what was going on round 
 him. The chief light came from the fire, which brought out 
 the rich colour on the depth of shadow, and seemed to turn 
 into speech the dark gems of eyes that looked at each other 
 kindly. 
 
 " I have just been telling Mordecai of an event that makes 
 a great change in his life," Deronda began ; ^' but I hope you 
 will agree with me that it is a joyful one. Since he thinks 
 of you as his best friends, he wishes me to tell you for him 
 at once. A very precious relation wishes to be reunited to 
 him — a very good and lovely young sister who will care for 
 his comfort in every way and with talents which will secure 
 her a maintenance. A home is already provided for Mor- 
 decai." 
 
 There was a silence for some moments before the grand- 
 mother said in a wailing tone: 
 
 "Well, well! and so you're going away from us, Mor- 
 decai." 
 
 "And where there's no children as there is here," said 
 the mother, catching the wail. 
 
 " No Jacob, and no Adelaide, and no Eugenie! " wailed 
 the grandmother again. 
 
 " Ay, ay, Jacob's learning 'ill all wear out of him. He 
 must go to school. It'll be hard times for Jacob," said 
 Cohen, in a tone of decision. 
 
 In the wide-open ears of Jacob his father's words sounded 
 like a doom, giving an awful finish to the dirge-like effect 
 of the whole announcement. His face had been gathering 
 a wondering incredulous sorrow at the notion of Mordecai's 
 going away; he was unable to imagine the change as any- 
 thing lasting; but at the mention of " hard times for Jacob," 
 there was no further suspense of feeling, and he broke forth 
 
 i8o 
 
JACOB COHEN 
 
 in loud lamentation. Adelaide Rebekah always cried when 
 her brother cried, and now began to howl with astonishing 
 suddenness, whereupon baby, awaking, contributed angry 
 screams, and required to be taken out of the cradle. A 
 great deal of hushing was necessary, and Mordecai, feeling 
 the cries pierce him, put out his arms to Jacob, who in the 
 midst of his tears and sobs was turning his head right and 
 left for general observation. His father, who had been say- 
 ing, " Never mind, old man ; you shall go to the riders," now 
 released him, and he went to Mordecai, who clasped him, 
 and laid his cheek on the little black head without speak- 
 ing. But Cohen, sensible that the master of the family 
 must make some apology for all this weakness, and that the 
 occasion called for a speech, addressed Deronda with some 
 elevation of pitch, squaring his elbows and resting a hand on 
 each knee : 
 
 " It's not as we're the people to grudge anybody's good 
 luck, sir, or the portion of their cup being made fuller, as I 
 may say. And though, as I may say, you're taking some of 
 our good works from us, which is a property bearing inter- 
 est, I'm not saying but that we can afiford that — though my 
 mother and my wife have the good-will to wish and do for 
 Mordecai to the last. And as to the extra outlay in school- 
 ing, I'm neither poor nor greedy. But the truth of it is, 
 the women and children are fond of Mordecai. You may 
 partly see how it is, sir, by your own sense. So you must 
 excuse present company, sir, for not being glad all at once. 
 And as for this young lady — for by what you say ^ Young 
 lady' is the proper term — ^we shall all be glad for Mor- 
 decai's sake by and by, when we cast up our accounts and 
 see where we are." 
 
 Before Deronda could answer this speech, Mordecai ex- 
 claimed: 
 
 i8i 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 "Friends, friends! for food and raiment and shelter I 
 would not have sought better than you have given me. You 
 have sweetened the morsel with love ; and what I thought of 
 as a joy that would be left to me even in the last months of 
 my waning strength was to go on teaching the lad. For no 
 light matter would I have turned away from your kindness 
 to take another's. But it has been taught us that ' the reumrd 
 of one duty is the power to fulfil another^ — so said Ben 
 Azzi. You have made your duty to one of the poor among 
 your brethren a joy to you and me; and your reward shall 
 be that you will not rest without the joy of like deeds in the 
 time to come. And may not Jacob come and visit me? " 
 
 Mordecai had turned with this question to Deronda, who 
 said: 
 
 " Surely that can be managed. It is no further than 
 Brompton." 
 
 Jacob, who had been gradually calmed by the need to 
 hear what was going forward, began now to see some day- 
 light on the future, the word "visit" having the lively 
 charm of cakes and general relaxation at his grandfather's, 
 the dealer in knives. 
 
 He danced away from Mordecai, and took up a station of 
 survey in the middle of the hearth with his hands in his 
 knickerbockers, making a brilliant dash of colour in the 
 room with his little scarlet legs and his dark flashing 
 eyes. 
 
 There is no doubt about it, such as Jacob are born under 
 the lucky star which gives them the ability to handle affairs 
 of personal importance with great success, and as we see 
 him there on the hearth in his favourite position, watching 
 Mordecai and Deronda depart, we can easily foresee that 
 whenever he wishes he will be a visitor in the new home 
 provided for Mordecai and Mirah, and that he will have 
 
 182 
 
JACOB COHEN 
 
 the wish often. In fact we have proof of it in a letter re- 
 ceived by Deronda from his friend Hans Meyrick, many 
 weeks later when Deronda was in Italy. Hans Meyrick 
 said: 
 
 " I'm not convinced that my society makes amends to 
 Mordecai for your absence, but another substitute occasion- 
 ally comes in the form of Jacob Cohen. It is worth while 
 to catch our Prophet's expression when he has that remark- 
 able type of young Israel on his knee, and pours forth some 
 Semitic inspiration with a sublime look of melancholy 
 patience and devoutness. Sometimes it occurs to Jacob that 
 Hebrew will be more edifying to him if he stops his ears 
 with his palms, and imitates the venerable sounds as heard 
 through that muffling medium. When Mordecai gently 
 draws down the little fists and holds them fast, Jacob's fea- 
 tures all take on an extraordinary activity, very much as 
 if he were walking through a menagerie and trying to imi- 
 tate every animal in turn, succeeding best with the owl and 
 the peccary. But I dare say you have seen something of 
 this. He treats me as a second-hand Christian commodity, 
 likely to come down in price; remarking on my disadvant- 
 ages with a frankness which seems to imply some thoughts 
 of future purchase. It is pretty, though, to see the change 
 in him if Mirah happens to come in. He turns child sud- 
 denly, — and, with Mirah, reminds me of the dogs that have 
 been brought up by women, and remain manageable by 
 them only. Still, the dog is fond of Mordecai, too, and 
 brings sugar-plums to share with him, filling his own mouth 
 to rather an embarrassing extent, and watching how Mor- 
 decai deals with a smaller supply. Judging from this 
 modern Jacob at the age of six, my astonishment is that his 
 race has not bought us all up long ago, and pocketed our 
 
 183 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 feebler generations in the form of stock and script, as so 
 much slave property." 
 
