"Why, Horace," said his sister, solemnly; "anybody can't be too good; 'tisn't possible."

"Well, then, he's just like a girl—that's what! I'm not going to be 'characteristic' any more, but I don't want to be like a girl neither. Look here, Grace; it's school time. Now don't you 'let on' to ma, or anybody, that I'm going to be better."

Grace promised, but she wondered why Horace should not wish his mother to know he was trying to be good, when it would make her so happy.

"He's afraid he'll give it up," thought she; "but I won't let him."

She sat on the piazza steps a long while after he had gone. At last a bright idea flashed across her mind, and of course she dropped her work and clapped her hands, though she was quite alone.

"I'll make a merit-book like Miss All'n's, and put down black marks for him when he's naughty."

When Horace came home that night, he was charmed with the plan, for he was really in earnest. His kind sister made the book very neatly, and sewed it into a cover of glossy blue paper. She thought they would try it four weeks; so she had put in twenty-eight pages, each page standing for one day.

"Now," said she, "when you say one bad word I'll put down 'one B. W.' for short; but when you say two bad words, 'twill be 'two B. W.,' you know. When you blow gunpowder, that'll be 'B. G.'—no, 'B. G. P.' for gunpowder is two words."

"And when I run off, 'twill be 'R. O.'"

"Or 'R. A.,' said Grace, for 'ran away.'"

"And 'T.' for 'troutin'," said Horace, who was getting very much interested; "and—and—'P. A. L.' for 'plaguing aunt Louise,' and 'C.' for 'characteristic,' and 'L. T.' for 'losing things.'"

"O, dear, dear, Horace, the book won't begin to hold it! We mustn't put down those little things."

"But, Grace, you know I shan't do 'em any more."

Grace shook her head, and sighed. "We won't put down all those little things," repeated she; "we'll have 'D.' for 'disobedience,' and 'B. W.,' and—O! one thing I forgot—'F.' for 'falsehood.'"

"Well, you won't get any F's out of me, by hokey," said Horace, snapping his fingers.

"Why, there it is, 'one B. W.' so quick!" cried Grace, holding up both hands and laughing.

Horace opened his mouth in surprise, and then clapped his hand over it in dismay. It was not a very fortunate beginning.

"Look here, Grace," said he, making a wry face; "I move we call that no 'count, and commence new to-morrow!"

So Grace waited till next day before she dated the merit-book.

All this while Pincher's foot was growing no better. Aunt Louise said you could almost see the poor dog 'dwindle, peak, and pine.'

"But it's only his hurt," said Grace; "'tisn't a sickness."

"I reckon," returned Horace, sadly, "it isn't a wellness, neither."

"Why not send for Mrs. Duffy?" suggested aunt Madge. "If any one can help the poor creature, it is she."

Mrs. Duffy was the village washerwoman, and a capital nurse. It was an anxious moment for little Horace, when she unwrapped the crushed paw, Pincher moaning all the while in a way that went to the heart.

"Wull," said Mrs. Duffy, who spoke with a brogue, "it's a bad-looking fut; but I've some intment here that'll do no har-rum, and it may hulp the poor craycher."

She put the salve on some clean linen cloths, and bound up the wound, bidding them all be very careful that the dog "didn't stir his fut."

"O, but he don't want to stir!" said Horace. "He just lies down by the stove all day."

Mrs. Duffy shook her head, and said, "he was a pooty craycher; 'twas more the pities that he ever went off in the wuds."

Horace hung his head. O, if he could have blotted out that day of disobedience!

"Wasn't it a real rebel, heathen man," cried Prudy, "to put the trap where Pincher sticked his foot in it?"

Pincher grew worse and worse. He refused his food, and lay in a basket with a cushion in it, by the kitchen stove, where he might have been a little in the way, though not even aunt Louise ever said so.

If Grace, or Susy, or Prudy, went up to him, he made no sign. It was only when he saw his little master that he would wag his tail for joy; but even that effort seemed to tire him, and he liked better to lick Horace's hand, and look up at his face with eyes brimful of love and agony.

Horace would sit by the half hour, coaxing him to eat a bit of broiled steak or the wing of a chicken; but though the poor dog would gladly have pleased his young master, he could hardly force himself to swallow a mouthful.

These were sad days. Grace put down now and then a "B. W." in the blue book; but as for disobedience, Horace had just now no temptation to that. He could hardly think of anything but his dog.

