hot-tempered crotchets and ought to put them out of the question when a livelihood was offered him; Wakem showed a right feeling about the matter,—_he_ had no grudge against Tulliver. Tom had protested against entertaining the proposition. He shouldn’t like his father to be under Wakem; he thought it would look mean-spirited; but his mother’s main distress was the utter impossibility of ever “turning Mr Tulliver round about Wakem,” or getting him to hear reason; no, they would all have to go and live in a pigsty on purpose to spite Wakem, who spoke “so as nobody could be fairer.” Indeed, Mrs Tulliver’s mind was reduced to such confusion by living in this strange medium of unaccountable sorrow, against which she continually appealed by asking, “Oh dear, what _have_ I done to deserve worse than other women?” that Maggie began to suspect her poor mother’s wits were quite going. “Tom,” she said, when they were out of their father’s room together, “we _must_ try to make father understand a little of what has happened before he goes downstairs. But we must get my mother away. She will say something that will do harm. Ask Kezia to fetch her down, and keep her engaged with something in the kitchen.” Kezia was equal to the task. Having declared her intention of staying till the master could get about again, “wage or no wage,” she had found a certain recompense in keeping a strong hand over her mistress, scolding her for “moithering” herself, and going about all day without changing her cap, and looking as if she was “mushed.” Altogether, this time of trouble was rather a Saturnalian time to Kezia; she could scold her betters with unreproved freedom. On this particular occasion there were drying clothes to be fetched in; she wished to know if one pair of hands could do everything in-doors and out, and observed that _she_ should have thought it would be good for Mrs Tulliver to put on her bonnet, and get a breath of fresh air by doing that needful piece of work. Poor Mrs Tulliver went submissively downstairs; to be ordered about by a servant was the last remnant of her household dignities,—she would soon have no servant to scold her. Mr Tulliver was resting in his chair a little after the fatigue of dressing, and Maggie and Tom were seated near him, when Luke entered to ask if he should help master downstairs. “Ay, ay, Luke; stop a bit, sit down,” said Mr Tulliver pointing his stick toward a chair, and looking at him with that pursuant gaze which convalescent persons often have for those who have tended them, reminding one of an infant gazing about after its nurse. For Luke had been a constant night-watcher by his master’s bed. “How’s the water now, eh, Luke?” said Mr Tulliver. “Dix hasn’t been choking you up again, eh?” “No, sir, it’s all right.” “Ay, I thought not; he won’t be in a hurry at that again, now Riley’s been to settle him. That was what I said to Riley yesterday—I said——”