"Yes," chimed in Grace, pushing back her beautiful curls, "you don't know how ma and I fret about you. You'll kill poor ma before ever we can get you East!"
Horace hung his head for shame, and decided that it didn't "pay" to punish Mr. Lazelle, if his mother must suffer too. He meant, for her sake, to "turn over a new leaf," though he did not say so.
On the afternoon of their second day's ride, they reached the beautiful city of Cleveland.
Here they were to rest for a few hours. Their clothes were sadly tumbled, their collars dust-color, and their faces and hair rough with cinders. A thorough washing and brushing and some fresh ruffles and laces gave a much tidier appearance to the whole party.
After Grace and Horace were ready, Mrs. Clifford thought they might as well go downstairs while she tried to rock little Katie to sleep.
"Be sure not to go away from the house," said she. "Grace, I depend upon you to take care of Horace, for he may forget."
The children had been standing on the piazza for some time, watching the people passing, while Mr. Lazelle lounged near by, talking politics with some gentlemen. In a little while Mrs. Clifford sent for Grace to go upstairs and amuse the poor baby, who could not be rocked to sleep.
For a few moments after she had gone Horace stood near the door, still gazing into the street, when suddenly he heard a faint sound of martial music: a brass band was turning the corner. Soon they were in sight, men in handsome uniform, drawing music from various instruments, picking, blowing, or beating it out, as the case might be.
It was glorious, Horace thought. He could not keep still. He ran out, and threw up his cap before he knew it almost, shouting with delight,—
"Ho, Mr. Lazelle! ain't that jolly? Ho, Mr. Lazelle! where are you, anyhow?"