"Why, I suppose, Henry, it would hardly be safe to send Grace, on account of her cough."
"I'm so sorry you asked Dr. De Bruler a word about it, mamma; but I suppose I must submit," said Grace, with a face as cloudy as Horace's.
"Horace, my son, do you really feel equal to the task of taking this tuft of feathers to New York?"
"I don't know why not, father; I'm willing to try."
"Horace has good courage," said Grace, shaking her auburn curls like so many exclamation points. "I never could! I never would! I'd as soon have the care of a flying squirrel!"
"Hollis never called me a squirl," said Fly, demurely. "I've got two brothers, and one of 'em is an angel, and the other isn't; but Hollis is 'most as good as the one up in the sky."
"Well, my son," remarked Mr. Clifford, after a pause, "if your mother gives her consent, I suppose I shall give mine; but it does not look clear to me yet. One thing is certain, Horace; if you do undertake this journey, you must live on the watch: you must sleep with both eyes open. Don't trust the child out of your sight—not for a moment. Don't even let go her hand on the street."
"I do believe Horace will be as careful as either you or I, Henry, or I certainly wouldn't trust him with our last little darling," said Mrs. Clifford.
His mother's words dropped like balm upon Horace's wounded spirit. He looked up, and felt himself a man again.