It was a great effort for Mrs. Clifford to take a journey to Maine with three children; but she needed the bracing air of New England, and so did Grace and the baby.

To be sure they had the company of a gentleman who was going to Boston; but he was a very young man indeed, who thought a great deal more of his new mustache than he did of trunks, and checks, and tickets.

Twenty times a day Mrs. Clifford wished her husband could have gone with her before he enlisted, for she hardly knew what to do with restless little Horace.  As for sitting still, it was more than the boy could do.  He would keep jerking his inquisitive little head out of the window, for he never remembered a caution five minutes.  He delighted to run up and down the narrow aisle, and, putting his hands on the arms of the seats, swing backward and forward with all his might.  He became acquainted with every lozenge-boy and every newspaper-boy on the route, and seemed to be in a high state of merriment from morning till night.

Grace, who was always proper and well-behaved, was not a little mortified by Horace’s rough manners.

“He means no harm,” Mrs. Clifford would say, with a smile and a sigh; “but, Mr. Lazelle, if you will be so kind as to watch him a little, I will be greatly obliged.”

Mr. Lazelle would reply, “O, certainly, madam; be quite easy about the child; he is not out of my sight for a moment!”

So saying, perhaps he would go in search of him, and find him under a seat playing with Pincher, his clothes covered with dust, and his cap lying between somebody’s feet.

At such times Mr. Lazelle always said, ­“Upon my word, you’re a pretty little fellow!” and looked as if he would like to shake him, if it were not for soiling his gloves.

Horace laughed when Mr. Lazelle called him “a pretty little fellow,” and thought it a fine joke.  He laughed, too, when the young man told him to “come out,” for there was something in the pettish tone of his voice which Horace considered very amusing.

“I’ll wait till he gets through scolding, and goes to coaxing,” thought the boy:  “he’s a smart man! can’t make such a little fellow mind!”

Mr. Lazelle was very much vexed with Horace, and firmly resolved that he would never again take charge of a lady travelling with children.  At one time he flew into a passion, and boxed the boy’s ears.  Horace felt very much like a wounded wasp.  He knew Mr. Lazelle would not have dared strike him before his mother, and from that moment he despised him as a “sneak.”

Whenever Mr. Lazelle was looking for him in great haste, he was very likely to be missing; and when that sorely tried young gentleman was almost in despair, a saucy little head would appear at the car-window, and a small voice would shout, ­

“Ho, Mr. Lazelle! why don’t you come ahead?  I beat you in!”

“Horace,” said Mrs. Clifford, wearily, “you don’t know how you tire me!  Here is this dear baby that I have to hold in my arms; isn’t it enough that I should have the care of him, without being all the while anxious about you?”

“Yes,” chimed in Grace, pushing back her beautiful curls, “you don’t know how ma and I fret about you.  You’ll kill poor ma before ever we can get you east!”

Horace hung his head for shame, and decided that it didn’t “pay” to punish Mr. Lazelle, if his mother must suffer too.  He meant, for her sake, to “turn over a new leaf,” though he did not say so.

On the afternoon of their second day’s ride, they reached the beautiful city of Cleveland.  Here they were to rest for a few hours.  Their clothes were sadly tumbled, their collars dust-color, and their faces and hair rough with cinders.  A thorough washing and brushing, and some fresh ruffles and laces, gave a much tidier appearance to the whole party.

After Grace and Horace were ready, Mrs. Clifford thought they might as well go down stairs while she tried to rock little Katie to sleep.

“Be sure not to go away from the house,” said she.  “Grace, I depend upon you to take care of Horace, for he may forget.”

The children had been standing on the piazza for some time, watching the people passing, while Mr. Lazelle lounged near by, talking politics with some gentlemen.  In a little while Mrs. Clifford sent for Grace to go up stairs and amuse the poor baby, who could not be rocked to sleep.

For a few moments after she had gone Horace stood near the door, still gazing into the street, when, suddenly, he heard a faint sound of martial music:  a brass band was turning the corner.  Soon they were in sight, men in handsome uniform, drawing music from various instruments, picking, blowing, or beating it out, as the case might be.

It was glorious, Horace thought.  He could not keep still.  He ran out, and threw up his cap before he knew it almost, shouting with delight, ­

“Ho, Mr. Lazelle! ain’t that jolly?  Ho, Mr. Lazelle! where are you, anyhow?”

Probably, if the boy had stopped to think, he might have remembered that Mr. Lazelle was in the parlor; but no, Horace was sure he must have crossed the street to look at the band.

“I’m going, too,” said he to himself.  “Of course, where Mr. Lazelle goes, I can go, for he has the care of me!”

With that he dashed headlong into the crowd, looking here, there, and everywhere for Mr. Lazelle.

But, O, that music!  Did a little boy’s boots ever stand still when a drum was playing, “March, march away”?  No doubt his father was keeping step to just such sounds, on his path to martial glory!  The fife and bugle whistled with magical voices, and seemed to say, ­

“Follow, follow, follow on!”

And Horace followed; sometimes thinking he was in search of Mr. Lazelle, sometimes forgetting it altogether.  He knew he was doing very wrong, but it seemed as if the music almost drowned the voice of his conscience.