Pincher was about his age. He could not remember the time when he first knew him. "O, what jolly times they had had together! How often Pincher had trotted along to school, carrying the satchel with the school-books in his teeth. Why, the boys all loved him, they just loved him so."

"No, sir," said Horace, talking to himself, and laying the dog's head gently on his knee: "there wasn't one of them but just wished they had him. But, poh! I wouldn't have sold him for all the cannons and fire-crackers in the United States. No, not for a real drum, either; would I, Pincher?"

Horace really believed the dog understood him, and many were the secrets he had poured into his faithful ears. Pincher would listen, and wink, and wag his tail, but was sure to keep everything to himself.

"I tell you what it is, Pincher," Horace burst forth, "I'm not going to have you die! My own pa gave you to me, and you're the best dog that ever lived in this world. O, I didn't mean to catch your foot in that trap! Eat the chicken, there's a good fellow, and we'll cure you all up."

But Pincher couldn't eat the chicken, and couldn't be cured. His eyes grew larger and sadder, but there was the same patient look in them always. He fixed them on Horace to the last, with a dying gaze which made the boy's heart swell with bitter sorrow.

"He wanted to speak, he wanted to ask me a question," said Horace, with sobs he did not try to control.

O, it was sad to close those beautiful eyes forever, those beseeching eyes, which could almost speak.

Mrs. Clifford came and knelt on the stone hearth beside the basket, and wept freely for the first time since her husband's death.

"Dear little Pincher," said she, "you have died a cruel death; but your dear little master closed your eyes. It was very hard, poor doggie, but not so hard as the battle-field. You shall have a quiet grave, good Pincher; but where have they buried our brave soldier?"



CHAPTER X.

TRYING TO GET RICH.

With his own hands, and the help of Grasshopper, who did little but hold the nails and look on, Horace made a box for Pincher, while Abner dug his grave under a tree in the grove.

It was evening when they all followed Pincher to his last resting-place.

"He was a sugar-plum of a dog," said Prudy, "and I can't help crying."

"I don't want to help it," said Grace; "we ought to cry."

"What makes me feel the worst," said sober little Susy, "he won't go to heaven."

"Not forever'n ever amen?" gasped Prudy, in a low voice: "wouldn't he if he had a nice casket, and a plate on it neither?"

The sky and earth were very lovely that evening, and it seemed as if everybody ought to be heart-glad. I doubt if Horace had ever thought before what a beautiful world he lived in, and how glorious a thing it is to be alive! He could run about and do what he pleased with himself; but alas, poor Pincher!

The sun was setting, and the river looked uncommonly full of little sparkles. The soft sky, and the twinkling water, seemed to be smiling at each other, while a great way off you could see the dim blue mountains rising up like clouds. Such a lovely world! Ah! poor Pincher.

It looked very much as if Horace were really turning over a new leaf. He was still quite trying sometimes, leaving the milk-room door open when puss was watching for the cream-pot, or slamming the kitchen door with a bang when everybody needed fresh air. He still kept his chamber in a state of confusion,—"muss," Grace called it,—pulling the drawers out of the bureau, and scattering the contents over the floor; dropping his clothes anywhere it happened, and carrying quantities of gravel up stairs in his shoes.

Aunt Louise still scolded about him; but even she could not help seeing that on the whole he was improving. He "cared" more and "forgot" less. He could always learn easily, and now he really tried to learn. His lessons, instead of going through his head "threading my grandmother's needle," went in and staid there. The blue book got a few marks, it is true, but not so many as at first.

You may be sure there was not a good thing said or done by Horace which did not give pleasure to his mother. She felt now as if she lived only for her children; if God would bless her by making them good, she had nothing more to desire. Grace had always been a womanly, thoughtful little girl, but at this time she was a greater comfort than ever; and Horace had grown so tender and affectionate, that it gratified her very much. He was not content now with "canary kisses;" but threw his arms around her neck very often, saying, with his lips close to her cheek,—

"Don't feel bad, ma: I'm going to take care of you."

For his mother's grief called forth his manliness.

She meant to be cheerful; but Horace knew she did not look or seem like herself: he thought he ought to try to make her happy.

Whenever he asked for money, as he too often did, she told him that now his father was gone, there was no one to earn anything, and it was best to be rather prudent. He wanted a drum; but she thought he must wait a while for that.

They were far from being poor, and Mrs. Clifford had no idea of deceiving her little son. Yet he was deceived, for he supposed that his mother's pretty little porte-monnaie held all the bank-bills and all the silver she had in the world.

