“Hi!” I exclaimed, much astonished.
“Yes, my dear, very ill,” she repeated.
“Dear me! and for how long?” I asked, in wonder still.
“Well, it is more than three weeks since you were brought here, dear; but take this now, Tom,” she added, before telling me anything further, putting her arm round me and lifting me up in a sitting position, so as to be better able to swallow something in a wine-glass which she held to my lips.
“Medicine, eh?” I said, making a wry face.
“Yes, dear, but it doesn’t taste badly,” she whispered coaxingly. “Besides, Tom, if you won’t take it the doctor says you are not to be allowed to speak, and of course I shall not be able to answer your questions.”
This settled the point; so I at once tossed off the draught she handed me, which, although slightly bitter, was not nearly as nasty as I thought it would have been, having a wholesome horror of doctor’s mixtures. The draught, at all events, put fresh vigour into me. It certainly gave me strength to speak again as soon as I had gulped it down, for I was fidgeting to know what had occurred.
“Now, mother,” I said, “tell me all about it. I can’t be quiet till you do. Have I had the fever again, or what?”
I may mention in explanation of this question of mine that, the year before, I had been confined to bed with a sharp attack of a sort of tertian ague, which is the scourge of most tropical countries. This was the only illness I had ever suffered from in my young life; so, I thought now that my old enemy had paid me another visit.
“No, dear, you have not had the fever,” she answered. “Do you forget all about going to town to meet your father, and how your pony threw you over his head at the foot of Constitution Hill?”