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."