"O, Grace!" said Horace, coming down stairs with a very grave face, "I wish I was grown a man: then I'd earn money like sixty."

Grace stopped her singing long enough to ask what he meant to do, and then continued in a high key,—

"Where, O where are the Hebrew children?"

"O, I'm going as a soldier," replied Horace: "I thought everybody knew that! The colonels make a heap of money!"

"But, Horace, you might get shot—just think!"

"Then I'd dodge when they fired, for I don't know what you and ma would do if I was killed."

"Well, please step out of the way, Horace; don't you see I'm sweeping the piazza?"

"I can't tell," pursued he, taking a seat on one of the stairs in the hall: "I can't tell certain sure; but I may be a minister."

This was such a funny idea, that Grace made a dash with her broom, and sent the dirt flying the wrong way.

"Why, Horace, you'll never be good enough for a minister!"

"What'll you bet?" replied he, looking a little mortified.

"You're getting to be a dear good little boy, Horace," said Grace, soothingly; "but I don't think you'll ever be a minister."

"Perhaps I'd as soon be a shoemaker," continued Horace, thoughtfully; "they get a great deal for tappin' boots."

His sister made no reply.

"See here, now, Grace: perhaps you'd rather I'd be a tin-pedler; then I'd always keep a horse, and you could ride."

"Ride in a cart!" cried Grace, laughing. "Can't you think of anything else? Have you forgotten papa?"

"O, now I know," exclaimed Horace, with shining eyes: "it's a lawyer I'll be, just like father was. I'll have a 'sleepy partner,' the way Judge Ingle has, and by and by I'll be a judge."

"I know that would please ma, Horace," replied Grace, looking at her little brother with a good deal of pride.

Who knew but he might yet be a judge? She liked to order him about, and have him yield to her: still she had great faith in Horace.

"But, Grace, after all that I'll go to war, and turn out a general; now you see if I don't."

"That'll be a great while yet," said Grace, sighing.

"So it will," replied Horace, sadly; "and ma needs the money now. I wish I could earn something right off while I'm a little boy."

It was not two days before he thought he had found out how to get rich; in what way you shall see.



CHAPTER XI.

THE LITTLE INDIAN.

Prudy came into the house one day in a great fright, and said they'd "better hide the baby, for there was a very wicked woman round."

"Her hair looks like a horse's tail," said she, "and she's got a black man's hat on her head, and a table-cloth over her."

Aunt Madge took Prudy in her lap, and told her it was only an Indian woman, who had no idea of harming any one.

"What are Nindians?" asked the child.

Her aunt said they were sometimes called "red men." The country had once been filled by them: but the English came, a great many years ago, and shook off the red men just as a high wind shakes the red leaves off a tree; and they were scattered about, and only a few were left alive. Sometimes the Oldtown Indians came round making baskets; but they were quiet and peaceable people.

Horace and his friend "Grasshopper," as they were strolling up the river, came upon a tent made of canvas, and at the door of the tent sat a little boy about their own age, with a bow and arrow in his hand, in the act of firing.

Grasshopper, who was always a coward, ran with all his might; but as Horace happened to notice that the arrow was pointed at something across the river, he was not alarmed, but stopped to look at the odd little stranger, who turned partly round and returned his gaze. His eyes were keen and black, with a good-natured expression, something like the eyes of an intelligent dog.

"What's your name, boy?" said Horace.

"Me no understand."

"I asked what your name is," continued Horace, who was sure the boy understood, in spite of his blank looks.

"Me no hurt white folks; me bunkum Indian."

"Well, what's your name, then? What do they call you?"

No answer, but a shake of the head.

"I reckon they call you John, don't they?"

Here the boy's mother appeared at the door.

"His name no John! Eshy-ishy-oshy-neeshy-George-Wampum-Shoony-Katoo; short name, speak um quick!—Jaw-awn! Great long name!" drawled she, stretching it out as if it were made of India rubber, and scowling with an air of disgust.

"What does she mean by calling 'John' long?" thought Horace.

The woman wore a calico dress, short enough to reveal her brown, stockingless feet and gay moccasons.

Her hair was crow-black, and strayed over her shoulders and into her eyes. Horace concluded she must have lost her back-comb.

