Mrs Pullet screwed up her mouth and shook her head, and then whispered: `Pullet pays for it: he said I was to have the best bonnet at Garum Church, let the next best be whose it would.'

She began slowly to adjust the trimmings in preparation for returning it to its place in the wardrobe, and her thoughts seemed to have taken a melancholy turn, for she shook her head.

`Ah,' she said at last, `I may never wear it twice, sister; who knows?'

`Don't talk o' that, sister,' answered Mrs Tulliver. `I hope you'll have your health this summer.'

`Ah! but there may come a death in the family, as there did soon after I had my green satin bonnet. Cousin Abbott may go, and we can't think o' wearing crape less nor half a year for him.'

`That would be unlucky,' said Mrs Tulliver, entering thoroughly into the possibility of an inopportune decease. `There's never so much pleasure i' wearing a bonnet the second year, especially when the crowns are so chancy - never two summers alike.'

`Ah, it's the way i' this world,' said Mrs Pullet, returning the bonnet to the wardrobe and locking it up. She maintained a silence characterised by head-shaking, until they had all issued from the solemn chamber and were in her own room again. Then, beginning to cry, she said, `Sister, if you should never see that bonnet again till I'm dead and gone, you'll remember I showed it you this day.'

Mrs Tulliver felt that she ought to be affected, but she was a woman of sparse tears, stout and healthy - she couldn't cry so much as her sister Pullet did, and had often felt her deficiency at funerals. Her effort to bring tears into her eyes issued in an odd contraction of her face. Maggie, looking on attentively, felt that there was some painful mystery about her aunt's bonnet which she was considered too young to understand; indignantly conscious, all the while, that she could have understood that, as well as everything else, if she had been taken into confidence.

When they went down, uncle Pullet observed, with some acumen, that he reckoned the missis had been showing her bonnet - that was what had made them so long upstairs. With Tom the interval had seemed still longer, for he had been seated in irksome constraint on the edge of a sofa directly opposite his uncle Pullet, who regarded him with twinkling grey eyes and occasionally addressed him as `Young sir.'

`Well, young sir, what do you learn at school?' was a standing question with uncle Pullet; whereupon Tom always looked sheepish, rubbed his hand across his face and answered, `I don't know.' It was altogether so embarrassing to be seated tête-a-tête with uncle Pullet, that Tom could not even look at the prints on the walls, or the fly-cages, or the wonderful flower-pots: he saw nothing but his uncle's gaiters. Not that Tom was in awe of his uncle's mental superiority: indeed, he had made up his mind that he didn't want to be a gentleman farmer, because he shouldn't like to be such a thin-legged silly fellow as his uncle Pullet - a molly-coddle, in fact. A boy's sheepishness is by no means a sign of overmastering reverence: and while you are making encouraging advances to him under the idea that he is overwhelmed by a sense of your age and wisdom, ten to one he is thinking you extremely queer. The only consolation I can suggest to you is, that the Greek boys probably thought the same of Aristotle. It is only when you have mastered a restive horse, or thrashed a drayman, or have got a gun in your hand, that these shy juniors feel you to be a truly admirable and enviable character. At least, I am quite sure of Tom Tulliver's sentiments on these points. In very tender years, when he still wore a lace border under his out-door cap, he was often observed peeping through the bars of a gate and making minatory gestures with his small forefinger while he scolded the sheep with an inarticulate burr, intended to strike terror into their astonished minds: indicating, thus early, that desire for mastery over the inferior animals wild and domestic, including cockchafers, neighborus' dogs, and small sisters, which in all ages has been an attribute of so much promise for the fortunes of our race. Now Mr Pullet never rode anything taller than a low pony, and was the least predatory of men, considering firearms dangerous as apt to go off themselves by nobody's particular desire. So that Tom was not without strong reasons when, in confidential talk with a chum, he had described uncle Pullet as a nincompoop, taking care at the same time to observe that he was a very `rich fellow.'