Lucy thought it was by reason of some exceptional talent in uncle Pullet that the snuff-box played such beautiful tunes, and indeed the thing was viewed in that light by the majority of his neighbours in Garum. Mr Pullet had _bought_ the box, to begin with, and he understood winding it up, and knew which tune it was going to play beforehand; altogether the possession of this unique “piece of music” was a proof that Mr Pullet’s character was not of that entire nullity which might otherwise have been attributed to it. But uncle Pullet, when entreated to exhibit his accomplishment, never depreciated it by a too ready consent. “We’ll see about it,” was the answer he always gave, carefully abstaining from any sign of compliance till a suitable number of minutes had passed. Uncle Pullet had a programme for all great social occasions, and in this way fenced himself in from much painful confusion and perplexing freedom of will. Perhaps the suspense did heighten Maggie’s enjoyment when the fairy tune began; for the first time she quite forgot that she had a load on her mind, that Tom was angry with her; and by the time “Hush, ye pretty warbling choir,” had been played, her face wore that bright look of happiness, while she sat immovable with her hands clasped, which sometimes comforted her mother with the sense that Maggie could look pretty now and then, in spite of her brown skin. But when the magic music ceased, she jumped up, and running toward Tom, put her arm round his neck and said, “Oh, Tom, isn’t it pretty?” Lest you should think it showed a revolting insensibility in Tom that he felt any new anger toward Maggie for this uncalled-for and, to him, inexplicable caress, I must tell you that he had his glass of cowslip wine in his hand, and that she jerked him so as to make him spill half of it. He must have been an extreme milksop not to say angrily, “Look there, now!” especially when his resentment was sanctioned, as it was, by general disapprobation of Maggie’s behaviour. “Why don’t you sit still, Maggie?” her mother said peevishly. “Little gells mustn’t come to see me if they behave in that way,” said aunt Pullet. “Why, you’re too rough, little miss,” said uncle Pullet. Poor Maggie sat down again, with the music all chased out of her soul, and the seven small demons all in again. Mrs Tulliver, foreseeing nothing but misbehaviour while the children remained indoors, took an early opportunity of suggesting that, now they were rested after their walk, they might go and play out of doors; and aunt Pullet gave permission, only enjoining them not to go off the paved walks in the garden, and if they wanted to see the poultry fed, to view them from a distance on the horse-block; a restriction which had been imposed ever since Tom had been found guilty of running after the peacock, with an illusory idea that fright would make one of its feathers drop off.