"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?"
CHAPTER IV.
AT GRANDPA PARLIN'S.
It was over at last--the long, tedious journey, which Horace spoiled for everybody, and which nobody but Horace enjoyed.
When they drove up to the quiet old homestead at Willowbrook, and somebody had taken the little baby, poor Mrs. Clifford threw herself into her mother's arms, and sobbed like a child. Everybody else cried, too; and good, deaf grandpa Parlin, with smiles and tears at the same time, declared,--
"I don't know what the matter is; so I can't tell whether to laugh or cry."
Then his daughter Margaret went up and said in his best ear that they were just crying for joy, and asked him if that wasn't a silly thing to do.
Grace embraced everybody twice over; but Horace was a little shy, and would only give what his aunties called "canary kisses."
"Margaret, I want you to give me that darling baby this minute," said Mrs. Parlin, wiping her eyes. "Now you can bring the butter out of the cellar: it's all there is to be done, except to set the tea on the table."
Then grandma Parlin had another cry over little Katie: not such a strange thing, for she could not help thinking of Harry, the baby with sad eyes and pale face, who had been sick there all the summer before, and was now an angel. As little Prudy had said, "God took him up to heaven, but the tired part of him is in the garden."
Yes, under a weeping-willow. Everybody was thinking just now of tired little Harry, "the sweetest flower that ever was planted in that garden."
"Why, Maria," said Mrs. Clifford, as soon as she could speak, "how did you ever travel so far with this little, little baby?"
"I don't know, mother," replied Mrs. Clifford; "I think I could never have got here without Grace: she has been my little waiter, and Katie's little nurse."
Grace blushed with delight at this well-deserved praise.
"And Horace is so large now, that he was some help, too, I've no doubt,"
said his grandmother.
"I would have took the baby," cried Horace, speaking up very quickly, before any one else had time to answer,--"I would have took the baby, but she wouldn't let me."
Mrs. Clifford might have said that Horace himself had been as much trouble as the baby; but she was too kind to wound her little boy's feelings.
It was certainly a very happy party who met around the tea-table at Mr.
Parlin's that evening. It was already dusk, and the large globe lamp, with its white porcelain shade, gave a cheery glow to the pleasant dining-room.
First, there was cream-toast, made of the whitest bread, and the sweetest cream.
"This makes me think of Mrs. Gray," said Mrs. Clifford, smiling; "I hope she is living yet."
"She is," said Margaret, "but twelve years old."
Grace looked up in surprise.
"Why, that's only a little girl, aunt Madge!"
"My dear, it's only a cow!"
"O, now I remember; the little blue one, with brass knobs on her horns!"
"Let's see; do you remember Dr. Quack and his wife?"
"O, yes'm! they were white ducks; and how they did swim! It was a year ago. I suppose Horace doesn't remember."
"Poh! yes, I do; they were _spin-footed_!"
"Why, Horace," said Grace, laughing; "you mean _web-footed_!"
Horace bent his eyes on his plate, and did not look up again for some time.
There was chicken-salad on the table. Margaret made that--putting in new butter, because she knew Mrs. Clifford did not like oil.
There was delicious looking cake, "some that had been touched with frost, and some that hadn't," as grandpa said, when he passed the basket.