While he was looking at her with curious eyes, her daughter came to the door, feeling a little cross at the stranger, whoever it might be; but when she saw only an innocent little boy, she smiled pleasantly, showing a row of white teeth. Horace thought her rather handsome, for she was very straight and slender, and her eyes shone like glass beads. Her hair he considered a great deal blacker than black, and it was braided and tied with gay red ribbons. She was dressed in a bright, large-figured calico, and from her ears were suspended the longest, yellowest, queerest, ear-rings. Horace thought they were shaped like boat-paddles, and would be pretty for Prudy to use when she rowed her little red boat in the bathing-tub. If they only "scooped" a little more they would answer for tea-spoons. "Plenty big as I should want for tea-spoons," he decided, after another gaze at them.

The young girl was used to being admired by her own people, and was not at all displeased with Horace for staring at her.

"Me think you nice white child," said she: "you get me sticks, me make you basket, pretty basket for put apples in."

"What kind of sticks do you mean?" said Horace, forgetting that they pretended not to understand English. But it appeared that they knew very well what he meant this time, and the Indian boy offered to go with him to point out the place where the wood was to be found. Grasshopper, who had only hidden behind the trees, now came out and joined the boys.

"Wampum," as he chose to be called, led them back to Mr. Parlin's grounds, to the lower end of the garden, where stood some tall silver poplars, on which the Indians had looked with longing eyes.

"Me shin them trees," said Wampum; "me make you basket."

"Would you let him, Grasshopper?"

"Yes, indeed; your grandfather won't care."

"Perhaps he might; you don't know," said Horace, who, after he had asked advice, was far from feeling obliged to take it. He ran in great haste to the field where his grandfather was hoeing potatoes, thinking, "If I ask, then I shan't get marked in the blue book anyhow."

In this case Horace acted very properly. He had no right to cut the trees, or allow any one else to cut them, without leave. To his great delight, his grandfather said he did not care if they clipped off a few branches where they would not show much.

When Horace got back and reported the words of his grandfather, Wampum did not even smile, but shot a glance at him as keen as an arrow.

"Me no hurt trees," said he, gravely; and he did not: he only cut off a few limbs from each one, leaving the trees as handsome as ever.

"Bully for you!" cried Horace, forgetting the blue book.

"He's as spry as a squirrel," said Grasshopper, in admiration; "how many boughs has he got? One, two, three."

"Me say 'em quickest," cried little Wampum. "Een, teen, teddery, peddery, bimp, satter, latter, doe, dommy, dick."

"That's ten," put in Horace, who was keeping 'count.

"Een-dick," continued the little Indian, "teen-dick, teddery-dick, peddery-dick, bumpin, een-bumpin, teen-bumpin, teddery-bumpin, peddery-bumpin, jiggets."

"Hollo!" cried Grasshopper; "that's twenty; jiggets is twenty;" and he rolled over on the ground, laughing as if he had made a great discovery.

Little by little they made Wampum tell how he lived at home, what sort of boys he played with, and what they had to eat. The young Indian assured them that at Oldtown "he lived in a house good as white folks; he ate moose-meat, ate sheep-meat, ate cow-meat."

"Cook out doors, I s'pose," said Grasshopper.

Wampum looked very severe. "When me lives in wigwam, me has fires in wigwam: when me lives in tent, me puts fires on grass;—keep off them things," he added, pointing at a mosquito in the air; "keep smoke out tent," pointing upward to show the motion of the smoke.

Horace felt so much pleased with his new companion, that he resolved to treat him to a watermelon. So, without saying a word to the boys, he ran into the house to ask his grandmother.

"What! a whole watermelon, Horace?"

"Yes, grandma, we three; me, and Grasshopper, and Wampum."

Mrs. Parlin could not help smiling to see how suddenly Horace had adopted a new friend.

"You may have a melon, but I think your mother would not like to have you play much with a strange boy."

"He's going to make me a splendid basket; and besides, aren't Indians and negroes as good as white folks? 'Specially tame Indians," said Horace, not very respectfully, as he ran back, shoe-knife in hand, to cut the watermelon.

This was the beginning of a hasty friendship between himself and Wampum. For a few days there was nothing so charming to Horace as the wild life of this Indian family. He was made welcome at their tent, and often went in to see them make baskets.

"I trust you," said Mrs. Clifford; "you will not deceive me, Horace. If you ever find that little Wampum says bad words, tells falsehoods, or steals, I shall not be willing for you to play with him. You are very young, and might be greatly injured by a bad playmate."

The tent was rude enough. In one corner were skins laid one over another: these were the beds which were spread out at night for the family. Instead of closets and presses, all the wearing apparel was hung on a long rope, which was stretched from stake to stake, in various directions, like a clothes-line.

