“What is the matter with my little son?” said Mr. Clifford, one morning at breakfast; for Horace sat up very stiffly in his chair, and refused both eggs and muffins, choosing instead a slice of dry toast and a glass of water.

“Are you sick, Horace?” asked his mother, tenderly.

“No, ma’am,” replied the boy, blushing; “but I want to get to be a soldier!”

Mr. Clifford and his wife looked at each other across the table, and smiled.

“O, papa,” said Grace, “I shouldn’t want to be a soldier if I couldn’t have anything nice to eat.  Can’t they get pies and canned peaches and things?  Will they go without buckwheat cakes and sirup in the winter?”

“Ah! my little daughter, men who love their country are willing to make greater sacrifices than merely nice food.”

Horace put on one of his lofty looks, for he somehow felt that his father was praising him.

“Pa,” said Grace, “please tell me what’s a sacrifice, anyhow?”

“A sacrifice, my daughter, is the giving up of a dear or pleasant thing for the sake of duty:  that is very nearly what it means.  For instance, if your mamma consents to let me go to the war, because she thinks I ought to go, she will make what is called a sacrifice.”

“Do not let us speak of it now, Henry,” said Mrs. Clifford, looking quite pale.

“O, my dear papa,” cried Grace, bursting into tears, “we couldn’t live if you went to the war!”

Horace looked at the acorn on the lid of the coffee-urn, but said nothing.  It cost his little heart a pang even to think of parting from his beloved father; but then wouldn’t it be a glorious thing to hear him called General Clifford?  And if he should really go away, wasn’t it likely that the oldest boy, Horace, would take his place at the head of the table?

Yes, they should miss papa terribly; but he would only stay away till he “got a general;” and for that little while it would be pleasant for Horace to sit in the arm-chair and help the others to the butter, the toast, and the meat.

“Horace,” said Mr. Clifford, smiling, “it will be some years before you can be a soldier:  why do you begin now to eat dry bread?”

“I want to get used to it, sir.”

“That indeed!” said Mr. Clifford, with a good-natured laugh, which made Horace wince a little.  “But the eating of dry bread is only a small part of the soldier’s tough times, my boy.  Soldiers have to sleep on the hard ground, with knapsacks for pillows; they have to march, through wet and dry, with heavy muskets, which make their arms ache.”

“Look here, Barby,” said Horace, that evening; “I want a knapsack, to learn to be a soldier with.  If I have ‘tough times’ now, I’ll get used to it.  Can’t you find my carpet-bag, Barby?”

“Carpet-bag?  And what for a thing is that?” said Barbara, rousing from a nap, and beginning to click her knitting-needles.  “Here I was asleep again.  Now, if I did keep working in the kitchen, I could sit up just what time I wants to; but when I sits down, I goes to sleep right off.”

And Barbara went on knitting, putting the yarn over the needle with her left hand, after the German fashion.

“But the carpet-bag, Barby:  there’s a black one ‘some place,’ in the trunk-closet or up-attic.  Now, Barby, you know I helped pick those quails yesterday.”

“Yes, yes, dear, when I gets my eyes open.”

“I would sleep out doors, but ma says I’d get cold; so I’ll lie on the floor in the bathing-room.  O, Barby, I’ll sleep like a trooper!”

But Horace was a little mistaken.  A hard, unyielding floor makes a poor bed; and when, at the same time, one’s neck is almost put out of joint by a carpet-bag stuffed with newspaper, it is not easy to go to sleep.

In a short time the little boy began to feel tired of “camping out;” and I am sorry to say that he employed some of the moon-light hours in studying the workmanship of his mother’s watch, which had been left, by accident, hanging on a nail in the bathing-room.

He felt very guilty all the while; and when, at last, a chirr-chirr from the watch told that mischief had been done, his heart gave a quick throb of fright, and he stole off to his chamber, undressed, and went to bed in the dark.

Next morning he did not awake as early as usual, and, to his great dismay, came very near being late to breakfast.

“Good morning, little buzzard-lark,” said his sister, coming into his room just as he was thrusting his arms into his jacket.

“Ho, Gracie! why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I spoke to you seven times, Horace.”

“Well, why didn’t you pinch me, or shake me awake, or something?”

“Why, Horace, then you’d have been cross, and said, ’Gracie Clifford, let me alone!’ You know you would, Horace.”

The little boy stood by the looking-glass finishing his toilet, and made no reply.

“Don’t you mean to behave?” said he, talking to his hair.  “There, now, you’ve parted in the middle!  Do you ’spose I’m going to look like a girl?  Part the way you ought to, and lie down smooth!  We’ll see which will beat!”

“Why, what in the world is this?” exclaimed Grace, as something heavy dropped at her feet.

It was her mother’s watch, which had fallen out of Horace’s pocket.

“Where did you get this watch?”

No answer.

“Why, Horace, it doesn’t tick:  have you been playing with it?”

Still no answer.

“Now, that’s just like you, Horace, to shut your mouth right up tight, and not speak a word when you’re spoken to.  I never saw such a boy!  I’m going down stairs, this very minute, to tell my mother you’ve been hurting her beautiful gold watch!”

“Stop!” cried the boy, suddenly finding his voice; “I reckon I can fix it!  I was meaning to tell ma!  I only wanted to see that little thing inside that ticks.  I’ll bet I’ll fix it.  I didn’t go to hurt it, Grace!”

“O, yes, you feel like you could mend watches, and fire guns, and be soldiers and generals,” said Grace, shaking her ringlets; “but I’m going right down to tell ma!”

Horace’s lips curled with scorn.

“That’s right, Gracie; run and tell!”

“But, Horace, I ought to tell,” said Grace, meekly; “it’s my duty!  Isn’t there a little voice at your heart, and don’t it say, you’ve done wicked?”