In this way they turned street after street, till, suddenly, the band and the crowd entered a large public building.  Then the music died out, and with it the fire of eagerness in the little boy’s soul.

Where was Mr. Lazelle?  If he could see him now, he would forgive the boxed ears.  How could he ever find his way back to the hotel?  It had not as yet entered his head to ask any one.

He darted off at great speed, but, as it happened, in precisely the wrong direction.  The houses grew smaller and farther apart, and presently he came to a high, sandy cliff overlooking the lake.  Now the shades of night began to fall, and his stout heart almost failed him.  The longing grew so strong to see mother, and Grace, and baby, that the tears would start, in spite of himself.

At last, just as he was wondering which way to turn next, somebody touched his shoulder, and a rough voice said, ­

“Hullo, my little man!  What you doin’ in this ward?  Come; don’t you pull away from me:  I’m a city officer.  Got lost, hey?”

Horace shook with fright.  O dear, was it a crime, then, to get lost?  He remembered all the stories he had ever heard of lock-ups, and state-prisons, and handcuffs.

“O, I didn’t mean any harm, sir,” cried he, trying to steady his voice:  “I reckon I ain’t lost, sir; or, if I am, I ain’t lost much!”

“So, so,” laughed the policeman, good-naturedly; “and what was your name, my little man, before you got lost, and didn’t get lost much?”

“My name is Horace Clifford, sir,” replied the boy, wondering why a cruel policeman should want to laugh.

“Well, well,” said the man, not unkindly, “I’m glad I’ve come across ye, for your mother’s in a terrible taking.  What set ye out to run off?  Come, now; don’t be sulky.  Give us your hand, and I guess, seein’ it’s you, we won’t put you in the lock-up this time.”

Horace was very grateful to the officer for not handcuffing him on the spot; still he felt as if it was a great disgrace to be marched through the city by a policeman.

Mrs. Clifford, Grace, and Mr. Lazelle met them on the way.

“O, my dear, dear son,” cried Mrs. Clifford, as soon as she could speak; “do you know how you’ve frightened us all?”

“I followed the band,” stammered Horace.  “I was looking for Mr. Lazelle.”

“You’re a naughty, mean little boy,” cried Grace, when she had made sure he was not hurt anywhere.  “It would have been good enough for you if you’d drowned in the lake, and the bears had ate you up!”

Still she kissed her naughty brother, and it was to be noticed that her eyelids were very red from crying.

“I’ll never let go your hand again, Horace,” said she, “till we get to grandma’s.  You’re just as slippery!”

Mr. Lazelle looked as if it would be an immense relief to him if Miss Grace would keep her word; he thought he was undergoing a great trial with Horace.

“It’s a shame,” said he to himself, “that a perfect lady, like Mrs. Clifford, should have such a son!  I’d enjoy whipping him ­for her sake!  Why in the world don’t she train him?”

Mr. Lazelle did not know of the faithful talk Mrs. Clifford had with Horace that night, nor how the boy’s heart swelled with grief, and love, and new resolutions.

This adventure caused a day’s delay, for it made the party too late for the boat.  Horace was so sorry for his foolish conduct, that he spent the next day in the most subdued manner, and walked about the chamber on tiptoe, while Grace tried to soothe little Katie.

But, in crossing the lake, he “forgot” again.  His mother allowed him to go up on the hurricane deck with Mr. Lazelle, just for ten minutes; and there he became acquainted with the pilot, who was struck with his intelligence, and freely answered all the questions he asked about the engine, “the whistle,” and the steering.

“O, pshaw!” said Horace; “I’ll make a steamboat myself, and give it to Grace for a present!”

Full of this new plan, he left the pilot without so much as a “thank you,” running down the steps, two at a time, unobserved by Mr. Lazelle, who was playing the flute.  He wanted to see how the “rigging” was made, and stopped to ask leave of nobody.

Down another flight of stairs, out across trunks, and bales, and ropes, he pushed his way to get a good sight of the deck.  He paid no heed to people or things, and nearly ran over an Irish boy, who was drawing up water in buckets for washing.  Somebody shouted, “He’s trying to kill hisself, I do believe!”

Somebody rushed forward to seize the daring child by the collar of his jacket, but too late; he had fallen headlong into the lake!

A scream went up from the deck that pierced the air, ­“Boy overboard!  Help! help! help!”

Mrs. Clifford heard, and knew, by instinct, that it was Horace.  She had just sent Grace to call him, not feeling safe to trust him longer with Mr. Lazelle.  She rushed through the door of the state-room, and followed the crowd to the other side of the boat, crying, ­

“O, can’t somebody save him!”

There was no mistaking the mother’s voice; the crowd made way for her.

“Safe! safe and sound!” was the shout now.  “All right!”

The Irish lad, at Horace’s first plunge, had thrown him his bucket ­it was a life-preserver; that is, it would not sink ­and the drowning boy had been drawn up by means of a rope attached to the bail.

“Ma,” said Grace, when they were all safely in the cars at Buffalo, and Horace as well as ever, though a little pale, “I do believe there never was anybody had such an awful journey! Do you suppose we’ll ever get Horace home to grandma’s?”