It was curious to watch the brown fingers moving so easily over the white strips, out of which they wove baskets. It was such pretty work! it brought so much money. Horace thought it was just the business for him, and Wampum promised to teach him. In return for this favor, Horace was to instruct the little Indian in spelling.

For one or two evenings he appointed meetings in the summer-house, and really went without his own slice of cake, that he might give it to poor Wampum, after a lesson in "baker."

He received the basket in due time, a beautiful one—red, white, and blue. Just as he was carrying it home on his arm, he met Billy Green, the hostler, who stopped him, and asked if he remembered going into "the Pines" one day with Peter Grant? Horace had no reason to forget it, surely.

"Seems to me you ran away with my horse-basket," said Billy; "but I never knew till yesterday what had 'come of it."

"There, now," replied Horace, quite crestfallen; "Peter Grant took that! I forgot all about it."

What should be done? It would never do to ask his mother for the money, since, as he believed, she had none to spare. Billy was fond of joking with little boys.

"Look here, my fine fellow," said he, "give us that painted concern you've got on your arm, and we'll call it square."

"No, no, Billy," cried Horace, drawing away; "this is a present, and I couldn't. But I'm learning to weave baskets, and I'll make you one—see if I don't!"

Billy laughed, and went away whistling. He had no idea that Horace would ever think of the matter again; but in truth the first article the boy tried to make was a horse-basket.

"Me tell you somethin," said little Wampum, next morning, as he and Horace were crossing the field together. "Very much me want um,—um,—um,"—putting his fingers up to his mouth in a manner which signified that he meant something to eat.

"Don't understand," said Horace: "say it in English."

"Very much me want um," continued Wampum, in a beseeching tone. "No tell what you call um. E'enamost water, no quite water; e'enamost punkin, no quite punkin."

"Poh! you mean watermelon," laughed Horace: "should think you'd remember that as easy as pumpkin."

"Very much me want um," repeated Wampum, delighted at being understood; "me like um."

"Well," replied Horace, "they aren't mine."

"O, yes. Ugh! you've got 'em. Melon-water good! Me have melon-waters, me give you moc-suns."

"I'll ask my grandpa, Wampum."

Hereupon the crafty little Indian shook his head.

"You ask ole man, me no give you moc-suns! Me no want een—me want bimp—bumpin—jiggets."

Horace's stout little heart wavered for a moment. He fancied moccasins very much. In his mind's eye he saw a pair shining with all the colors of the rainbow, and as Wampum had said of the melons, "very much he wanted them." How handsome they'd be with his Zouave suit!

But the wavering did not last long. He remembered the blue book which his mother was to see next week; for then the month would be out.

"It wouldn't be a 'D.,'" thought he, "for nobody told me not to give the watermelons."

"No," said Conscience; "'twould be a black S.; that stands for stealing! What, a boy with a dead father, a dead soldier-father, steal! A boy called Horace Clifford! The boy whose father had said, 'Remember God sees all you do!'"

"Wampum," said Horace, firmly, "you just stop that kind of talk! Moccasins are right pretty; but I wouldn't steal, no, not if you gave me a bushel of 'em."

After this, Horace was disgusted with his little friend, not remembering that there are a great many excuses to be made for a half-civilized child. They had a serious quarrel, and Wampum's temper proved to be very bad. If the little savage had not struck him, I hope Horace would have dropped his society all the same; because, after Wampum proved to be a thief, it would have been sheer disobedience on Horace's part to play with him any longer.

Of course the plan of basket-making was given up; but our little Horace did one thing which was noble in a boy of his age: perhaps he remembered what his father had said long ago in regard to the injured watch; but, at any rate, he went to Billy Green of his own accord, and offered him the beautiful present which he had received from the Indians.

"It's not a horse-basket, Billy: I didn't get to make one," stammered he, in a choked voice; "but you said you'd call it square."

"Whew!" cried Billy, very much astonished: "now look here, bub; that's a little too bad! The old thing you lugged off was about worn out, anyhow. Don't want any of your fancy baskets: so just carry it back, my fine little shaver."

To say that Horace was very happy, would not half express the delight he felt as he ran home with the beautiful basket on his arm, his "ownest own," beyond the right of dispute.

The Indians disappeared quite suddenly; and perhaps it was nothing surprising that, the very next morning after they left, grandpa Parlin should find his beautiful melon-patch stripped nearly bare, with nothing left on the vines but a few miserable green little melons.



CHAPTER XII.

