Poor Tom bore his severe pain like a hero, but there was a terrible dread¹ weighing on his mind—so terrible that he dared not ask the question which might bring the fatal "yes"—he dared not ask the surgeon or Mr. Stelling, "Shall I be lame², sir?"  
It had not occurred to either of these gentlemen to set the lad's mind at rest with hopeful words. But Philip watched the surgeon out of the house, and waylaid³ Mr. Stelling to ask the very question that Tom had not dared to ask for himself.
 
"I beg your pardon, sir, but does Mr. Askern say Tulliver will be lame?"
 
"Oh no, oh no," said Mr. Stelling; "only for a little while."
 
"Did he tell Tulliver so, sir, do you think?"
 
"No; nothing was said to him on the subject."
 
"Then I may go and tell him, sir?"
 
"Yes, to be sure. Now you mention it, I dare say he may be troubling about that. Go to his bedroom, but be very quiet."
 
It had been Philip's first thought when he heard of the accident, "Will Tulliver be lame? It will be very hard for him if he is." And Tom's offences against himself were all washed out by that pity.
 
"Mr. Askern says you'll soon be all right again, Tulliver; did you know?" he said, rather timidly, as he stepped gently up to Tom's bed. "I've just been to ask Mr. Stelling, and he says you'll walk as well as ever again, by-and-by."
 
Tom looked up with that stopping of the breath which comes with a sudden joy; then he gave a long sigh, and turned his blue-gray eyes straight on Philip's face, as he had not done for a fortnight or more. As for Maggie, the bare idea of Tom's being always lame overcame her, and she clung to him and cried afresh.
 
"Don't be a little silly, Magsie," said Tom tenderly, feeling very brave now. "I shall soon get well."
 
"Good-bye, Tulliver," said Philip, putting out his small, delicate hand, which Tom clasped with his strong fingers.
 
"I say," said Tom, "ask Mr. Stelling to let you come and sit with me sometimes, till I get up again, Wakem, and tell me about Robert Bruce, you know."
 
After that Philip spent all his time out of lesson hours with Tom and Maggie. Tom liked to hear fighting stories as much as ever; but he said he was sure that those great fighters, who did so many wonderful things and came off unhurt, wore excellent armour⁴ from head to foot, which made fighting easy work.
 
One day, soon after Philip had been to visit Tom, he and Maggie were in the study alone together while Tom's foot was being dressed. Philip was at his books, and Maggie went and leaned on the table near him to see what he was doing; for they were quite old friends now, and perfectly⁵ at home with each other.
 
"What are you reading about in Greek?" she said. "It's poetry; I can see that, because the lines are so short."
 
"It's about the lame man I was telling you of yesterday," he answered, resting his head on his hand, and looking at her as if he were not at all sorry to stop. Maggie continued to lean forward, resting on her arms, while her dark eyes got more and more fixed⁶ and vacant, as if she had quite forgotten Philip and his book.
 
"Maggie," said Philip, after a minute or two, still leaning on his elbow and looking at her, "if you had had a brother like me, do you think you should have loved him as well as Tom?"
 
Maggie started a little and said, "What?" Philip repeated his question.
 
"Oh yes—better," she answered immediately. "No, not better, because I don't think I could love you better than Tom; but I should be so sorry—so sorry for you."
 
Philip coloured. Maggie, young as she was, felt her mistake. Hitherto she had behaved as if she were quite unconscious of Philip's deformity.
 
"But you are so very clever, Philip, and you can play and sing," she added quickly. &q............