Poor Tom bore his severe pain heroically, and was resolute¹ in not “telling” of Mr. Poulter more than was unavoidable; the five-shilling piece remained a secret even to Maggie. But there was a terrible dread² weighing on his mind, so terrible that he dared not even ask the question which might bring the fatal “yes”; he dared not ask the surgeon or Mr. Stelling, “Shall I be lame³, Sir?” He mastered himself so as not to cry out at the pain; but when his foot had been dressed, and he was left alone with Maggie seated by his bedside, the children sobbed⁴ together, with their heads laid on the same pillow. Tom was thinking of himself walking about on crutches⁵, like the wheelwright’s son; and Maggie, who did not guess what was in his mind, sobbed for company. It had not occurred to the surgeon or to Mr. Stelling to anticipate this dread in Tom’s mind, and to reassure⁶ him by hopeful words. But Philip watched the surgeon out of the house, and waylaid⁷ 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, “not permanently⁸; only for a little while.”

“Did he tell Tulliver so, sir, do you think?”

“No; nothing was said to him on the subject.”

“Then may I 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 at present.”

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 hitherto unforgiven offences were washed out by that pity. Philip felt that they were no longer in a state of repulsion, but were being

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