Last holidays you licked the paint off my lozenge-box, and the holidays before that you let the boat drag my fish-line down when I'd set you to watch it, and you pushed your head through my kite, all for nothing." "But I didn't mean," said Maggie; "I couldn't help it." "Yes, you could," said Tom, "if you'd minded what you were doing.

And you're a naughty girl, and you sha'n't go fishing with me to-morrow." With this terrible conclusion, Tom ran away from Maggie toward the mill, meaning to greet Luke there, and complain to him of Harry.
Maggie stood motionless, except from her sobs, for a minute or two; then she turned round and ran into the house, and up to her attic, where she sat on the floor and laid her head against the worm-eaten shelf, with a crushing sense of misery.

Tom was come home, and she had thought how happy she should be; and now he was cruel to her.

What use was anything if Tom didn't love her?
Oh, he was very cruel! Hadn't she wanted to give him the money, and said how very sorry she was?
She knew she was naughty to her mother, but she had never been naughty to Tom--had never _meant_ to be naughty to him.
"Oh, he is cruel!" Maggie sobbed aloud, finding a wretched pleasure in the hollow resonance that came through the long empty space of the attic.

She never thought of beating or grinding her Fetish; she was too miserable to be angry.
These bitter sorrows of childhood! when sorrow is all new and strange, when hope has not yet got wings to fly beyond the days and weeks, and the space from summer to summer seems measureless.
Maggie soon thought she had been hours in the attic, and it must be tea-time, and they were all having their tea, and not thinking of her.
Well, then, she would stay up there and starve herself,--hide herself behind the tub, and stay there all night,--and then they would all be frightened, and Tom would be sorry.