"Have you nothing to say to me, my child?"
For, instead of speaking, the boy was working his features into as many shapes as if they had been made of gutta percha. This was a bad habit of his, though, when he was doing it, he had no idea of "making up faces."
His father told him he would let him have the whole day to decide whether he ought to give up any of his money. A tear trembled in each of Horace's eyes, but, before they could fall, he caught them on his thumb and forefinger.
"Now," continued Mr. Clifford, "I have something to tell you. I decided last night to enter the army."
"O, pa," cried Horace, springing up, eagerly; "mayn't I go, too?"
"You, my little son?"
"Yes, pa," replied Horace, clinging to his father's knee. "Boys go to wait on the generals and things! I can wait on you. I can comb your hair, and bring your slippers. If I could be a waiter, I'd go a flyin'."
"Poor child," laughed Mr. Clifford, stroking Horace's head, "you're such a very little boy, only eight years old!"
"I'm going on nine. I'll be nine next New Year's Gift-day," stammered Horace, the bright flush dying out of his cheeks. "O, pa, I don't want you to go, if I can't go too!"
Mr. Clifford's lips trembled. He took the little boy on his knee, and told him how the country was in danger, and needed all its brave men.