The Mill on the Floss Read Online Free

cheeks began to flush with triumphant excitement. She
thought Mr. Riley would have a respect for her now; it had been
evident that he thought nothing of her before.
    Mr. Riley was turning over the leaves of the book, and she could
make nothing of his face, with its high-arched eyebrows; but he
presently looked at her, and said,–
    "Come, come and tell me something about this book; here are some
pictures,–I want to know what they mean."
    Maggie, with deepening color, went without hesitation to Mr.
Riley's elbow and looked over the book, eagerly seizing one corner,
and tossing back her mane, while she said,–
    "Oh, I'll tell you what that means. It's a dreadful picture,
isn't it? But I can't help looking at it. That old woman in the
water's a witch,–they've put her in to find out whether she's a
witch or no; and if she swims she's a witch, and if she's
drowned–and killed, you know–she's innocent, and not a witch, but
only a poor silly old woman. But what good would it do her then,
you know, when she was drowned? Only, I suppose, she'd go to
heaven, and God would make it up to her. And this dreadful
blacksmith with his arms akimbo, laughing,–oh, isn't he ugly?–I'll
tell you what he is. He's the Devil
really
" (here Maggie's
voice became louder and more emphatic), "and not a right
blacksmith; for the Devil takes the shape of wicked men, and walks
about and sets people doing wicked things, and he's oftener in the
shape of a bad man than any other, because, you know, if people saw
he was the Devil, and he roared at 'em, they'd run away, and he
couldn't make 'em do what he pleased."
    Mr. Tulliver had listened to this exposition of Maggie's with
petrifying wonder.
    "Why, what book is it the wench has got hold on?" he burst out
at last.
    "The 'History of the Devil,' by Daniel Defoe,–not quite the
right book for a little girl," said Mr. Riley. "How came it among
your books, Mr. Tulliver?"
    Maggie looked hurt and discouraged, while her father said,–
    "Why, it's one o' the books I bought at Partridge's sale. They
was all bound alike,–it's a good binding, you see,–and I thought
they'd be all good books. There's Jeremy Taylor's 'Holy Living and
Dying' among 'em. I read in it often of a Sunday" (Mr. Tulliver
felt somehow a familiarity with that great writer, because his name
was Jeremy); "and there's a lot more of 'em,–sermons mostly, I
think,–but they've all got the same covers, and I thought they were
all o' one sample, as you may say. But it seems one mustn't judge
by th' outside. This is a puzzlin' world."
    "Well," said Mr. Riley, in an admonitory, patronizing tone as he
patted Maggie on the head, "I advise you to put by the 'History of
the Devil,' and read some prettier book. Have you no prettier
books?"
    "Oh, yes," said Maggie, reviving a little in the desire to
vindicate the variety of her reading. "I know the reading in this
book isn't pretty; but I like the pictures, and I make stories to
the pictures out of my own head, you know. But I've got 'Æsop's
Fables,' and a book about Kangaroos and things, and the 'Pilgrim's
Progress.'"
    "Ah, a beautiful book," said Mr. Riley; "you can't read a
better."
    "Well, but there's a great deal about the Devil in that," said
Maggie, triumphantly, "and I'll show you the picture of him in his
true shape, as he fought with Christian."
    Maggie ran in an instant to the corner of the room, jumped on a
chair, and reached down from the small bookcase a shabby old copy
of Bunyan, which opened at once, without the least trouble of
search, at the picture she wanted.
    "Here he is," she said, running back to Mr. Riley, "and Tom
colored him for me with his paints when he was at home last
holidays,–the body all black, you know, and the eyes red, like
fire, because he's all fire inside, and it shines out at his
eyes."
    "Go, go!" said Mr. Tulliver, peremptorily, beginning to feel
rather uncomfortable at these free remarks on the personal
appearance of a being powerful enough to create