“And you’ve found out now, Tom, the truth of the old proverb, ‘more haste, worse speed,’ eh, my dear?”
“Yes, mother,” I said with a laugh, “I never got there at all. But, dad came all right, for I saw him, you know. Where is he?”
“He’ll be here presently,” she replied; “he has been very anxious about you, and has sat up every night with you.”
“I’m very sorry,” I said; but then, feeling about my face and head with the solitary hand I was now only able to move, I noticed something strange. “Why, hullo, mother!” I cried out, “what is the matter with the top of my head—where is my hair gone? All seems so smooth!”
She couldn’t help laughing—I suppose it was at my comical look of mingled astonishment and perplexity.
“It had to be shaved off when you were delirious, Tom,” she said with a smile; “you feel funny without it, no doubt, but it will soon grow again, my boy.”
“Oh dear, oh dear!” I exclaimed lugubriously; “I suppose I will be bald and have to wear a wig, like old Mr Bunting! My arm, too, mother, hurts awfully! and I can’t move it at all.”
“Never mind, Tom, it might have been worse, you know,” she said in her quiet soothing way. “You ought to thank God for sparing your life, instead of grumbling at what your own recklessness has produced. However, my dear boy, you’ll soon pull round and be yourself again if you will only keep quiet and obey all the doctor’s directions.”
“But, mother, it’s a terrible task for me to keep quiet,” I cried in such a serious manner that I made her laugh again.
“No doubt it is,” she said, “but you must learn to do it if you wish to get well again; and, Tom, I can’t help reminding you that your being laid up now has greatly interfered with our plans. Your father wished to have sold the estate, and for us all to go home to England. Indeed, but for your accident we would have gone by the last packet.”