Book 2 - Chapter 6 - Page 2

lame overpowered the assurance that such a
misfortune was not likely to befall him, 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-by, Tulliver," said Philip, putting out his small, delicate
hand, which Tom clasped immediately with his more substantial 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 school-hours with Tom and
Maggie. Tom liked to hear fighting stories as much as ever, but he
insisted strongly on the fact that those great fighters who did so
many wonderful things and came off unhurt, wore excellent armor from
head to foot, which made fighting easy work, he considered. He should
not have hurt his foot if he had had an iron shoe on. He listened with
great interest to a new story of Philip's about a man who had a very
bad wound in his foot, and cried out so dreadfully with the pain that
his friends could bear with him no longer, but put him ashore on a
desert island, with nothing but some wonderful poisoned arrows to kill
animals with for food.

"I didn't roar out a bit, you know," Tom said, "and I dare say my foot
was as bad as his. It's cowardly to roar."

But Maggie would have it that when anything hurt you very much, it was
quite permissible to cry out, and it was cruel of people not to bear
it. She wanted to know if Philoctetes had a sister, and why _she_
didn't go with him on the desert island and take care of him.

One day, soon after Philip had told this story, he and Maggie were in
the study alone together while Tom's foot was being dressed. Philip
was at his books, and Maggie, after sauntering idly round the room,
not caring to do anything in particular, because she would soon go to
Tom again, went and leaned on the table near Philip to see what he was
doing, for they were quite old friends now, and perfectly 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 Philoctetes, 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 be interrupted. Maggie, in her absent way,
continued to lean forward, resting on her arms and moving her feet
about, while her dark eyes got more and more fixed 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