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 patronizing instruction to simple peevishness.

"Why she's hungry, poor little lady," said the younger woman. "Give her
some o' the cold victual. You're been walking a good way, I'll be bound,
my dear. Where's your home?"

"It's Dorlcote Mill, a good way off," said Maggie. "My father is Mr.
Tulliver, but we mustn't let him know where I am, else he'll 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. The tall girl meanwhile was constantly staring at Maggie and
grinning. Her manners were certainly not agreeable.

"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 a very good queen, and kind to everybody."

"Here's a bit o' nice victual, then," said the old woman, handing to
Maggie a lump of dry bread, and a piece of cold bacon.

"Thank you," said Maggie, looking at the food without taking it; "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, as if she were getting tired of coaxing.

"Oh, a little bread and treacle would do," said Maggie.

"We han't got no treacle," said the old woman, crossly, whereupon there
followed a sharp dialogue between the two women in their unknown tongue,
and one of the small sphinxes snatched at the bread and bacon, and began
to eat it. At this moment the tall girl, who had gone a few yards off,
came back, and said something which produced a strong effect. The old
woman, seeming to forget Maggie's hunger, poked the skewer into the pot
with new vigor, and the younger crept under the tent, and reached out
some platters and spoons. Maggie trembled a little, and was afraid the
tears would come into her eyes. Meanwhile the tall girl gave a shrill
cry, and presently came running up the boy whom Maggie had passed as he
was sleeping,--a rough urchin about the age of Tom. He stared at Maggie,
and there ensued much incomprehensible chattering. She felt very lonely,
and was quite sure she should begin to cry before long; the gypsies
didn't seem to