“Eh,” said Bob, parenthetically, as he looked over the fields on the other side of the river, “there goes that crooked young Wakem. I know him or his shadder as far off as I can see ’em; I’m allays lighting on him o’ that side the river.” A sudden thought seemed to have darted through Tom’s mind. “I must go, Bob,” he said; “I’ve something to attend to,” hurrying off to the warehouse, where he left notice for some one to take his place; he was called away home on peremptory business. The swiftest pace and the shortest road took him to the gate, and he was pausing to open it deliberately, that he might walk into the house with an appearance of perfect composure, when Maggie came out at the front door in bonnet and shawl. His conjecture was fulfilled, and he waited for her at the gate. She started violently when she saw him. “Tom, how is it you are come home? Is there anything the matter?” Maggie spoke in a low, tremulous voice. “I’m come to walk with you to the Red Deeps, and meet Philip Wakem,” said Tom, the central fold in his brow, which had become habitual with him, deepening as he spoke. Maggie stood helpless, pale and cold. By some means, then, Tom knew everything. At last she said, “I’m not going,” and turned round. “Yes, you are; but I want to speak to you first. Where is my father?” “Out on horseback.” “And my mother?” “In the yard, I think, with the poultry.” “I can go in, then, without her seeing me?” They walked in together, and Tom, entering the parlour, said to Maggie, “Come in here.” She obeyed, and he closed the door behind her. “Now, Maggie, tell me this instant everything that has passed between you and Philip Wakem.” “Does my father know anything?” said Maggie, still trembling. “No,” said Tom indignantly. “But he _shall_ know, if you attempt to use deceit toward me any further.” “I don’t wish to use deceit,” said Maggie, flushing into resentment at hearing this word applied to her conduct. “Tell me the whole truth, then.” “Perhaps you know it.” “Never mind whether I know it or not. Tell me exactly what has happened, or my father shall know everything.” “I tell it for my father’s sake, then.” “Yes, it becomes you to profess affection for your father, when you have despised his strongest feelings.” “You never do wrong, Tom,” said Maggie, tauntingly. “Not if I know it,” answered Tom, with proud sincerity. “But I have nothing to say to you beyond this: tell me what has passed between you and Philip Wakem. When did you first meet him in the Red Deeps?” “A year ago,” said Maggie, quietly. Tom’s severity gave her a certain fund of defiance, and kept her sense of error in abeyance. “You need ask me no more questions. We have been friendly a year. We have met and walked together often. He has lent me books.” “Is that all?” said Tom, looking straight at her with his frown. Maggie paused a moment; then, determined to make an end of Tom’s right to accuse her of deceit, she said haughtily: