"O, yes, dear me, suz: hain't you seen none since you've been in the State of Maine? I've ate 'em lots of times."
Peter had once eaten a piece of bear-steak, or it might have been moose-meat, he was not sure which; but at any rate it had been brought down from Moosehead Lake.
"Bears 'round here?" thought Horace, in a fright.
He quickened his pace. O, if he could only be sure it was the right road! Perhaps they were walking straight into a den of bears. He hugged little Pincher close in his arms, soothing him with pet names; for the poor dog continued to moan.
"O, dear, dear!" cried Peter, "don't you feel awfully?"
"I don't stop to think of my feelings," replied Horace, shortly.
"Well, I wish we hadn't come--I do."
"So do I, Peter. I won't play 'hookey' again; but I'm not a-goin' to cry."
"I'll never go anywheres with you any more as long as I live, Horace Clifford!"
"Nobody wants you to, Pete Grant!"
Then they pushed on in dignified silence till Peter broke forth again with wailing sobs.
"I dread to get home! O, dear, I'll have to take it, I tell you. I guess you'd cry if you expected to be whipped."
Horace made no reply. He did not care about telling Peter that he too had a terrible dread of reaching home, for there was something a great deal worse than a whipping, and that was, a mother's sorrowful face.
"I shouldn't care if she'd whip me right hard," thought Horace; "but she'll talk to me about God and the Bible, and O, she'll look so white!"
"Peter, you go on ahead," said he aloud.
"What for?"
"O, I want to rest a minute with Pincher."
It was some moments before Peter would go, and then he went grumbling.
As soon as he was out of sight, Horace threw himself on his knees and prayed in low tones,--
"O God, I do want to be a good boy; and if I ever get out of this woods I'll begin! Keep the bears off, please do, O God, and let us find the way out, and forgive me. Amen."
Horace had never uttered a more sincere prayer in his life. Like many older people, he waited till he was in sore need before he called upon God; but when he had once opened his heart to him, it was wonderful how much lighter it felt.
He rose to his feet and struggled on, saying to Pincher, "Poor fellow, poor fellow, don't cry: we'll soon be home."
"Hollo there, cap'n!" shouted Peter: "we're comin' to a clearin'."
"Just as I expected," thought Horace: "why didn't I pray to God before?"
[Illustration: IN THE WOODS.--Page 111.]
CHAPTER VIII.
CAPTAIN CLIFFORD.
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?"