“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 you should have loved him as well as Tom?” Maggie started a little on being roused from her reverie, and said, “What?” Philip repeated his question. “Oh, yes, better,” she answered immediately. “No, not better; because I don’t think I _could_ love you better than Tom. But I should be so sorry,—_so sorry_ for you.” Philip coloured; he had meant to imply, would she love him as well in spite of his deformity, and yet when she alluded to it so plainly, he winced under her pity. Maggie, young as she was, felt her mistake. Hitherto she had instinctively behaved as if she were quite unconscious of Philip’s deformity; her own keen sensitiveness and experience under family criticism sufficed to teach her this as well as if she had been directed by the most finished breeding. “But you are so very clever, Philip, and you can play and sing,” she added quickly. “I wish you _were_ my brother. I’m very fond of you. And you would stay at home with me when Tom went out, and you would teach me everything; wouldn’t you,—Greek and everything?” “But you’ll go away soon, and go to school, Maggie,” said Philip, “and then you’ll forget all about me, and not care for me any more. And then I shall see you when you’re grown up, and you’ll hardly take any notice of me.” “Oh, no, I sha’n’t forget you, I’m sure,” said Maggie, shaking her head very seriously. “I never forget anything, and I think about everybody when I’m away from them. I think about poor Yap; he’s got a lump in his throat, and Luke says he’ll die. Only don’t you tell Tom, because it will vex him so. You never saw Yap; he’s a queer little dog,—nobody cares about him but Tom and me.” “Do you care as much about me as you do about Yap, Maggie?” said Philip, smiling rather sadly. “Oh, yes, I should think so,” said Maggie, laughing. “I’m very fond of _you_, Maggie; I shall never forget _you_,” said Philip, “and when I’m very unhappy, I shall always think of you, and wish I had a sister with dark eyes, just like yours.” “Why do you like my eyes?” said Maggie, well pleased. She had never heard any one but her father speak of her eyes as if they had merit. “I don’t know,” said Philip. “They’re not like any other eyes. They seem trying to speak,—trying to speak kindly. I don’t like other people to look at me much, but I like you to look at me, Maggie.”