"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 knew Tom's step, and her heart began to beat violently with the sudden shock of hope.