“There’s a voice there,” replied the boy, pertly; “but it don’t say what you think it does.  It says, ’If your pa finds out about the watch, won’t you catch it?’”

To do Horace justice, he did mean to tell his mother.  He had been taught to speak the truth, and the whole truth, cost what it might.  He knew that his parents could forgive almost anything sooner than a falsehood, or a cowardly concealment.  Words cannot tell how Mr. Clifford hated deceit.

“When a lie tempts you, Horace,” said he, “scorn it, if it looks ever so white!  Put your foot on it, and crush it like a snake!”

Horace ate dry toast again this morning, but no one seemed to notice it.  If he had dared look up, he would have seen that his father and mother wore sorrowful faces.

After breakfast, Mr. Clifford called him into the library.  In the first place, he took to pieces the mangled watch, and showed him how it had been injured.

“Have you any right to meddle with things which belong to other people, my son?”

Horace’s chin snuggled down into the hollow place in his neck, and he made no reply.

“Answer me, Horace.”

“No, sir.”

“It will cost several dollars to pay for repairing this watch:  don’t you think the little boy who did the mischief should give part of the money?”

Horace looked distressed; his face began to twist itself out of shape.

“This very boy has a good many pieces of silver which were given him to buy fire-crackers.  So you see, if he is truly sorry for his fault, he knows the way to atone for it.”

Horace’s conscience told him, by a twinge, that it would be no more than just for him to pay what he could for mending the watch.

“Have you nothing to say to me, my child?”

For, instead of speaking, the boy was working his features into as many shapes as if they had been made of gutta percha.  This was a bad habit of his, though, when he was doing it, he had no idea of “making up faces.”

His father told him he would let him have the whole day to decide whether he ought to give up any of his money.  A tear trembled in each of Horace’s eyes, but, before they could fall, he caught them on his thumb and forefinger.

“Now,” continued Mr. Clifford, “I have something to tell you.  I decided last night to enter the army.”

“O, pa,” cried Horace, springing up, eagerly; “mayn’t I go, too?”

“You, my little son?”

“Yes, pa,” replied Horace, clinging to his father’s knee.  “Boys go to wait on the generals and things!  I can wait on you.  I can comb your hair, and bring your slippers.  If I could be a waiter, I’d go a flyin’.”

“Poor child,” laughed Mr. Clifford, stroking Horace’s head, “you’re such a very little boy, only eight years old!”

“I’m going on nine.  I’ll be nine next New Year’s Gift-day,” stammered Horace, the bright flush dying out of his cheeks.  “O, pa, I don’t want you to go, if I can’t go too!”

Mr. Clifford’s lips trembled.  He took the little boy on his knee, and told him how the country was in danger, and needed all its brave men.

“I should feel a great deal easier about leaving my dear little family,” said he, “if Horace never disobeyed his mother; if he did not so often fall into mischief; if he was always sure to remember.”

The boy’s neck was twisted around till his father could only see the back of his head.

“Look here, pa,” said he, at last, throwing out the words one at a time, as if every one weighed a whole pound; “I’ll give ma that money; I’ll do it to-day.”

“That’s right, my boy! that’s honest!  You have given me pleasure.  Remember, when you injure the property of another, you should always make amends for it as well as you can.  If you do not, you’re unjust and dishonest.”

I will not repeat all that Mr. Clifford said to his little son.  Horace thought then he should never forget his father’s good advice, nor his own promises.  We shall see whether he did or not.

He was a restless, often a very naughty boy; but when you looked at his broad forehead and truthful eyes, you felt that, back of all his faults, there was nobleness in his boyish soul.  His father often said, “He will either make something or nothing;” and his mother answered, “Yes, there never will be any half-way place for Horace.”

Now that Mr. Clifford had really enlisted, everybody looked sad.  Grace was often in tears, and said, ­

“We can’t any of us live, if pa goes to the war.”

But when Horace could not help crying, he always said it was because he “had the earache,” and perhaps he thought it was.

Mrs. Clifford tried to be cheerful, for she was a patriotic woman; but she could not trust her voice to talk a great deal, or sing much to the baby.

As for Barbara Kinckle, she scrubbed the floors, and scoured the tins, harder than ever, looking all the while as if every one of her friends was dead and buried.  The family were to break up housekeeping, and Barbara was very sorry.  Now she would have to go to her home, a little way back in the country, and work in the fields, as many German girls do every summer.

“O, my heart is sore,” said she, “every time I thinks of it.  They will in the cars go off, and whenever again I’ll see the kliny (little) childers I knows not.”

It was a sad day when Mr. Clifford bade good by to his family.  His last words to Horace were these:  “Always obey your mother, my boy, and remember that God sees all you do.”

He was now “Captain Clifford,” and went away at the head of his company, looking like, what he really was, a brave and noble gentleman.

Grace wondered if he ever thought of the bright new buttons on his coat; and Horace walked about among his school-fellows with quite an air, very proud of being the son of a man who either was now, or was going to be, the greatest officer in Indiana!

If any body else had shown as much self-esteem as Horace did, the boys would have said he had “the big head.”  When Yankee children think a playmate conceited, they call him “stuck up;” but Hoosier children say he has “the big head.”  No one spoke in this way of Horace, however, for there was something about him which made everybody like him, in spite of his faults.

He loved his play-fellows, and they loved him, and were sorry enough to have him go away; though, perhaps, they did not shed so many tears as Grace’s little mates, who said, “they never’d have any more good times:  they didn’t mean to try.”

Mrs. Clifford, too, left many warm friends, and it is safe to say, that on the morning the family started for the east, there were a great many people “crying their hearts out of their eyes.”  Still, I believe no one sorrowed more sincerely than faithful Barbara Kinckle.