"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 flying."
"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.
"I should feel a great deal easier about leaving my dear little family," said he, "if Horace never disobeyed his mother; if he did not so often fall into mischief; if he was always sure to remember."
The boy's neck was twisted around till his father could only see the back of his head.
"Look here, pa," said he, at last, throwing out the words one at a time, as if every one weighed a whole pound; "I'll give ma that money; I'll do it to-day."
"That's right, my boy! that's honest! You have given me pleasure. Remember, when you injure the property of another, you should always make amends for it as well as you can. If you do not, you're unjust and dishonest."
I will not repeat all that Mr. Clifford said to his little son. Horace thought then he should never forget his father's good advice, nor his own promises. We shall see whether he did or not.