“I thought you were looking unusually sober.”
“I suppose it is because I have a headache,” answered the boy.
It was not a falsehood, for the burden upon his mind had actually given him a slight headache.
“You’d better let me mix you some chamomile tea,” said Mrs. Ross, with whom this was a specific against more than one bodily disability.
“No, thank you,” answered Philip, with an involuntary grimace; for, in his younger days, when it was useless to resist, he had more than once had an opportunity of learning how far from agreeable chamomile tea was to the taste. “It doesn’t ache much. It will be better soon.”
“The tea will cure you immediately, my son.”
“I won’t take it,” said Philip, roughly.
“Don’t speak in that way to your mother, Philip,” said his father, reprovingly.
“Do you ever let her give you chamomile tea, father?”
“No,” smiled the Colonel, “I don’t require it.”