A PLEASANT SURPRISE.

"It's too bad," said Horace to his sister, "that I didn't get to make baskets; I'd have grown rich so soon. What would you try to do next?"

"Pick berries," suggested Grace.

And that very afternoon they both went blackberrying with Susy and aunt Madge. They had a delightful time. Horace could not help missing Pincher very much: still, in spite of the regret, it was a happier day than the one he and Peter Grant had spent "in the Pines." He was beginning to find, as all children do, how hard it is to get up "a good time" when you are pricked by a guilty conscience, and how easy it is to be happy when you are doing right.

They did not leave the woods till the sun began to sink, and reached home quite tired, but as merry as larks, with baskets nearly full of berries.

When Horace timidly told aunt Madge that he and Grace wanted to sell all they had gathered, his aunt laughed, and said she would buy the fruit if they wished, but wondered what they wanted to do with the money: she supposed it was for the soldiers.

"I want to give it to ma," replied Horace, in a low voice; for he did not wish his aunt Louise to overhear. "She hasn't more than three bills in her pocket-book, and it's time for me to begin to take care of her."

"Ah," said aunt Madge, with one of her bright smiles, "there is a secret drawer in her writing-desk, dear, that has ever so much money in it. She isn't poor, my child, and she didn't mean to make you think so, for your mother wouldn't deceive you."

"Not poor?" cried Horace, his face brightening suddenly; and he turned half a somerset, stopping in the midst of it to ask how much a drum would cost.

The month being now out, it was time to show the blue book to Mrs. Clifford. Horace looked it over with some anxiety. On each page were the letters "D.," "B. W.," "B. G. P.," and "F.," on separate lines, one above another. But there were no figures before any of the letters but the "B. W.'s;" and even those figures had been growing rather smaller, as you could see by looking carefully.

"Now, Grace," said her little brother, "you'll tell ma that the bad words aren't swearin' words! I never did say such, though some of the fellows do, and those that go to Sabbath School too."

"Yes, I'll tell her," said Grace; "but she knows well enough that you never talk anything worse than lingo."

"I haven't disobeyed, nor blown powder, nor told lies."

"No, indeed," said Grace, delighted. "To be sure, you've forgotten, and slammed doors, and lost things; but you know I didn't set that down."

I wish all little girls felt as much interest in their younger brothers as this sister felt in Horace. Grace had her faults, of which I might have told you if I had been writing the book about her; but she loved Horace dearly, kept his little secrets whenever she promised to do so, and was always glad to have him do right.

Mrs. Clifford was pleased with the idea of the blue book, and kissed Horace and Grace, saying they grew dearer to her every day of their lives.

* * * * *

One night, not long after this, Horace went to the post-office for the mail. This was nothing new, for he had often gone before. A crowd of men were sitting in chairs and on the door-stone and counter, listening to the news, which some one was reading in a loud, clear voice.

Without speaking, the postmaster gave Horace three letters and a newspaper. After tucking the letters into his raglan pocket, Horace rolled the paper into a hollow tube, peeping through it at the large tree standing opposite the post-office, and at the patient horses hitched to the posts, waiting for their masters to come out.

He listened for some time to the dreadful account of a late battle, thinking of his dear father, as he always did when he heard war-news. But at last remembering that his grandfather would be anxious to have the daily paper, he started for home, though rather against his will.

"I never did see such a fuss as they make," thought he, "if anybody's more'n a minute going to the office and back."

"Is this all?" said aunt Madge, as Horace gave a letter to grandma, one to aunt Louise, and the paper to his grandfather.

"Why, yes, ma'am, that's all," replied Horace, faintly. It did seem, to be sure, as if Mr. Pope had given him three letters; but as he could not find another in his pocket, he supposed he must be mistaken, and said nothing about it. He little knew what a careless thing he had done, and soon went to bed, forgetting post-offices and letters in a strange dream of little Wampum, who had a bridle on and was hitched to a post; and of the Indian girl's ear-rings, which seemed to have grown into a pair of shining gold muskets.

A few mornings after the mistake about the letter, Mrs. Clifford sat mending Horace's raglan. She emptied the pockets of twine, fish-hooks, jack-knife, pebbles, coppers, and nails; but still something rattled when she touched the jacket; it seemed to be paper. She thrust in her finger, and there, between the outside and lining, was a crumpled, worn letter, addressed to "Miss Margaret Parlin."

"What does this mean?" thought Mrs. Clifford. "Horace must have carried the letter all summer."

