When Horace entered the yard, holding the poor dog in his arms, he felt wretched indeed.  At that moment all the sulkiness and self-will were crushed out of his little heart.  It seemed to him that never, never had there lived upon the earth another boy so wicked as himself.

He forgot the excuses he had been making up about going into the woods because his grandmother wanted him to:  he scorned to add falsehood to disobedience, and was more than willing to take his full share of blame.

“If ma would whip me like everything,” thought the boy, “I know I’d feel better.”

It was a long, winding path from the gate.  The grounds looked very beautiful in the golden light of the afternoon sun.  The pink clover-patch nodded with a thousand heads, and sprinkled the air with sweetness.

Everything was very quiet:  no one was on the piazza, no one at the windows.  The blinds were all shut, and you could fancy that the house had closed its many eyes and dropped asleep.  There was an awe about such perfect silence.  “Where could Grace be, and those two dancing girls, Susy and Prudy?”

He stole along to the back door, and lifted the latch.  His grandmother stopped with a bowl of gruel in her hand, and said, “O, Horace!” that was all; but she could say no more for tears.  She set down the bowl, and went up to him, trying to speak; but the words trembled on her lips unspoken.

“O, grandma!” said Horace, setting little Pincher down on a chair, and clutching the skirt of her dress, “I’ve been right bad:  I’m sorry ­I tell you I am.”

His grandmother had never heard him speak in such humble tones before.

“O, Horace!” she sobbed again, this time clasping him close to her heart, and kissing him with a yearning fondness she had hardly ever shown since he was a little toddling baby.  “My darling, darling boy!”

Horace thought by her manner they must all have been sadly frightened about him.

“I got lost in the woods, grandma; but it didn’t hurt me any, only Pincher got his foot caught.”

“Lost in the woods?” repeated she:  “Grace thought you went home to dinner with Willy Snow.”

So it seemed they had not worried about him at all:  then what was grandma crying about?

“Don’t go up stairs, dear,” said she, as he brushed past her and laid his hand on the latch of the chamber door.

“But I want to see ma.”

“Wait a little,” said Mrs. Parlin, with a fresh burst of tears.

“Why, what is the matter, grandma; and where’s Grace, and Susy, and Prudy?”

“Grace is with your mother, and the other children are at aunt Martha’s.  But if you’ve been in the woods all day, Horace, you must be very hungry.”

“You’ve forgot Pincher, grandma.”

The boy would not taste food till the dog’s foot had been bandaged, though, all the while his grandmother was doing up the Wound, it seemed to Horace that she must be thinking of something else, or she would pity Pincher a great deal more.

The cold dinner which she set out on the table was very tempting, and he ate heartily; but after every mouthful he kept asking, “What could be the matter?  Was baby worse?  Had anybody took sick?”

But his grandmother stood by the stove stirring gruel, and would answer him nothing but, “I’ll let you know very soon.”

She wanted the little boy to be rested and refreshed by food before she told him a very painful thing.  Then she took him up stairs with her into her own chamber, which was quite shady with grape-vines, and so still that you could only hear the buzzing of two or three flies.

She had brought a bowl of hot gruel on a little waiter.  She placed the waiter on the top of her washing-stand, and seated herself on the bed, drawing Horace down beside her.

“My dear little grandson,” said she, stroking his bright hair, “God has been very good to you always, always.  He loves you better than you can even think.”

“Yes, grandma,” answered Horace, bewildered.

“He is your dear Father in heaven,” she added, slowly.  “He wants you to love him with all your heart, for now ­you have no other father!”

Horace sprang up from the bed, his eyes wild with fear and surprise, yet having no idea what she meant.

“Why, my father’s captain in the army!  He’s down South!”

“But have you never thought, dear, that he might be shot?”

“No, I never,” cried Horace, running to the window and back again in great excitement.  “Mr. Evans said they’d put him in colonel.  He was coming home in six months.  He couldn’t be shot!”

“My dear little boy!”

“But O, grandma, is he killed?  Say quick!”

His grandmother took out of her pocket a Boston Journal, and having put on her spectacles, pointed with a trembling finger to the list of “killed.”  One of the first names was “Captain Henry S. Clifford.”

“O, Horace!” said Grace, opening the door softly, “I just thought I heard you.  Ma wants you to come to her.”

Without speaking, Horace gave his hand to his sister, and went with her while their grandmother followed, carrying the bowl of gruel.

At the door of Mrs. Clifford’s room they met aunt Louise coming out.  The sight of Horace and Grace walking tearfully, hand in hand, was very touching to her.

“You dear little fatherless children,” she whispered, throwing her arms around them both, and dropping tears and kisses on their faces.

“O, I can’t, I can’t bear it,” cried Grace; “my own dear papa, that I love best of any one in all the world!”

Horace ran to his mother, and throwing himself on the bed beside her, buried his face in the pillows.

“O, ma!  I reckon ’tisn’t true.  It’s another Captain Clifford.”

His mother lay so very white and still that Horace drew away when he had touched her:  there was something awful in the coldness of her face.  Her beautiful brown eyes shone bright and tearless; but there were dark hollows under them, deep enough to hold many tears, if the time should ever come when she might shed them.

“O, little Horace,” whispered she, “mother’s little Horace!”

“Darling mamma!” responded the boy, kissing her pale lips and smoothing the hair away from her cheeks with his small fingers, which meant to move gently, but did not know how.  And then the young, childish heart, with its little load of grief, was pressed close to the larger heart, whose deep, deep sorrow only God could heal.

They are wrong who say that little children cannot receive lasting impressions.  There are some hours of joy or agony which they never forget.  This was such an hour for Horace.  He could almost feel again on his forehead the warm good-by kisses of his father; he could almost hear again the words, ­

“Always obey your mother, my son, and remember that God sees all you do.”

Ah, he had not obeyed, he had not remembered.

And that dear father would never kiss him, never speak to him again!  He had not thought before what a long word Never was.

O, it was dreadful to shut his eyes and fancy him lying so cold and still on that bloody battle-field!  Would all this awful thing be true to-morrow morning, when he waked up?

“O, mamma,” sobbed the desolate child, “I and Grace will take care of you!  Just forgive me, ma, and I’ll be the best kind of a boy.  I will, I will!”

Grandma had already led Grace away into the green chamber, where aunt Madge sat with the baby.  The poor little girl would not be comforted.

“O, grandma,” she cried, “if we could know who it was that shot pa our mayor would hang him!  I do wish I could die, grandma.  I don’t want to keep living and living in this great world, without my father!”