`He's got no room for us, my dear, now; his wife's got so many children. I don't know where to go, if it isn't to one o' your aunts - and I hardly durst,' said poor Mrs Tulliver, quite destitute of mental resources in this extremity.

Maggie was silent a little while, and then said,

`Let us go to Bob Jakin's, mother: his wife will have room for us, if they have no other lodger.'

So they went on their way to St Ogg's - to the old house by the river side.

Bob himself was at home, with a heaviness at heart which resisted even the new joy and pride of possessing a two months' old baby - quite the liveliest of its age that had ever been born to prince or packman. He would perhaps not so thoroughly have understood all the dubiousness of Maggie's appearance with Mr Stephen Guest on the quay at Mudport, if he had not witnessed the effect it produced on Tom, when he went to report it; and since then, the circumstances which in any case gave a disastrous character to her elopement, had passed beyond the more polite circles of St Ogg's and had become matter of common talk, accessible to the grooms and errand boys. So that when he opened the door and saw Maggie standing before him in her sorrow and weariness, he had no questions to ask: except one, which he dared only ask himself - where was Mr Stephen Guest? Bob, for his part, hoped he might be in the warmest department of an asylum understood to exist in the other world for gentlemen who are likely to be in fallen circumstances there. The lodgings were vacant, and both Mrs Jakin the larger and Mrs Jakin the less were commanded to make all thing comfortable for `the old Missis and the young Miss' - alas! that she was still `Miss.' The ingenious Bob was sorely perplexed as to how this result could have come about - how Mr Stephen Guest could have gone away from her, or could have let her go away from him when he had the chance of keeping her with him. But he was silent, and would not allow his wife to ask him a question; would not present himself in the room, lest it should appear like intrusion and a wish to pry; having the same chivalry towards dark-eyed Maggie, as in the days when he had bought her the memorable present of books.

But after a day or two Mrs Tulliver was gone to the Mill again for a few hours to see to Tom's household matters. Maggie had wished this: after the first violent outburst of feeling which came as soon as she had no longer any active purpose to fulfil, she was less in need of her mother's presence; she even desired to be alone with her grief. But she had been solitary only a little while in the old sitting-room that looked on the river, when there came a tap at the door, and turning round her sad face as she said, `Come in,' she saw Bob enter with the baby in his arms, and Mumps at his heels.

`We'll go back, if it disturbs you, Miss,' said Bob.

`No,' said Maggie, in a low voice, wishing she could smile.

Bob, closing the door behind him, came and stood before her.

`You see, we've got a little 'un, Miss, an' I wanted you to look at it, an' take it in your arms, if you'd be so good. For we made free to name it after you, an' it 'ud be better for your takin' a bit o' notice on it.'

Maggie could not speak, but she put out her arms to receive the tiny baby, while Mumps snuffed at it anxiously to ascertain that this transference was all right. Maggie's heart had swelled at this action and speech of Bob's: she knew well enough that it was a way he had chosen to show his sympathy and respect.

`Sit down, Bob,' she said presently, and he sat down in silence, finding his tongue unmanageable in quite a new fashion, refusing to say what he wanted it to say.

`Bob,' she said, after a few moments, looking down at the baby, and holding it anxiously, as if she feared it might slip from her mind and her fingers, `I have a favour to ask of you.'