“I don’t know,” said Arthur, somewhat surprised at the question. “To take care of me, I suppose. Oh no, it wasn’t, though; it was because she was ill, and she couldn’t live in India, the doctor said.”
“Yes; and now, is she as ill as she was then?”
“Oh no, I should think not!” said Arthur brightly. “She is ever so much better, aren’t you, mother?”
“Yes, dear,” she said gently.
“Well,” said Mr. Vivyan, speaking very slowly, and laying his hand kindly on Arthur’s curls, “did you know, Arthur, that my time for being in England is very nearly over? there are only six weeks more left.”
“Yes, father,” said Arthur, and feeling his father’s hand laid so tenderly on his head, he felt more sorry at the thought that he was going than he had ever done before. “I’m very sorry.”
“But then, don’t you see, my boy,” Mr. Vivyan said, looking anxious and as if he had great difficulty in expressing himself, “your mother need not stay at home this time?”
“No,” said Arthur, after a pause, “I suppose not. And am I going to India too?”
“Why no, my dear child. You know how glad we should be to take you with us; and very likely you do not know, Arthur, what it costs us to leave you at home. But you know you could not go; children of your age would very likely not live.”
Arthur turned quickly round, and gazed with an incredulous, questioning look at his father and mother. He could not see his mother’s face, for it was hidden by her hand; but if he had looked closely he might have seen that her whole form was trembling, though she did not speak a word.