The hoarse wind blows colder;
Lights shine in the town.
She will start from her slumber
When gusts shake the door;
She will hear the winds howling,
Will hear the waves roar.

We shall see, while above us
The waves roar and whirl,
A ceiling of amber,
A pavement of pearl.
Singing: "Here came a mortal,
But faithless was she!
And alone dwell for ever
The kings of the sea."

But, children, at midnight,
When soft the winds blow,
When clear falls the moonlight,
When spring-tides are low;
When sweet airs come seaward
From heaths starr'd with broom,
And high rocks throw mildly
On the blanch'd sands a gloom;
Up the still, glistening beaches,
Up the creeks we will hie,
Over banks of bright seaweed
The ebb-tide leaves dry.
We will gaze, from the sand hills,
At the white, sleeping town;
At the church on the hillside--
And then come back down.
Singing: "There dwells a lov'd one,
But cruel is she!
She left lonely forever
The kings of the sea."

[Illustration]

TOM AND MAGGIE TULLIVER

NOTE.--This account of Tom and Maggie Tulliver is taken from the
early chapters of George Eliot's _The Mill on the Floss_. The book
follows the fortunes of Tom and Maggie, whom at the opening of the
story we find living with their parents at the old mill house on
the Floss River, until they meet their death, in their early
manhood and womanhood. We give here, however, only a part of the
story of their childhood.

I

It was a heavy disappointment to Maggie that she was not allowed to go
with her father in the gig when he went to fetch Tom home from the
academy; 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 it was a direct consequence of this difference of opinion
that when her mother was in the act of brushing out the reluctant black
crop Maggie suddenly rushed from under her hands and dipped her head in
a basin of water standing near, in the vindictive determination that
there should be no more chance of curls that day.

"Maggie, Maggie!" exclaimed Mrs. Tulliver, sitting stout and helpless
with the brushes on her lap, "