 So wrote Hans Meyrick concerning Jacob Alexander 
 Cohen, and it is with a feeling of perfect safety in regard to 
 his prosperity in life that we leave him standing before the 
 fire in the Cohen parlour with wide-spread legs, and hands 
 in his knickerbocker pockets, sure that whether he may be 
 standing there or otherwhere he will be master of the 
 situation. 
 
 184 
 
TINA-THE LITTLE 
 BLACK-EYED MONKEY 
 
 i8s 
 
.-^^ ^,"^^ajZ^OoWw^.j)3 •'«• \» 
 
 Tina Sarti and Hkk Fathi-i^ 
 
TINA-THE LITTLE 
 BLACK-EYED MONKEY 
 
 A T Cheverel Manor, that most stately of English 
 
 /% country homes, presided over by the blonde 
 / %^ matron. Lady Cheverel, it was not to be wondered 
 at that there were conjectures concerning the par- 
 entage of Caterina Sarti, " the little black-eyed monkey," as 
 Sir Christopher called her. 
 
 How was it that this tiny dark-eyed child of the South, 
 whose face was immediately suggestive of olive-covered 
 hills and taper-lit shrines, came to have her home in this 
 stately English manor house — almost as if a humming-bird 
 were found perched on one of the elm trees in the park, by 
 the side of her ladyship's handsomest pouter-pigeon? 
 
 Speaking good English, too, and joining in Protestant 
 prayers — surely she must have been adopted and brought 
 over to England at a very early age. She was. 
 
 During Sir Christopher's last visit to Italy with his lady, 
 they resided for some time at Milan. Here Lady Cheverel 
 engaged a singing-master, for she had then not only a fine 
 musical taste, but a fine soprano voice. Those were days 
 when very rich people used manuscript music, and many a 
 man got his livelihood by copying music at so much a page. 
 Lady Cheverel having need of this service, Maestro Albani 
 
 187 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 told her of a copyist whose manuscript was the neatest and 
 most correct he knew of. Unhappily the poor man was not 
 always in his best wits, and was sometimes slow in conse- 
 quence; but it would be a work of Christian charity worthy 
 of the beautiful Signora to employ poor Sarti. 
 
 The next morning Mrs. Sharp, Lady Cheverel's maid, en- 
 tered her lady's private room, and said, " If you please, my 
 lady, there's the frowiest, shabbiest man you ever saw, out- 
 side, and he's told Mr. Warren as the singing-master sent 
 him to see your ladyship. But I think you'll hardly like 
 him to come in here. Belike he's only a beggar." 
 
 " Oh, yes, show him in immediately." 
 
 Mrs. Sharp retired muttering her dissatisfaction, but pres- 
 ently reappeared, ushering in a small meagre man, sallow 
 and dingy, with a restless wandering look in his dull eyes 
 and an excessive timidity about his deep reverences. Yet 
 through his squalor and wretchedness there were some 
 traces discernible of comparative youth and former good 
 looks. Lady Cheverel was essentially kind, and liked to 
 dispense benefits like a goddess who looks down benignly 
 on the halt, the maimed, and the blind that approach her 
 shrine. She was smitten with compassion at the sight of 
 poor Sarti, and spoke gently as she pointed out to him the 
 operatic selections she wished him to copy, and he seemed 
 to sun himself in her auburn, radiant presence, so that when 
 he made his exit with the music books under his arm his 
 bow, though not less reverent, was less timid. 
 
 It was long since Sarti had seen anything so bright and 
 stately and beautiful as Lady Cheverel. For the time was 
 far off in which he had trod the stage in satin and feathers, 
 the first tenor of one short season. He had completely lost 
 his voice in the following winter, and had ever since been 
 little better than a cracked fiddle, which is good for nothing 
 
 i88 
 
TINA— THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED MONKEY 
 
 but firewood. For, like many Italian singers, he was too 
 ignorant to teach, and if it had not been for his one talent 
 of penmanship, he and his helpless young wife might have 
 starved. Then, just after their third child was born, fever 
 came, swept away the sickly mother and the two oldest 
 children and attacked Sarti himself, who rose from his sick- 
 bed with a tiny baby, scarcely four months old, on his hands. 
 He lodged over a fruit shop kept by a stout virago, loud of 
 tongue and irate in temper, but who had had children, and 
 so had taken care of the tiny, yellow, black-eyed bambinetta, 
 and tended Sarti himself through his sickness. Here he 
 continued to live, earning a meagre subsistence for himself 
 and his little one. He seemed to exist for nothing but the 
 child; he tended it, he dandled it, he chatted to it, living 
 with it alone in his one room above the fruit shop, only ask- 
 ing his landlady to take care of the little one during his short 
 absences in fetching and carrying home work. Customers 
 frequenting that fruit shop might often see the tiny Cater- 
 ina seated on the floor with her legs in a heap of peas which 
 it was her delight to kick about; or perhaps deposited, like a 
 kitten, in a large basket, out of harm's way. 
 
