Archie Anderson was lying on the lounge that was just hidden from the front room by a bend of the folding doors. He was utterly tired out, with that unreasonable weariness that comes from what most of his boy chums called "doing nothing." He had been standing still, practising for two hours steadily, and his throbbing head and weakening knees finally conquered his energy. He flung himself down among the pillows, his violin and bow on a nearby chair. Then a voice jarred on every nerve of his sensitive body; it was a lady's voice in the next room, and she was saying to his mother:
"And how is poor Archie to-day?"
"Poor Archie!" How he hated to be called "poor" Archie!
His mother's voice softened as she replied: "Oh, he's pretty well to-day; his head aches and he seems to be weak, but he has been practising all the morning."
"He must be a great care and anxiety to you," said the caller.
Archie shuddered at the words.
"Only a sweet care," said his mother. "I am always hoping he will outgrow his delicate health."
Archie groaned. How horribly like a girl it was to be "delicate."
"I think," went on the caller, raspingly, "that a frail boy is a care. One depends so on one's sons to be a strength to one in old age; to help in their father's business, and things like that—unless, of course, one has money."
The harsh voice ceased, and Archie felt in his soul that the speaker was glancing meaningly about the bare little parlor of his father's house. He could have hugged his mother as he heard her say: "Oh, well, Trig and Dudley will help their father; and none of us grudge Archie his inability to help, or his music lessons either."