One day she and Arthur were sitting in the drawing room. The weather was very hot, and little Tom had been carried down, and was lying on the sofa. He looked very frail and delicate, and his thin little fingers were playing with each other listlessly. A book which he had been reading lay half closed beside him, and he seemed very weary.
"I was thinking, Tom," said Ada, "whether you would like to learn to do wool-work?"
"I don't know," answered Tom, turning his head a little.
"You got tired of the knitting mamma taught you."
"Yes; I really am sick of that."
"Well, then, I'll go up and fetch a piece of canvas, and some of my wools."
Tom lay quiet while she was gone, only sighing deeply once or twice.
"Does anything hurt you?" asked Arthur.
"No-o!" he answered. "But I'm so tired of lying here;" then quickly adding, "I don't want to grumble, Arthur; but of course the days do seem long."
"I am sure they must," said the strong boy, stretching his legs, and thinking for a moment what it would be to him not to be able to get up and do as he wished. He looked pityingly at Tom, but said nothing.