 Sometimes, however, Sarti left his little one with another 
 kind of protectress. He was very regular in his devotions, 
 which he paid thrice a week in the great Cathedral, carry- 
 ing Caterina with him. Here, when the high morning sun 
 was warming the myriad glittering pinnacles without, and 
 struggling against the massive gloom within, he might be 
 seen making his way toward a little tinsel Madonna hang- 
 ing in a retired spot near the choir. Amid all the sublimi- 
 ties of the mighty cathedral, poor Sarti had fixed on this 
 Madonna as the symbol of divine mercy and protection. 
 Here he worshipped and prayed, setting Caterina on the 
 floor by his side; and now and then, when the cathedral lay 
 
 189 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 near some place where he had to call, he would leave her 
 there in front of the tinsel Madonna, where she w^ould sit, 
 perfectly good, amusing herself with low crowing noises 
 and see-sawings of her tiny body. And when Sarti came 
 back he always found that the blessed Mother had taken 
 good care of Caterina. 
 
 This was, briefly, the history of Sarti, who fulfilled so 
 well the orders Lady Cheverel gave him that she sent him 
 away again with a stock of new work. But this time, week 
 after week passed and he neither reappeared nor sent home 
 the music entrusted to him. Lady Cheverel was beginning 
 to be anxious, when one day as she was equipped for driving 
 out, the valet brought in a small piece of paper which he 
 said had been left for her ladyship by a man who was carry- 
 ing fruit. The, paper contained only three tremulous lines, 
 in Italian: 
 
 "Will the Eccelentissima, for the love of God, have pity 
 on a dying man and come to him?" 
 
 Lady Cheverel recognised the handwriting as Sarti's, and 
 giving directions to her coachman, drove directly to the 
 fruit shop and climbed the narrow dark stairs which led 
 to Sarti's room. Directly opposite the door lay Sarti on a 
 bed at the foot of which was seated a tiny child; her head 
 covered by a linen cap, her feet clothed with leather boots 
 above which her little yellow legs showed, thin and naked. 
 A frock made of what had once been a gay flowered silk was 
 her only other garment. Her large, dark eyes shone from 
 out her queer little face like two precious stones in a gro- 
 tesque image carved in old ivory. She held an empty medi- 
 cine bottle in her hand and was amusing herself with putting 
 the cork in and drawing it out again to hear how it would 
 pop.^ 
 
 Finding that there was nothing more to be done for poor 
 
 190 
 
TINA— THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED MONKEY 
 
 Sard, Lady Cheverel left money that the last decencies 
 might be paid to him, and carried away Caterina. On the 
 way back to her hotel, she turned over various projects in 
 her mind regarding Caterina, but at last one gained the 
 preference over all the rest. Why should they not take the 
 child to England and bring her up there? Cheverel Manor 
 had never been cheered by children's voices, and the old 
 house would be the better for a little of that music. Be- 
 sides, it would be a Christian work to train this little Papist 
 into a good Protestant, and graft as much English fruit as 
 possible on the Italian stem. 
 
 Sir Christopher listened to this plan with hearty acquies- 
 cence. He loved children, and took at once to " the little 
 black-eyed monkey" — his name ever afterwards for Cater- 
 ina. But neither he nor Lady Cheverel had any idea of 
 adopting her as their daughter, and giving her their own 
 rank in life. They were much too English and aristocratic 
 to think of anything so romantic. No! the child would be 
 brought up at Cheverel Manor as a protegee, to be ulti- 
 mately useful perhaps, in sorting worsteds, keeping accounts, 
 reading aloud and otherwise supplying the place of spec- 
 tacles when her ladyship's eyes should wax dim. 
 
 So Mrs. Sharp had to procure new clothes to replace the 
 linen cap, flowered frock and leathern boots; and now, 
 strange to say, little Caterina first began to know conscious 
 troubles. " Ignorance," says Ajax, " is a painless evil; " so, 
 I should think, is dirt, considering the merry faces that go 
 along with it. At any rate cleanliness is sometimes a pain- 
 ful good, as anyone can vouch who has had his face washed 
 the wrong way by a pitiless hand with a gold ring on the 
 third finger. This is the anguish which Caterina endured 
 under Mrs. Sharp's new dispensation of soap and water. 
 Happily, however, this purgatory came presently to be 
 
 191 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 associated in her tiny brain with pleasures as novel as they 
 were delightful. 
 
 In three months from the time of Caterina's adoption the 
 chimneys of Cheverel Manor were sending up unwonted 
 smoke and the servants were awaiting in excitement the re- 
 turn of their master and mistress after a two years' absence. 
 Great was the astonishment of Mrs. Bellamy, the house- 
 keeper, when a little black-eyed child was lifted out of the 
 carriage, and great was Mrs. Sharp's sense of superior in- 
 formation and experience as she detailed Caterina's history 
 to the rest of the upper servants that evening in the house- 
 keeper's room. 
 
 A pleasant room it was as any party need desire to muster 
 in on a cold November evening. The fireplace alone was a 
 picture; a wide and deep recess with a low brick altar in 
 the middle, where great logs sent myriad sparks up the dark 
 chimney-throat; and over the recess a large wooden en- 
 tablature bore this motto, finely carved in old English letters, 
 " Fear God and honour the King." And beyond the party 
 who formed a half-moon with their chairs and well fur- 
 nished table round this bright fireplace, what a space of 
 light and shadow for the imagination to rove in! Stretch- 
 ing across the far end of the room what an oak table, high 
 enough surely for Homer's gods, standing on four massive 
 legs, bossed and bulging like sculptured urns! Lining the 
 distant walls, what vast cupboards, suggestive of inexhausti- 
 ble apricot jam and promiscuous butler's perquisites! A 
 stray picture or two had found their way down there, and 
 made agreeable patches of dark brown on the buff-coloured 
 walls. But on this particular evening the subject of con- 
 versation was far too absorbing to make the company gath- 
 ered together conscious of their surroundings, and debate 
 between Mr. Bates, the gardener, and Mrs. Sharp, concern- 
 
 192 
 
TINA— THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED MONKEY 
 
 ing the wisdom of Sir Christopher and his lady in bringing 
 home the little foreigner, waxed high, until such time as a 
 song sung by Mr. Bates brought the evening's amusement 
 to a climax. 
 
