"So you'll be ten years old to-morrow, Archie?"
"Yes, father; ten to-morrow. Quite old, isn't it? I'll soon be a man, dad. Won't it be fun, just?"
His father laughed, simply because Archie laughed.
"I don't know about the fun of it," he said; "for, Archie lad, your growing a man will result in my getting old. Don't you see?"
Archie turned his handsome brown face towards the fire, and gazed at it—or rather into it—for a few moments thoughtfully. Then he gave his head a little negative kind of a shake, and, still looking towards the fire as if addressing it, replied:
"No, no, no; I don't see it. Other boys' fathers may grow old; mine won't, mine couldn't, never, never."
"Dad," said a voice from the corner. It was a very weary, rather feeble, voice. The owner of it occupied a kind of invalid couch, on which he half sat and half reclined—a lad of only nine years, with a thin, pale, old-fashioned face, and big, dark, dreamy eyes that seemed to look you through and through as you talked to him.