But upon looking at it again, she saw that it was mailed at Washington about two weeks before—"a soldier's letter." She carried it down to Margaret, who was busy making cream-cakes.

"Let me see," said aunt Louise, peeping over Mrs. Clifford's shoulder, and laughing. "No, it's not Mr. Augustus Allen's writing; but how do you know somebody hasn't written it to tell you he is sick?"

Aunt Madge grew quite pale, dropped the egg-beater, and carried the letter into the nursery to read it by herself. She opened it with trembling fingers; but before she had read two lines her fingers trembled worse than ever, her heart throbbed fast, the room seemed to reel about.

There was no bad news in the letter, you may be sure of that. She sat reading it over and over again, while the tears ran down her cheeks, and the sunshine in her eyes dried them again. Then she folded her hands together, and humbly thanked God for his loving kindness.

When she was sure her sister Maria had gone up stairs, she ran out to the kitchen, whispering,—

"O, mother! O, Louise!" but broke down by laughing.

"What does ail the child?" said Mrs. Parlin, laughing too.

Margaret tried again to speak, but this time burst into tears.

"There, it's of no use," she sobbed: "I'm so happy that it's really dreadful. I'm afraid somebody may die of joy."

"I'm more afraid somebody'll die of curiosity," said aunt Louise: "do speak quick."

"Well, Henry Clifford is alive," said Margaret: "that's the blessed truth! Now hush! We must be so careful how we tell Maria!"

Mrs. Parlin caught Margaret by the shoulder, and gasped for breath. Louise dropped into a chair.

"What do you mean? What have you heard?" they both cried at once.

"He was taken off the field for dead; but life was not quite gone. He lay for weeks just breathing, and that was all."

"But why did no one let us know it?" said Louise. "Of course Maria would have gone to him at once."

"There was no one to write; and when Henry came to himself there was no hope of him, except by amputation of his left arm; and after that operation he was very low again."

"O, why don't you give us the letter," said Louise, "so we can see for ourselves?"

But she was too excited to read it; and while she was trying to collect her ideas, aunt Madge had to hunt for grandma's spectacles; and then the three looked over the surgeon's letter together, sometimes all talking at once.

Captain Clifford would be in Maine as soon as possible: so the letter said. A young man was to come with him to take care of him, and they were to travel very slowly indeed; might be at home in a fort-night.

"They may be here to-night," said Mrs. Parlin.

This letter had been written to prepare the family for Captain Clifford's arrival. It was expected that aunt Madge would break the news to his wife.

"It's such a pity that little flyaway of a Horace didn't give you the letter in time," said Louise; "and then we might have had some days to get used to it."

"Wait a minute, dear," said aunt Madge, as Susy came in for a drink of water: "please run up and ask aunt Maria to come down stairs. Now, mother," she added, "you are the one to tell the story, if you please."

"We can all break it to her by degrees," said Mrs. Parlin, twisting her checked apron nervously.

When Mrs. Clifford entered the kitchen, she saw at once that something had happened. Her mother, with a flushed face, was opening and shutting the stove door. Margaret was polishing a pie-plate, with tears in her eyes, and Louise had seized a sieve, and appeared to be breaking eggs into it. Nobody wanted to speak first.

"What do you say to hearing a story?" uttered Louise.

"O, you poor woman," exclaimed Margaret, seizing Mrs. Clifford by both hands: "you look so sorrowful, dear, as if nothing would ever make you happy again. Can you believe we have a piece of good news for you?"

"For me?" Mrs. Clifford looked bewildered.

"Good news for you," said Louise, dropping the sieve to the floor: "yes, indeed! O, Maria, we thought Henry was killed; but he isn't; it's a mistake of the papers. He's alive, and coming home to-night."

All this as fast as she could speak. No wonder Mrs. Clifford was shocked! First she stood quiet and amazed, gazing at her sister with fixed eyes: then she screamed, and would have fallen if her mother and Margaret had not caught her in their arms.

"O, I have killed her," cried Louise: "I didn't mean to speak so quick! Henry is almost dead, Maria: he is nearly dead, I mean! He's just alive!"

"Louise, bring some water at once," said Mrs. Parlin, sternly.

"O, mother," sobbed Louise, returning with the water, "I didn't mean to be so hasty; but you might have known I would: you should have sent me out of the room."

This was very much the way Prudy talked when she did wrong: she had a funny way of blaming other people.