 The tiny child, Caterina, soon conquered all prejudices 
 against her foreign blood; for what prejudices will hold out 
 against helplessness and broken prattle. She became the 
 pet of the household, thrusting Sir Christopher's favourite 
 bloodhound, Mrs. Bellamy's two canaries, and Mr. Bates' 
 largest Dorking hen into a merely secondary position. Then 
 came a cycle of experiences connected with Mrs. Sharp's 
 nursery discipline, the grave luxury of her ladyship's sitting- 
 room, and perhaps the dignity of a ride on Sir Christopher's 
 knee, sometimes followed by a visit with him to the stables. 
 There Caterina soon learned to hear without crying the 
 baying of the chained blood-hounds, and say with ostenta- 
 tious bravery, clinging to Sir Christopher's leg all the while, 
 " Dey not hurt Tina." Then Mrs. Bellamy would perhaps 
 be going out to gather the rose-leaves and lavender, and 
 Tina was made proud and happy by being allowed to carry 
 a handful in her pinafore; happier still when they were 
 spread out to dry, so that she could sit down like a frog 
 among them, and have them poured over her in fragrant 
 showers. Another frequent pleasure was to take a journey 
 with Mr. Bates through the kitchen-gardens, and the hot- 
 houses, where the rich bunches of green and purple grapes 
 hung from the roof, out of reach of the tiny yellow hand that 
 could not help stretching itself out toward them, and which 
 was sure at last to be satisfied with some delicate-flavoured 
 fruit or sweet-scented flower. Indeed, in the long monoton- 
 ous leisure of that great country house, there was always 
 someone who had nothing better to do than to play with 
 Tina. So the little Southern bird had its Northern nest 
 
 193 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 lined with tenderness and caresses and pretty things, and 
 showed itself to be both loving and sensitive. 
 
 The only thing in which Caterina showed any precocity 
 was a certain ingenuity in vindictiveness. When she was 
 five years old she had revenged herself for an unpleasant 
 prohibition by pouring the ink into Mrs. Sharp's work- 
 basket; and once when Lady Cheverel took her doll from 
 her because she was affectionately licking the paint off its 
 face, the little minx straightway climbed into a chair and 
 threw down a flower-vase that stood on a bracket. This was 
 almost the only instance in which her anger overcame her 
 awe of Lady Cheverel, who had the ascendency belonging 
 to kindness that never melts into caresses, and is severely 
 but uniformly beneficent. 
 
 By and by the happy monotony of life at Cheverel Manor 
 was broken into. The park roads were cut up by waggons 
 carrying loads of stone from a neighbouring quarry, the 
 green courtyard became dusty with lime and the peaceful 
 house rang with the sound of tools. For the next ten years 
 Sir Christopher was occupied with such architectural 
 changes as he was having made in the Manor House, which 
 changed it into a splendid mansion. 
 
 While Cheverel Manor was growing from ugliness into 
 beauty, Caterina, too, was growing from a little yellow bant- 
 ling into a whiter maiden, with no positive beauty, indeed, 
 but with a certain light, airy grace, which, with her large 
 dark appealing eyes and a voice of low-toned tenderness, 
 gave her a more than usual charm. Unlike the building, 
 however, Caterina's development was the result of no sys- 
 tematic or careful appliances. She grew up very much like 
 the primroses, which the gardener is not sorry to see within 
 his enclosure, but takes no pains to cultivate. Lady Chev- 
 erel taught her to read and write and say her catechism ; Mr. 
 
 194 
 
TINA— THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED MONKEY 
 
 Warren, Sir Christopher's valet, being a good accountant, 
 gave her lessons in arithmetic; and Mrs. Sharp initiated her 
 in all the mysteries of the needle. But for a long time 
 there v^as no thought of giving her any more elaborate 
 education, and it is very likely that to her dying day Caterina 
 thought the earth stood still, and that the sun and stars 
 moved round it. The truth is, that with one exception, her 
 greatest talent lay in loving. Orphan and protegee though 
 she was, this talent of hers found plenty of exercise at Chev- 
 erel Manor, and she had more persons to be fond of than 
 many a small lady and gentleman affluent in silver mugs 
 and blood relations. The first place in her heart was given 
 to Sir Christopher, and next to the Baronet came Dorcas, 
 the merry, rosy-cheeked damsel who was Mrs. Sharp's lieu- 
 tenant in the nursery, and thus played the part of the raisins 
 in a dose of senna. It was a black day for Caterina when 
 Dorcas married the coachman, and left Cheverel Manor. 
 A little china box bearing the motto, " Though lost to sight, 
 to memory dear," which Dorcas sent her as a remembrance, 
 was among Caterina's treasures long years after. 
 
 The one other exceptional talent which Caterina 
 possessed, as you may have guessed, was music. When the 
 fact that she had a remarkable ear for music, and a still 
 more remarkable voice, attracted Lady Cheverel's attention, 
 the discovery was very welcome to both her and Sir Chris- 
 topher. Much time was devoted to her education, and the 
 rapidity of her progress surpassing all hopes, an Italian 
 singing-master was engaged for several years to spend some 
 months together at Cheverel Manor. This unexpected gift 
 made a great alteration in Caterina's position. Insensibly 
 she began to be regarded as one of the family, for Lady 
 Cheverel loved music above all things, and the talent asso- 
 ciated the young girl at once with the pleasures of the draw- 
 
 195 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 ing-room. At the same time she had the happiness of com- 
 panionship with a ward of Sir Christopher's — a lad named 
 Maynard Gilfil. He spent all of his vacations at Cheverel 
 Manor, and found there no playfellow so much to his mind 
 as Caterina. Maynard was an af^fectionate lad, who kept 
 his fondness for white rabbits, pet squirrels, and guinea pigs 
 perhaps a little beyond the age at which young gentlemen 
 usually begin to look down on such pleasures. He was much 
 given to fishing and to carpentry, and in all these pleasures 
 it was his delight to have Caterina as his companion; so it 
 was always a sad day for the child when Maynard went 
 back to school. Once or twice also in Caterina's childhood 
 there was another boy visitor at the Manor, whose name was 
 Wybrow — a beautiful boy with brown curls and splendid 
 clothes, on whom Caterina looked with shy admiration — 
 and who looked on her with undisguised affection. 
 
