"Now, Prudy," said Horace, "it isn't everybody can make such a sled as that! It's right strong, too; as strong as—why, it's strong enough to 'bear up an egg'!"
If Horace had done only such innocent things as to "drill" the little boys, make sleds for Prudy, and keep store with Gilbert, his mother might have felt happy.
But Horace was growing careless. His father's parting words, "Always obey your mother, my son, and remember that God sees all you do," did not often ring in his ears now. Mr. Clifford, though a kind parent, had always been strict in discipline, and his little son had stood in awe of him. Now that he had gone away, there seemed to be some danger that Horace might fall into bad ways. His mother had many serious fears about him, for, with her feeble health, and the care of little Katie, she could not be as watchful of him as she wished to be. She remembered how Mr. Clifford had often said, "He will either make something or nothing," and she had answered, "Yes, there'll never be any half-way place for Horace." She sighed now as she repeated her own words.
In his voyages of discovery Horace had found some gunpowder. "Mine!" said he to himself; "didn't Aunt Madge say we could have everything we found up-attic?"
He knew that he was doing wrong when he tucked the powder slyly into his pocket. He knew he did wrong when he showed it to Gilbert, saying,—
"Got any matches, Grasshopper?"
They dug holes in the ground for the powder, and over the powder crossed some dry sticks. When they touched it off they ran away as fast as possible; but it was a wonder they were not both blown up. It was pleasant, no doubt, to hear the popping of the powder; but they dared not laugh too loud, lest someone in the house should hear them, and come out to ask what they could be playing that was so remarkably funny.
Mrs. Clifford little thought what a naughty thing Horace had been doing when she called him in one day, and said, with a smiling face,—for she loved to make him happy,—"See, my son, what I have bought for you! It is a present from your father, for in his last letter he asked me to get it."
Horace fairly shouted with delight when he saw the beautiful Zouave suit, gray, bordered with red, and a cap to match. If he had any twinges of conscience about receiving this present, nobody knew it.
Here is the letter of thanks which he wrote to his father:—