“I think,” went on the caller, raspingly, “that a frail boy is a care.  One depends so on one’s sons to be a strength to one in old age; to help in their father’s business, and things like that—­unless, of course, one has money.”

The harsh voice ceased, and Archie felt in his soul that the speaker was glancing meaningly about the bare little parlor of his father’s house.  He could have hugged his mother as he heard her say:  “Oh, well, Trig and Dudley will help their father; and none of us grudge Archie his inability to help, or his music lessons either.”

“I should think his violin and his books and lessons would be a great expense to you,” proceeded the caller.

“Nothing is an expense that fills his life and helps him to forget he is shut away from the other boys and their jolly sports, just because he is not strong enough to participate in them,” replied his mother, with a slight chill in her voice at her visitor’s impertinence.

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 stood before her, a head taller than herself, his thin form frail as a flower, his long, slim fingers twitching, his wonderful, wistful eyes and sensitive mouth revealing all the artist nature of a man of thirty, instead of a boy of fourteen.  He was on the point of flaring out with indignation against the visitor, but his lack of physical strength seemed to crowd upon him just at that moment.  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.”

“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.  “It’s easier than goin’ ’round by the door.”

“Hock” prided himself on being a “sport,” and he certainly looked one:  thick-knit legs, sturdy ankles, a short, chunky neck, hands with a grip like a vise, a big, good-natured dimpling mouth, eyes that were narrow and twinkling, muscles as hard as nails, and thirteen years old, but imagining himself eighteen.  He had been christened “Albert Edward,” but fortune smiled upon him, making him the champion junior hockey player of the county, so the royal name was discarded with glee, and henceforth he was known far and wide as “Hock” McHenry.