 So, with the visits of the boys to anticipate, her daily 
 routine of music study, and helping Lady Cheverel entertain 
 her older guests, Caterina slowly grew from childhood into 
 girlhood, and this child of the sunny South transplanted to 
 the colder climate of the North, not only flourished, but con- 
 stantly put out new tendrils of affection and love, which 
 strengthened the bond between her and Lord and Lady 
 Cheverel, who had so enriched her life. 
 
 From girlhood to young womanhood was but a step, and 
 now we see, in place of " the little black-eyed monkey," a 
 young lady whose small stature and slim figure rest on the 
 tiniest of feet. Her large dark eyes in their unconscious 
 beauty resemble the eyes of a fawn, and seem all the more 
 striking because the dark hair is gathered away from her 
 face, after the fashion of the times, under a little cap, set at 
 the top of her head, with a cherry coloured bow on one side. 
 
 196 
 
TINA— THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED MONKEY 
 
 One scarcely notices the absence of bloom on her young 
 cheeks and the Southern yellowish tint of her small neck 
 and face, rising above the little black lace kerchief which 
 prevents the too immediate comparison of her skin with her 
 white muslin gown. 
 
 It is the late afternoon of a bright sultry summer day, 
 and although the sun is still an hour above the horizon, his 
 rays, broken by the leafy fretwork of the elms that border 
 the park, no longer prevent Caterina and Lady Cheverel 
 from carrying out their cushions and embroidery to work 
 on the lawn in front of Cheverel Manor. They made two 
 bright patches on the green background of the laurels and 
 the lawn ; but the pretty picture was soon marred by the mas- 
 culine addition of Sir Christopher and his young visitors — 
 Maynard Gilfil, now the Reverend; and Anthony Wybrow, 
 now a Captain. 
 
 Later, as the party strolled slowly through the flower-gar- 
 den, Caterina tripped over to Sir Christopher with a moss- 
 rosebud in her hand, and said coquettishly, ''There, Pa- 
 droncello, there is a nice rose for your buttonhole! " 
 
 "Ah, you black-eyed monkey," he said fondly, stroking 
 her cheek; "come, I want you to sing to us before we sit 
 down to picquet." He put her little arm under his, and 
 calling to the others, led the way towards the house, and 
 into the great sombre, impressive library, where tea was 
 always served, and where every evening at nine o'clock Sir 
 Christopher and Lady Cheverel sat down to picquet until 
 half-past ten, when prayers were read in the chapel to the 
 assembled household. 
 
 But now it was not near nine, and Caterina must sit down 
 to the harpsicord and sing Sir Christopher's favourite airs 
 in her rare contralto voice — which she did with telling 
 effect. 
 
 197 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 " Excellent, Caterina," exclaimed Lady Cheverel, when 
 there was a pause; "I never heard you sing that so well. 
 Once more!" 
 
 The song was repeated, then, after one more and an en- 
 core. Sir Christopher said, " There's a clever black-eyed 
 monkey! Now bring out the table for picquet." 
 
 Caterina drew out the table and placed the cards; then, 
 with her rapid fairy suddenness of motion, and who can tell 
 what depth of feeling, threw herself down beside Sir Chris- 
 topher and clasped his knee. He bent down, stroked her 
 cheek and smiled — and there in the tender embrace of one 
 she loved so dearly, let us leave this " little black-eyed mon- 
 key " — child no longer, girl still in looks and ways, but 
 young woman surely now in heart and years. 
 
 198 
 
JOB TUDGE AND 
 HARRY TRANSOME 
 
 199 
 

 Job Tudge and Harry Transome. 
 
JOB TUDGE AND 
 HARRY TRANSOME 
 
 JOB TUDGE was a tiny, red-haired, orphaned boy, 
 whose natural home was with his grandfather, Mr. 
 Tudge, the stone-breaker, but whose wants were so 
 scantily cared for by that relative that Felix Holt, 
 finding the little fellow, took him to his own home, where 
 he and his mother lived. This was up a back street in the 
 village of Treby Magna, where Felix worked at repairing 
 watches, and also gave lessons to a number of small children. 
 
 Harry Transome was the son of Harold Transome of 
 Transome Court, an estate which lay in the village of Little 
 Treby, and boasted a mansion built in the fashion of Queen 
 Anne's time, with a park as fine as any to be seen in 
 Loamshire. Little Harry was a sturdy, black-maned boy 
 with great black eyes, and with a singular lack of affection 
 in his nature, which lack made him delight in being with 
 anyone whom he could rule, especially with his feeble- 
 minded, timid, paralytic, old grandfather, to whom the des- 
 potic boy was a never-ending source of delight. 
 
 It happened that Esther Lyon, daughter of the minister 
 of the Independent Chapel at Treby Magna, felt a great in- 
 terest in the strong personality and fine character of Felix 
 Holt, who came frequently to their little home; sometimes 
 to discuss matters of grave importance with Mr. Lyon, and 
 
 201 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 sometimes to enjoy the relaxation of a talk with his gracious 
 daughter. One morning Esther, fearing that she had of- 
 fended Felix Holt during their last conversation, and wish- 
 ing to apologise to him for her seeming rudeness, cast about 
 her for an excuse which would take her to Mrs. Holt's 
 house. To her great joy she found that her watch needed 
 cleaning, which gave her the desired reason for the visit 
 she wished to make. 
 
 As she knocked at the door she heard the ringing voice 
 of Felix calling his mother to admit her, the voice sur- 
 mounting various small scufflings and babbling voices 
 within. 
 
 " I came to ask Mr. Holt if he would look at my watch 
 for me," said Esther, entering, and blushing a general rose- 
 colour. 
 
 " He'll do that fast enough," said Mrs. Holt, with em- 
 phasis; " that's one of the things he will do." 
 
 "Excuse my rising, Miss Lyon," said Felix; "I'm bind- 
 ing up Job's finger." 
 
