ulliver, almost at the same
moment, said, "Where's your little sister?"--both of them having
supposed that Maggie and Tom had been together all the afternoon.

"I don't know," said Tom. He didn't want to "tell" of Maggie, though he
was angry with her; for Tom Tulliver was a lad of honor.

"What! hasn't she been playing with you all this while?" said the
father. "She'd been thinking o' nothing but your coming home."

"I haven't seen her this two hours," says Tom, commencing on the
plumcake.

"Goodness heart! she's got drownded!" exclaimed Mrs. Tulliver, rising
from her seat and running to the window. "How could you let her do so?"
she added, as became a fearful woman, accusing she didn't know whom of
she didn't know what.

"Nay, nay, she's none drownded," said Mr. Tulliver. "You've been naughty
to her, I doubt, Tom?"

"I'm sure I haven't, father," said Tom indignantly. "I think she's in
the house."

"Perhaps up in that attic," said Mrs. Tulliver, "a-singing and talking
to herself, and forgetting all about meal times."

"You go and fetch her down, Tom," said Mr. Tulliver, rather
sharply,--his perspicacity or his fatherly fondness for Maggie making
him suspect that the lad had been hard upon "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, for Mr. Tulliver was a peremptory man,
and, as he said, would never let anybody get hold of his whip hand; but
he went out rather sullenly, carrying his piece of plumcake, and not
intending to reprieve Maggie's punishment, which was no more than she
deserved. Tom was only thirteen, and had no decided views in grammar and
arithmetic, regarding them for the most part as open questions, but he
was particularly clear and positive on one point,--namely, that he would
punish everybody who deserved it. Why, he wouldn't have minded being
punished himself if he deserved it; but, then, he never _did_ deserve
it.

It was Tom's step, then, that Maggie heard on the stairs, when her need
of love had triumphed over her pride, and she was going down with her
swollen eyes and dishevelled hair to beg for pity. At least her father
would stroke her head and say, "Never mind, my wench." It is a wonderful
subduer, this need of love,--this hunger of the heart,--as peremptory as
that other hunger by which Nature forces us to submit to the yoke, and
change the face of the world.

But she kne