`Oh... pretty well, Mrs Moss... pretty well,' answered the brother, with cool deliberateness, as if it were rather too forward of her to ask that question. She knew at once that her brother was not in a good humour: he never called her Mrs Moss expect when he was angry and when they were in company. But she thought it was in the order of nature that people who were poorly off should be snubbed. Mrs Moss did not take her stand on the equality of the human race: she was a patient, loosely-hung, child- producing woman.

`Your husband isn't in the house, I suppose?' added Mr Tulliver, after a grave pause, during which four children had run out, like chickens whose mother has been suddenly in eclipse behind the hen-coop.

`No,' said Mrs Moss, `but he's only in the potato-field yonders. Georgy, run to the Far Close in a minute and tell father your uncle's come. You'll get down, brother, won't you, and take something?'

`No, no; I can't get down - I must be going home again directly,' said Mr Tulliver, looking at the distance.

`And how's Mrs Tulliver and the children?' said Mrs Moss humbly, not daring to press her invitation.

`Oh... pretty well. Tom's going to a new school at Midsummer - a deal of expense to me. It's bad work for me lying out o' my money.'

`I wish you'd be so good as let the children come and see their cousins some day. My little uns want to see their cousin Maggie, so as never was. And me her god-mother and so fond of her - there's nobody 'ud make a bigger fuss with her according to what they've got. And I know she likes to come - for she's a loving child, and how quick and clever she is, to be sure!'

If Mrs Moss had been one of the most astute women in the world instead of being one of the simplest, she could have thought of nothing more likely to propitiate her brother than this praise of Maggie. He seldom found any one volunteering praise of `the little wench:' it was usually left entirely to himself to insist on her merits. But Maggie always appeared in the most amiable light at her aunt Moss's: it was her Alsatia, where she was out of the reach of law - if she upset anything, dirtied her shoes, or tore her frock, these things were matters of course at her aunt Moss's. In spite of himself, Mr Tulliver's eyes got milder, and he did not look away from his sister as he said,

`Ay: she's fonder o' you than o' the other aunts, I think. She takes after our family: not a bit of her mother's in her.'

`Moss says, she's just like what I used to be,' said Mrs Moss, `though I was never so quick and fond o' the books. But I think my Lizzy's like her - she's sharp. Come here, Lizzy my dear, and let your uncle see you: he hardly knows you, you grow so fast.'

Lizzy, a black-eyed child of seven, looked very shy when her mother drew her forward, for the small Mosses were much in awe of their uncle from Dorlcote Mill. She was inferior enough to Maggie in fire and strength of expression to make the resemblance between the two entirely flattering to Mr Tulliver's fatherly love.

`Ay, they're a bit alike,' he said, looking kindly at the little figure in the soiled pinafore. `They both take after our mother. You've got enough o' gells, Gritty,' he added in a tone half compassionate, half reproachful.

`Four of 'em, bless 'em,' said Mrs Moss, with a sigh, stroking Lizzy's hair on each side of her forehead, `as many as there's boys. They've got a brother apiece.'

`Ah, but they must turn out and fend for themselves,' said Mr Tulliver, feeling that his severity was relaxing and trying to brace it by throwing out a wholesome hint. `They mustn't look to hanging on their brothers.'


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