To Garum Firs

WHILE the possible troubles of Maggies future were occupying her fathers mind, she herself was tasting only the bitterness of the present. Childhood has no forebodings; but then, it is soothed by no memories of outlived sorrow. The fact was, the day had begun ill with Maggie. The pleasure of having Lucy to look at, and the prospect of the afternoon visit to Garum Firs where she would hear uncle Pullets musical-box had been marred as early as eleven oclock by the advent of the hair-dresser from St Oggs who had spoken in the severest terms of the condition in which he had found her hair, holding up one jagged lock after another and saying, `See here! tut - tut - tut! in a tone of mingled disgust and pity, which to Maggies imagination was equivalent to the strongest expression of public opinion. Mr Rappit, the hairdresser, with his well-anointed coronal locks tending wavily upward, like the simulated pyramid of flame on a monumental urn, seemed to her at that moment the most formidable of her contemporaries, into whose street at St Oggs she would carefully refrain from entering through the rest of her life.

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