“You must not be surprised to see the room look very bare downstairs, father,” said Maggie; “but there’s your chair and the bureau; _they’re_ not gone.” “Let us go; help me down, Luke,—I’ll go and see everything,” said Mr Tulliver, leaning on his stick, and stretching out his other hand toward Luke. “Ay, sir,” said Luke, as he gave his arm to his master, “you’ll make up your mind to’t a bit better when you’ve seen iverything; you’ll get used to’t. That’s what my mother says about her shortness o’ breath,—she says she’s made friends wi’t now, though she fought again’ it sore when it just come on.” Maggie ran on before to see that all was right in the dreary parlour, where the fire, dulled by the frosty sunshine, seemed part of the general shabbiness. She turned her father’s chair, and pushed aside the table to make an easy way for him, and then stood with a beating heart to see him enter and look round for the first time. Tom advanced before him, carrying the leg-rest, and stood beside Maggie on the hearth. Of those two young hearts Tom’s suffered the most unmixed pain, for Maggie, with all her keen susceptibility, yet felt as if the sorrow made larger room for her love to flow in, and gave breathing-space to her passionate nature. No true boy feels that; he would rather go and slay the Nemean lion, or perform any round of heroic labours, than endure perpetual appeals to his pity, for evils over which he can make no conquest. Mr Tulliver paused just inside the door, resting on Luke, and looking round him at all the bare places, which for him were filled with the shadows of departed objects,—the daily companions of his life. His faculties seemed to be renewing their strength from getting a footing on this demonstration of the senses. “Ah!” he said slowly, moving toward his chair, “they’ve sold me up—they’ve sold me up.” Then seating himself, and laying down his stick, while Luke left the room, he looked round again. “They’ve left the big Bible,” he said. “It’s got everything in,—when I was born and married; bring it me, Tom.” The quarto Bible was laid open before him at the fly-leaf, and while he was reading with slowly travelling eyes Mrs Tulliver entered the room, but stood in mute surprise to find her husband down already, and with the great Bible before him. “Ah,” he said, looking at a spot where his finger rested, “my mother was Margaret Beaton; she died when she was forty-seven,—hers wasn’t a long-lived family; we’re our mother’s children, Gritty and me are,—we shall go to our last bed before long.” He seemed to be pausing over the record of his sister’s birth and marriage, as if it were suggesting new thoughts to him; then he suddenly looked up at Tom, and said, in a sharp tone of alarm: “They haven’t come upo’ Moss for the money as I lent him, have they?” “No, father,” said Tom; “the note was burnt.” Mr Tulliver turned his eyes on the page again, and presently said: