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.