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"Dear old 'Hock! Decent old 'Hock!" he said admiringly. "He's the best boy in the world, but he is not you, motherette." "There he is now!" said Mrs. Anderson, as a piercing whistle assailed the window, followed by a round, red face, a skinning sunburnt nose, and an assertive voice, saying, "I'll just come in this way, Arch." And a leg was flung over the window sill.
His mother, coming into the room later to say good-night, saw that close to his bed, on a table where he could reach out and touch it during the night, lay his violin. "Motherette," he smiled happily, "I feel that it is consecrated." "Keep it so, little lad of mine. Keep both your music and your violin consecrated." Never had Archie played so well, for all his shyness and nervousness.
Presently the caller left, and Mrs. Anderson, slipping through the folding doors, saw Archie outstretched on the pillows. She bent over him with great concern; her eyes read every expression of his face, every attitude of his languid body. "Archie, you didn't hear?" she asked, pleadingly. "I'm afraid I did, motherette," he said, springing up with unusual spirit.
He sank upon the lounge again, and with his face against Mrs. Anderson's arm, said: "Thank you, motherette, for fighting for me. Perhaps even with all this miserable ill-health of mine I can fight for you some day." "Of course you will, dear," she replied cheerily. "Don't you mind what they say; you know 'Hock' always stands by you, and he's as good as your mother to fight for you."
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