In the afternoon the boys were at their books in the study, preparing the morrow’s lessons that they might have a holiday in the evening in honour of Maggie’s arrival. Tom was hanging over his Latin grammar, moving his lips inaudibly like a strict but impatient Catholic repeating his tale of paternosters; and Philip, at the other end of the room, was busy with two volumes, with a look of contented diligence that excited Maggie’s curiosity; he did not look at all as if he were learning a lesson. She sat on a low stool at nearly a right angle with the two boys, watching first one and then the other; and Philip, looking off his book once toward the fire-place, caught the pair of questioning dark eyes fixed upon him. He thought this sister of Tulliver’s seemed a nice little thing, quite unlike her brother; he wished _he_ had a little sister. What was it, he wondered, that made Maggie’s dark eyes remind him of the stories about princesses being turned into animals? I think it was that her eyes were full of unsatisfied intelligence, and unsatisfied beseeching affection. “I say, Magsie,” said Tom at last, shutting his books and putting them away with the energy and decision of a perfect master in the art of leaving off, “I’ve done my lessons now. Come upstairs with me.” “What is it?” said Maggie, when they were outside the door, a slight suspicion crossing her mind as she remembered Tom’s preliminary visit upstairs. “It isn’t a trick you’re going to play me, now?” “No, no, Maggie,” said Tom, in his most coaxing tone; “It’s something you’ll like _ever so_.” He put his arm round her neck, and she put hers round his waist, and twined together in this way, they went upstairs. “I say, Magsie, you must not tell anybody, you know,” said Tom, “else I shall get fifty lines.” “Is it alive?” said Maggie, whose imagination had settled for the moment on the idea that Tom kept a ferret clandestinely. “Oh, I sha’n’t tell you,” said he. “Now you go into that corner and hide your face, while I reach it out,” he added, as he locked the bedroom door behind them. “I’ll tell you when to turn round. You mustn’t squeal out, you know.” “Oh, but if you frighten me, I shall,” said Maggie, beginning to look rather serious. “You won’t be frightened, you silly thing,” said Tom. “Go and hide your face, and mind you don’t peep.” “Of course I sha’n’t peep,” said Maggie, disdainfully; and she buried her face in the pillow like a person of strict honour. But Tom looked round warily as he walked to the closet; then he stepped into the narrow space, and almost closed the door. Maggie kept her face buried without the aid of principle, for in that dream-suggestive attitude she had soon forgotten where she was, and her thoughts were busy with the poor deformed boy, who was so clever, when Tom called out, “Now then, Magsie!”