&quot;So you&#39;ll be ten years old to-morrow, Archie?&quot;<br />&quot;Yes, father; ten to-morrow. Quite old, isn&#39;t it? I&#39;ll soon be a man, dad. Won&#39;t it be fun, just?&quot;<br />His father laughed, simply because Archie laughed.<br />&quot;I don&#39;t know about the fun of it,&quot; he said; &quot;for, Archie lad, your growing a man will result in my getting old. Don&#39;t you see?&quot;<br />Archie turned his handsome brown face towards the fire, and gazed at it&mdash;or rather into it&mdash;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:<br />&quot;No, no, no; I don&#39;t see it. Other boys&#39; fathers may grow old; mine won&#39;t, mine couldn&#39;t, never, never.&quot;<br />&quot;Dad,&quot; 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&mdash;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.