She was fond of fancying a world where the people never got any larger than children of their own age, and she made the queen of it just like Lucy, with a little crown on her head, and a little sceptre in her hand—only the queen was Maggie herself in Lucy’s form. “Oh, Lucy,” she burst out, after kissing her, “you’ll stay with Tom and me, won’t you? Oh, kiss her, Tom.” Tom, too, had come up to Lucy, but he was not going to kiss her—no; he came up to her with Maggie, because it seemed easier, on the whole, than saying, “How do you do?” to all those aunts and uncles. He stood looking at nothing in particular, with the blushing, awkward air and semi-smile which are common to shy boys when in company,—very much as if they had come into the world by mistake, and found it in a degree of undress that was quite embarrassing. “Heyday!” said aunt Glegg, with loud emphasis. “Do little boys and gells come into a room without taking notice of their uncles and aunts? That wasn’t the way when _I_ was a little gell.” “Go and speak to your aunts and uncles, my dears,” said Mrs Tulliver, looking anxious and melancholy. She wanted to whisper to Maggie a command to go and have her hair brushed. “Well, and how do you do? And I hope you’re good children, are you?” said Aunt Glegg, in the same loud, emphatic way, as she took their hands, hurting them with her large rings, and kissing their cheeks much against their desire. “Look up, Tom, look up. Boys as go to boarding-schools should hold their heads up. Look at me now.” Tom declined that pleasure apparently, for he tried to draw his hand away. “Put your hair behind your ears, Maggie, and keep your frock on your shoulder.” Aunt Glegg always spoke to them in this loud, emphatic way, as if she considered them deaf, or perhaps rather idiotic; it was a means, she thought, of making them feel that they were accountable creatures, and might be a salutary check on naughty tendencies. Bessy’s children were so spoiled—they’d need have somebody to make them feel their duty. “Well, my dears,” said aunt Pullet, in a compassionate voice, “you grow wonderful fast. I doubt they’ll outgrow their strength,” she added, looking over their heads, with a melancholy expression, at their mother. “I think the gell has too much hair. I’d have it thinned and cut shorter, sister, if I was you; it isn’t good for her health. It’s that as makes her skin so brown, I shouldn’t wonder. Don’t you think so, sister Deane?” “I can’t say, I’m sure, sister,” said Mrs Deane, shutting her lips close again, and looking at Maggie with a critical eye. “No, no,” said Mr Tulliver, “the child’s healthy enough; there’s nothing ails her. There’s red wheat as well as white, for that matter, and some like the dark grain best. But it ’ud be as well if Bessy ’ud have the child’s hair cut, so as it ’ud lie smooth.”