It is always unsafe to tell even joyful news too suddenly; but Louise's thoughtlessness had not done so much harm as they all feared. Mrs. Clifford recovered from the shock, and in an hour or two was wonderfully calm, looking so perfectly happy that it was delightful just to gaze at her face.

She wanted the pleasure of telling the children the story with her own lips. Grace was fairly wild with joy, kissing everybody, and declaring it was "too good for anything." She was too happy to keep still, while as for Horace, he was too happy to talk.

"Then uncle Henry wasn't gone to heaven," cried little Prudy: "hasn't he been to heaven at all?"

"No, of course not," said Susy: "didn't you hear 'em say he'd be here to-night?—Now you've got on the nicest kind of a dress, and if you spot it up 'twill be awful."

"I guess," pursued Prudy, "the man that shooted found 'twas uncle Henry, and so he didn't want to kill him down dead."

How the family found time to do so many things that day, I do not know, especially as each one was in somebody's way, and the children under everybody's feet. But before night the pantry was full of nice things, the whole house was as fresh as a rose, and the parlors were adorned with autumn flowers and green garlands.

Not only the kerosene lamps, but all the old oil lamps, were filled, and every candle-stick, whether brass, iron, or glass, was used to hold a sperm candle; so that in the evening the house at every window was all ablaze with light. The front door stood wide open, and the piazza and part of the lawn were as bright as day. The double gate had been unlatched for hours, and everybody was waiting for the carriage to drive up.

The hard, uncomfortable stage, which Horace had said was like a baby-jumper, would never do for a sick man to ride in: so Billy Green had driven to the cars in his easiest carriage, and aunt Madge had gone with him, for she was afraid neither Billy nor the gentleman who was with Captain Clifford would know how to wrap the shawls about him carefully enough.

I could never describe the joyful meeting which took place in those brilliantly lighted parlors. It is very rarely that such wonderful happiness falls to any one's lot in this world.

While the smiles are yet bright on their faces, while Grace is clinging to her father's neck, and Horace hugs his new "real drum" in one arm, embracing his dear papa with the other, let us take our leave of them and the whole family for the present, with many kind good-by's.



SOPHIE MAY'S "LITTLE-FOLKS" BOOKS.



LITTLE FOLKS ASTRAY.

"This is a book for the little ones of the nursery or play-room. It introduces all the old favorites of the Prudy and Dotty books with new characters and funny incidents. It is a charming book, wholesome and sweet in every respect, and cannot fail to interest children under twelve years of age."—Christian Register.

* * * * *

PRUDY KEEPING HOUSE.

"How she kept it, why she kept it, and what a good time she had playing cook, and washerwoman, and ironer, is told as only Sophie May can tell stories. All the funny sayings and doings of the queerest and cunningest little woman ever tucked away in the covers of a book will please little folks and grown people alike."—Press.

* * * * *

AUNT MADGE'S STORY.

"Tells of a little mite of a girl, who gets into every conceivable kind of scrape and out again with lightning rapidity, through the whole pretty little book. How she nearly drowns her bosom friend, and afterwards saves her by a very remarkable display of little-girl courage. How she gets left by a train of cars, and loses her kitten and finds it again, and is presented with a baby sister 'come down from heaven,' with lots of smart and funny sayings."—Boston Traveller.

Any volume sold separately.

DOTTY DIMPLE SERIES.—Six volumes. Illustrated.

Per volume, 75 cents.

Dotty Dimple at her Grandmother's. Dotty Dimple at Home. Dotty Dimple out West. Dotty Dimple at Play. Dotty Dimple at School. Dotty Dimple's Flyaway.

FLAXIE FRIZZLE STORIES.—Six volumes. Illustrated. Per volume, 75 cents.

Flaxie Frizzle. Little Pitchers. Flaxie's Kittyleen. Doctor Papa. The Twin Cousins. Flaxie Growing Up.

LITTLE PRUDY STORIES.—Six volumes. Handsomely Illustrated. Per volume, 75 cents.

Little Prudy. Little Prudy's Sister Susy. Little Prudy's Captain Horace. Little Prudy's Story Book. Little Prudy's Cousin Grace. Little Prudy's Dotty Dimple.

LITTLE PRUDY'S FLYAWAY SERIES.—Six volumes. Illustrated. Per volume, 75 cents.

Little Folks Astray. Little Grandmother. Prudy Keeping House. Little Grandfather. Aunt Madge's Story. Miss Thistledown.

LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS, BOSTON.



PENN SHIRLEY'S BOOKS.

THE END