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!"
CHAPTER IX.
THE BLUE BOOK.
Days passed, but there was the same hush upon the house. Everybody moved about softly, and spoke in low tones. Horace was not told that he must go to school, but he knew aunt Louise thought his shoes made a great deal of noise, and just now he wanted to please even her. More than that, it was very pleasant to see the boys; and while he was playing games he forgot his sorrow, and forgot his mother's sad face. There was one thing, however, which he could not do: he had not the heart to be captain, and drill his company, just now.
"Horace," said Grace, as they were sitting on the piazza steps one morning, "I heard ma tell grandma yesterday, you'd been a better boy this week than you had been before since--since--pa went away."
"Did she?" cried Horace, eagerly; "where was she when she said it? What did grandma say? Did aunt Madge hear her?"
"Yes, aunt Madge heard her, and she said she always knew Horace would be a good boy if he would only think."
"Well, I _do_ think," replied Horace, looking very much pleased; "I think about all the time."
"But then, Horace, you know how you've acted some days!"
"Well, I don't care. Aunt Madge says 'tisn't so easy for boys to be good."
Grace opened her round blue eyes in wonder.
"Why, Horace, I have to make my own bed, and sweep and dust my room, and take care of my drawers. Only think of that; and Prudy always round into things, you know! Then I have to sew, O, so much! I reckon you wouldn't find it very easy being a girl."
"Poh! don't I have to feed the chickens, and bring in the eggs, and go for the cows? And when we lived home----"
Here Horace broke down; he could not think of home without remembering his father.
Grace burst into tears. The word "home" had called up a beautiful picture of her father and mother sitting on the sofa in the library, Horace and Pincher lying on the floor, the door open from the balcony, and the moon filling the room with a soft light; her father had a smile on his face, and was holding her hand.
Ah! Grace, and Horace, and their mother would see many such pictures of memory.
"Well, sister," said Horace, speaking quite slowly, and looking down at the grass, "what do I do that's bad?"