 Job was a small fellow about five, with a germinal nose, 
 large round blue eyes, and red hair that curled close to his 
 head like the wool on the back of an infantine lamb. He 
 had evidently been crying, and the corners of his mouth 
 were still dolorous. Felix held him on his knee as he bound 
 and tied up very cleverly a tiny forefinger. There was a 
 table in front of Felix and against the window, covered with 
 his watchmaking implements and some open books. Two 
 benches stood at right angles on the sanded floor, and six or 
 seven boys of various ages up to twelve were getting their 
 caps and preparing to go home. They huddled themselves 
 together and stood still when Esther entered. Felix could 
 not look up till he had finished his surgery, but he went on 
 speaking. 
 
 202 
 
JOB TUDGE AND HARRY TRANSOME 
 
 ^'This is a hero, Miss Lyon. This is Job Tudge, a bold 
 Briton whose finger hurts him, but who doesn't mean to cry. 
 Good morning, boys. Don't lose your time. Get out into 
 the air." 
 
 Esther seated herself on the end of the bench near Felix, 
 much relieved that Job was the immediate object of atten- 
 tion; and the other boys rushed out behind her with a brief 
 chant of "Good morning!" 
 
 Meanwhile Esther had handed her watch to Felix, and 
 while her eyes filled with tears, made the apology which was 
 the real object of her visit. Suddenly little Job, looking 
 into Esther's face, exclaimed, "Zoo soodn't kuy," — being 
 much impressed with the moral doctrine which had come to 
 him after a sufficient transgression of it. 
 
 "Job is like me," said Felix, "fonder of preaching than 
 of practise. But let us look at this watch," he went on, 
 opening and examining it. "These little Geneva toys are 
 cleverly constructed to go always a little wrong. But if 
 you wind them up and set them regularly every night, you 
 may know at least that it's not noon when the hand points 
 there." 
 
 Felix continued to chat until Esther had recovered her- 
 self, and presently she asked in a cheerful voice: "Where 
 does Job Tudge live? " looking at the droll little figure, set 
 ofif by a ragged jacket with a tail about two inches deep 
 sticking out above the funniest of corduroys. 
 
 "Job has two mansions," said Felix. "He lives here 
 chiefly; but he has another home, where his grandfather, 
 Mr. Tudge, the stone-breaker, lives. My mother is very 
 good to Job, Miss Lyon. She has made him a little bed in 
 a cupboard, and she gives him sweetened porridge." 
 
 The exquisite goodness implied in these words of Felix 
 impressed Esther the more, because in her hearing his talk 
 
 203 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 had usually been of a less affectionate character. Looking 
 at Mrs. Holt, she saw that her eyes had lost their bleak 
 northeasterly expression, and were shining with some mild- 
 ness on little Job, who had turned round toward her, prop- 
 ping his head against Felix. 
 
 " Well, why shouldn't I be motherly to the child. Miss 
 Lyon?" said Mrs. Holt, whose strong powers of argument 
 required the file of an imagined contradiction, if there were 
 no real one at hand. " I never was hard-hearted, and I 
 never will be. It was Felix picked the child up and took 
 to him, you may be sure, for there's nobody else master where 
 he is; but I wasn't going to beat the orphan child and 
 abuse him because of that, and him as straight as an arrow 
 when he's stript, and me so fond of children, and only had 
 one of my own to live." In like manner Mrs. Holt con- 
 tined to talk until interrupted by Felix, who burst in : " Oh, 
 but, mother, it's no use being so wrapt up in children. 
 They're not always a comfort to one. They grow out of 
 being good very fast. Here's Job Tudge, now," continued 
 Felix, turning the little one round on his knee, and holding 
 his head by the back — " Job's limbs will get lanky; this little 
 fist, that looks like a puff-ball and can hide nothing bigger 
 than a gooseberry, will get large and bony, and perhaps 
 want to clutch more than its share; these wide blue eyes 
 that tell me more truth than Job knows, will narrow and 
 narrow and try to hide truth that Job would be better with- 
 out knowing; this little negative nose will become long and 
 self-asserting; and this little tongue — put out thy tongue. 
 Job " — Job, awe-struck under this ceremony, put out a little 
 red tongue very timidly — " this tongue, hardly bigger than 
 a rose-leaf, will get large and thick, wag out of season, do 
 mischief, brag and cant for gain or vanity, and cut as 
 cruelly, for all its clumsiness, as if it were a sharp-edged 
 
 204 
 
JOB TUDGE AND HARRY TRANSOME 
 
 blade. Big Job will perhaps be naughty " As Felix, 
 
 speaking with the loud, emphatic distinctness habitual to 
 him, brought out this terribly familiar word, Job's sense 
 of mystification became too painful: he hung his lip, and 
 began to cry. 
 
 "See there," said Mrs. Holt, "you're frightening the 
 innicent child with such talk — and it's enough to frighten 
 them that think themselves the safest." 
 
 " Look here. Job, my man," said Felix, setting the boy 
 down and turning him toward Esther; "go to Miss Lyon, 
 ask her to smile at you, and that will dry up your tears like 
 the sunshine." 
 
 Job put his two brown fists on Esther's lap, and she 
 stooped to kiss him. Then she rose to go, and presently 
 Felix and his mother were alone. 
 
