"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.