At supper time Philip seemed so sober and preoccupied that his mother said:

"What ails you, Philip?"

"Nothing. What makes you ask?"

"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."

"Nor I; and, if I did, I prefer the headache."

"I am not sure whether I don't agree with you," said his father, smiling again.

When supper was over, Philip lounged about restlessly. Nothing could be done as yet—nothing, indeed, till his father had retired and was fairly asleep—and, in the meantime, he had to wait in suspense.

He strolled out to the stable without any definite object to take him there. He was in an unquiet, irritable frame of mind, which was likely to exhibit itself on the smallest provocation.

A boy of seventeen, Tom Calder by name, was employed by Colonel Ross to look after his two horses and attend to any errands or light duties that might be required about the house.

Philip, as he entered the stable, saw Tom sitting on a kitchen chair, which had been transferred to the stable, engaged in reading a weekly paper.

"What are you doing there, Tom?" he demanded, in an imperious tone.

If Philip had asked in a civil tone, Tom would have answered him with civility, but the boy's tone was offensive, and Tom was too spirited to bear it.

"What's that to you, Phil?" he retorted.

"You'll find out what it is!" answered Philip, angrily.

"That's just what I'm wanting to do."

"And don't you presume to call me Phil, either."

"Why—isn't it your name?"

"Yes; but it isn't for you to call me by it."

"What am I to call you, now?"

"You can call me Master Philip, or Mr. Philip."

"Ho! ho! It's a joke you're playing on me!"

"No, it isn't. It is your duty to treat me with respect. But you haven't answered my question."

"What is it?"

"What are you doing there?"

"Reading a paper. Can't you see for yourself?"

"That isn't what my father pays you for. Go right to work."

"Shure, you want me to work day and night! That's what Tom Calder won't do for no man last of all for a boy like you!"

"If you ain't careful, my father will send you away."

"If he does, I'll get another place soon," said Tom, indifferently.

"You're an impudent loafer!"

"The same to yourself," said Tom, indifferently.

After a little further altercation, Philip walked off in dudgeon. It was clear that he couldn't bully Tom.