 Many weeks later than this Esther Lyon made a visit at 
 Transome Court, and between her and little Harry there 
 was an extraordinary fascination. This creature, with the 
 soft, broad, brown cheeks, low forehead, great black eyes, 
 tiny well-defined nose, fierce biting tricks toward every per- 
 son and thing he disliked, was a human specimen such as 
 Esther had never seen before, and she seemed equally orig- 
 inal in Harry's experience. At first sight her light com- 
 plexion and her blue gown, probably also her sunny smile 
 and her hands stretched out toward him, seemed to make 
 a show for him as of a new sort of bird, and he threw 
 himself backward against his " Gappa," as he called old Mr. 
 Transome, and stared at this newcomer with the gravity of 
 a wild animal. But she had no sooner sat down on the sofa 
 in the library than he climbed up to her, and began to treat 
 her as an attractive object in natural history, snatched up 
 her curls with his brown fist, and, discovering that there 
 
 205 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 was a little ear under them, pinched it and blew into it, 
 pulled at her coronet of plaits, and seemed to discover with 
 satisfaction that it did not grow at the summit of her head, 
 but could be dragged down and altogether undone. Then 
 finding that she laughed, tossed him back, kissed, and pre- 
 tended to bite him — in fact, was an animal that understood 
 fun — he rushed off and made his man Dominic bring a 
 small menagerie of white mice, squirrels, and birds, with 
 Moro, the black spaniel, to make her acquaintance. Whom- 
 soever Harry liked, it followed that Mr. Transome must 
 like: "Gappa" along with Nimrod, the retriever, was 
 part of the menagerie, and perhaps endured more than all 
 the other live creatures in the way of being tumbled about. 
 Seeing that Esther bore having her hair pulled down quite 
 merrily, and that she was quite willing to be harnessed and 
 beaten, the old man began to confide to her, in his feeble, 
 smiling, and rather jerking fashion, Harry's remarkable 
 feats: how he had one day, when Gappa was asleep, un- 
 pinned a whole drawerful of beetles, to see if they would 
 fly away; then, disgusted with their stupidity, was about to 
 throw them all on the ground and stamp on them, when 
 Dominic came in and rescued these valuable specimens; 
 also how he had subtly watched Mrs. Transome at the 
 cabinet where she kept her medicines, and, when she had 
 left it for a little while without locking it, had gone to the 
 drawers and scattered half the contents on the floor. But 
 what old Mr. Transome thought the most wonderful proof 
 of an almost preternatural cleverness was, that Harry 
 would hardly ever talk, but preferred making inarticulate 
 noises, or combining syllables after a method of his own. 
 
 " He can talk well enough if he likes," said Gappa, evi- 
 dently thinking that Harry, like the monkeys, had deep 
 reasons for his reticence. 
 
 206 
 
JOB TUDGE AND HARRY TRANSOME 
 
 "You mind him," he added, nodding at Esther, and shak- 
 ing with low-toned laughter. " You'll hear: he knows the 
 right names of things well enough, but he likes to make his 
 own. He'll give you one all to yourself before long." 
 
 And when Harry seemed to have made up his mind dis- 
 tinctly that Esther's name was " Boo," Mr. Transome 
 nodded at her with triumphant satisfaction, and Esther was 
 glad when she saw the old man's joy in the happy world 
 created for him by Harry's presence. 
 
 Just before Esther went to visit at Transome Court, Felix 
 Holt had become involved in serious trouble by attempting 
 to quell a riot in the little town of Treby Magna, was un- 
 justly supposed to be himself one of the rioters, and was 
 thrown into the Loamshire jail. Mrs. Holt, in wild despair 
 at this crushing blow, appealed to everyone from whom she 
 thought she could gain help to prove her son's innocence. In 
 pursuance of that object she determined to ask aid of Har- 
 old Transome, who, though so widely different from her son 
 in the matters of wealth and position, yet, like Felix, was a 
 Radical in his political views. 
 
 One fine February day, when already the golden and 
 purple crocuses were on the terrace — one of those flattering 
 days which sometimes precede the northeast winds of March 
 and make believe the coming spring will be enjoyable — 
 Esther Lyon and Harold Transome were walking about the 
 grounds of Transome Court at mid-day. 
 
 They were a little in advance of the rest of the party, who 
 were retarded by various causes. Old Mr. Transome fol- 
 lowed with his shuffling, uncertain walk, and little Harry 
 was dragging a toy vehicle, on the seat of which he had 
 insisted on tying Moro, with a piece of scarlet drapery round 
 him, making him look like a barbaric prince in a chariot. 
 Moro objected to this, and barked with feeble snappishness 
 
 207 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 as the tyrannous lad ran forward, then whirled the chariot 
 round, and ran back to " Gappa," then came to a dead stop, 
 which overset the chariot, that he might watch a water- 
 spaniel run for a hurled stick and bring it in his mouth. 
 Nimrod kept close to his old master's legs, and Dominic 
 walked by, taking care of both young and old. 
 
 Presently Harold and Esther turned, and saw an elderly 
 woman advancing with a tiny red-haired boy, scantily at- 
 tired as to his jacket, which merged into a small sparrow 
 tail, a little higher than his waist, but muffled as to his 
 throat with a blue woollen comforten Esther recognised 
 the pair too well, and felt very uncomfortable. It would be 
 a great mortification to her to have Felix Holt, whom she 
 so much admired, in any way represented to the family at 
 Transome Court by his mother, whose appearance and man- 
 ner would in any case do him scant justice. And now it was 
 especially important that his cause should be advanced in 
 every possible way. 
 
 But in spite of her annoyance, Esther greeted Mrs. Holt 
 kindly, and stooped to pat little Job, while Mrs. Holt 
 curtsied as if to the entire group, now including even the 
 dogs, who showed various degrees of curiosity, especially 
 as to what kind of game the smaller animal Job might prove 
 to be. 
 
 As Esther noticed little Job, Mrs. Holt remarked: "Yes 
 — you know him. Miss Lyon, you know the orphin child as 
 Felix brought home for me that am his mother to take care 
 of. And it's what I've done — nobody more so — though it's 
 trouble is my reward." 
 
 Esther had raised herself again, to stand in helpless en- 
 durance of whatever might be coming. But by this time 
 young Harry, attracted even more than the dogs by the ap- 
 pearance of Job Tudge, had come round dragging his 
 
 208 
 
JOB TUDGE AND HARRY TRANSOME 
 
 chariot, and placed himself close to the pale child, whom he 
 exceeded in height and breadth, as well as in depth of 
 colouring. He looked into Job's eyes, peeped round at the 
 tail of his jacket, and pulled it a little, and then, taking off 
 the tiny cloth cap, observed with much interest the tight red 
 curls which had been hidden underneath it. Job looked at 
 his inspector with the round blue eyes of astonishment, 
 until Harry, purely by way of experiment, took a bon-bon 
 from a fantastic wallet which hung over his shoulder, and 
 applied the test to Job's lips. The result was satisfactory to 
 both. Everyone had been watching this small comedy, and 
 when Job crunched the bon-bon while Harry looked down 
 at him inquiringly and patted his back, there was general 
 laughter except on the part of Mrs. Holt, who was shaking 
 her head slowly, and slapping the back of her left hand with 
 the painful patience of a tragedian whose part is in abeyance 
 to an ill-timed introduction of the humorous. 
 
