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.
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