“Dear Mr. Campbell,” she said at length, “you are ill; you have been wandering and insensible. Oh, it is hard to think you are suffering for your goodness, suffering for us! We could not trust you to our doctor here after we knew; we thought it best to have the best advice, and we thought you would prefer to have your mother. I would have nursed you myself and tended you night and day,” said Lady Frankland, with enthusiasm; “I owe you that and a great deal more; you who have saved my dear boy.” “What is the matter with me?” said Colin. It appeared to him as if a great cloud was rolling up over the sky, throwing upon him a strange and ominous shadow. He scarcely heard what she said. He did not pay any attention to her. What was Henry Frankland’s mother to him, or her thanks, or the things she was willing to do to show her gratitude? He wanted to know why he was lying there powerless, unable to move himself. That was the first thing to be thought of. As for Lady Frankland, she wrung her hands again, and hesitated more and more. “I hope God will reward you,” said the agitated woman; “I would give everything I have in the world to see you well and strong as you were when you came here. Oh, Mr. Campbell, if you only could know the feeling that is in all our hearts!” It was her kindness, her reluctance to give him pain, her unfeigned distress, that made her prolong Colin’s suspense, and drive him frantic with these exasperating professions of regard, for which, true as they doubtless were, he did not care. “I suppose I’ve broken some of my bones,” said Colin; “it would be real kindness if you would tell me what is the matter. Will it take a long time to mend me? I should be glad to know, at least, what it is.” Impelled by his looks and his tone, Lady Frankland burst into her statement at last. “You have broken some of your ribs,” she said, “but I don’t think that is of so much importance; Sir Apsley, when he comes, will tell us. He is coming to-day and you are looking so much better. It was old Mr. Eyre who gave us such a fright yesterday. He said your lungs had been injured somehow, and that you might never--that it might be a long time--that it might keep you delicate; but even if that were the case, with care and a warm climate--oh, Mr. Campbell! I think he is mistaken; he is always such a croaker. I think--I hope--I am almost sure Sir Apsley will set you all right.”