 " I hope Job's cough has been better lately," said Esther, 
 in mere uncertainty as to what it would be desirable to say 
 or do. 
 
 "I dare say you hope so. Miss Lyon," said Mrs. Holt, 
 looking at the distant landscape. Then after a moment's 
 pause she changed the subject and directed her flow of elo- 
 quence toward Harold Transome, pleading for help to gain 
 her son's release, until Esther, by way of breaking this awk- 
 ward scene said, " I'm sure you must be tired with your long 
 walk, and little Job, too. Aren't you. Job?" she added, 
 stooping to caress the child, who was timidly shrinking from 
 Harry's invitation to him to pull the little chariot — Harry's 
 view being that Job would make a good horse for him to 
 beat, and would run faster than " Gappa." 
 
 Harold, taking note of Esther's attempts to alter the situa- 
 tion, here said with decision : 
 
 209 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 "Mrs. Holt, I assure you that enough has been said to 
 make me use my best efforts for your son's release. Dom- 
 inic, show Mrs. Holt the way to the house, and see that she 
 is made comfortable, and that somebody takes her back to 
 Treby in the buggy." 
 
 " I will go back with Mrs. Holt," said Esther, with a 
 great effort, but Harold shook his head. "Let Mrs. Holt 
 have time to rest," he said. " We shall have returned, and 
 you can see her before she goes. We will say good-bye for 
 the present, Mrs. Holt." 
 
 The poor woman was not sorry to have the prospect of 
 rest and food, especially for " the orphin child," of whom 
 she was tenderly careful, and when she saw Dominic pick 
 up Job and hoist him on his arm for a little while by way of 
 making acquaintance, she regarded him with genuine ap- 
 proval. 
 
 As soon as Esther and Harold were left alone, they en- 
 tered into a most serious conversation concerning Felix 
 Holt, and how to win his freedom; but presently Esther re- 
 membered that she must see Mrs. Holt and little Job again, 
 so she entered the door that opened on the terrace, while 
 Harold went round to the stables. 
 
 When Esther had been upstairs and descended again into 
 the large entrance-hall, she found its stony spaciousness 
 made lively by human figures extremely unlike the statues 
 which were its chief furnishings. Since Harry insisted on 
 playing with Job again, Mrs. Holt and her orphan, after 
 dining, had just been brought to this delightful scene for a 
 game of hide-and-seek, and for exhibiting the climbing 
 powers of the two pet squirrels. Mrs. Holt sat on a stool, 
 in singular relief against the pedestal of Apollo, while 
 Harry, in his bright red and purple, flitted about like a great 
 tropic bird after the sparrow-tailed Job, who hid himself 
 
 2IO 
 
JOB TUDGE AND HARRY TRANSOME 
 
 with much intelligence behind the scagliola pillars and the 
 pedestals; while one of the squirrels perched itself on the 
 head of the tallest statue, and the other was already peeping 
 down from among the heavy stuccoed angels on the ceiling, 
 near the summit of a pillar. 
 
 Mrs. Holt held on her lap a basket filled with good things 
 for Job, and seemed much soothed by pleasant company and 
 excellent treatment. As Esther, descending softly and un- 
 observed, leaned over the stone banisters and looked at the 
 scene for a minute or two, she saw that Mrs. Holt's atten- 
 tion, having been directed to the squirrel which had scam- 
 pered on to the head of a statue of Silenus, had been drawn 
 downward to the infant Bacchus in its arms. 
 
 " It's most pretty to see its little limbs, and the gentleman 
 holding it," she exclaimed tactfully. " I should think he 
 was amiable by his looks; but it was odd he should have his 
 likeness took without any clothes. Was he Transome by 
 name?" 
 
 Before there was any chance for an answer to this remark- 
 able question, old Mr. Transome, who since his walk had 
 been having forty winks on the sofa in the library, came out 
 to look for Harry. Mrs. Holt rose and curtsied with a 
 proud respect, and at once began to urge upon him also the 
 necessity of release for her imprisoned son. Like all orators, 
 Mrs. Holt waxed louder and more energetic in her argu- 
 ment, and poor, feeble-minded, old Mr. Transome, getting 
 more and more frightened by the eloquence of this severe- 
 spoken woman, stood helplessly forgetful that if he liked he 
 might turn round and walk away. 
 
 Little Harry, alive to anything that had relation to Gappa, 
 had paused in his game, and, rushing toward Mrs. Holt, 
 proceeded to beat her with his mimic jockey's whip. While 
 Dominic rebuked him and pulled him off, the dogs began to 
 
 211 
 
BOYS AND GIRLS from GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 bark anxiously, and the scene was becoming alarming even 
 to the squirrels, which scrambled as far off as possible. 
 
 Esther, who had been waiting for an opportunity to inter- 
 fere, now came up to Mrs. Holt and said soothingly: " Dear 
 Mrs. Holt, do rest comforted, I assure you, you have done 
 the utmost that can be done by your words. Your visit has 
 not been thrown away. See how the children have enjoyed 
 it! I saw little Job actually laughing. I think I never saw 
 him do more than smile before." Then turning round to 
 Dominic, she said, "Will the buggy come round to this 
 door?" 
 
 This hint was sufBcient. Dominic went to see if the 
 vehicle was ready, and although there was a fresh resistance 
 raised in Harry by the threatened departure of Job, who had 
 seemed an invaluable addition to the menagerie of tamed 
 creatures, Esther soon had the relief of seeing the visitors 
 depart, and there is no evidence to prove that black-eyed 
 little Harry of Transome Court and frail little Job, the 
 orphan, ever met again. 
 
 212 
 
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