Mr Tulliver gave his horse a little stroke on the flank, then checked it, and said angrily, “Stand still with you!” much to the astonishment of that innocent animal. “And the more there is of ’em, the more they must love one another,” Mrs Moss went on, looking at her children with a didactic purpose. But she turned toward her brother again to say, “Not but what I hope your boy ’ull allays be good to his sister, though there’s but two of ’em, like you and me, brother.” The arrow went straight to Mr Tulliver’s heart. He had not a rapid imagination, but the thought of Maggie was very near to him, and he was not long in seeing his relation to his own sister side by side with Tom’s relation to Maggie. Would the little wench ever be poorly off, and Tom rather hard upon her? “Ay, ay, Gritty,” said the miller, with a new softness in his tone; “but I’ve allays done what I could for you,” he added, as if vindicating himself from a reproach. “I’m not denying that, brother, and I’m noways ungrateful,” said poor Mrs Moss, too fagged by toil and children to have strength left for any pride. “But here’s the father. What a while you’ve been, Moss!” “While, do you call it?” said Mr Moss, feeling out of breath and injured. “I’ve been running all the way. Won’t you ’light, Mr Tulliver?” “Well, I’ll just get down and have a bit o’ talk with you in the garden,” said Mr Tulliver, thinking that he should be more likely to show a due spirit of resolve if his sister were not present. He got down, and passed with Mr Moss into the garden, toward an old yew-tree arbour, while his sister stood tapping her baby on the back and looking wistfully after them. Their entrance into the yew-tree arbour surprised several fowls that were recreating themselves by scratching deep holes in the dusty ground, and at once took flight with much pother and cackling. Mr Tulliver sat down on the bench, and tapping the ground curiously here and there with his stick, as if he suspected some hollowness, opened the conversation by observing, with something like a snarl in his tone,— “Why, you’ve got wheat again in that Corner Close, I see; and never a bit o’ dressing on it. You’ll do no good with it this year.” Mr Moss, who, when he married Miss Tulliver, had been regarded as the buck of Basset, now wore a beard nearly a week old, and had the depressed, unexpectant air of a machine-horse. He answered in a patient-grumbling tone, “Why, poor farmers like me must do as they can; they must leave it to them as have got money to play with, to put half as much into the ground as they mean to get out of it.” “I don’t know who should have money to play with, if it isn’t them as can borrow money without paying interest,” said Mr Tulliver, who wished to get into a slight quarrel; it was the most natural and easy introduction to calling in money.