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;
but he went out rather sullenly, carrying his piece of plum cake, 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 disheveled hair to beg for pity. At least her father
would stroke her head and say, "Never mind, my wench."

But she knew Tom's step, and 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, "O Tom, please forgive me--I can't bear it--I
will always be good--always remember things--do love me--please, dear
Tom!"

Maggie and Tom were still very much like young animals, and so she could
rub her cheek against his, and kiss his ear in a random, sobbing way;
and there were tender fibers in the lad that had been used to answer to
Maggie's fondling; so that he behaved with a weakness quite inconsistent
with his resolution to punish her as much as she deserved; he actually
began to kiss her in return, and say:--

"Don't cry, then, Magsie--here, eat a bit 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
humiliating 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.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 1: From "The Mill on the Floss," by George Eliot.]

MY LAST DAY AT SALEM HOUSE[2]

I pass over all that happened at school, until the anniversary of my
birthday came round in March. The great remembrance by which that time
is marked in my mind seems to have swallowed up all