"What do you make it of, grandma?" said he.
"Of molasses and warm water and yeast."
"But what gives the taste to it?"
"O, I put in spruce, or boxberry, or sarsaparilla."
"But see here, grandma: wouldn't you like to have me go in the woods 'some place,' and dig roots for you?"
"Yes, indeed, my dear," said she innocently; "and if you should go, pray get some wintergreen, by all means."
In Horace's heart gave a wicked throb of delight. If someone wanted him to go after something, of course he ought to go; for his mother had often told him he must try to be useful. Strolling into the woods with Peter Grant, just for fun, was very different from going in soberly to dig up roots for grandma.
He thought of it all the way out to the gate. To be sure, he might go and ask his mother again, but "what was the use when he knew certain sure she'd be willing? Besides, wasn't the baby crying, so he mustn't go in the room?"
These reasons sounded very well; but they could be picked in pieces, and Horace knew it. It was only when the baby was asleep that he must keep out of the chamber; and, as for being sure that his mother would let him go into the woods, the truth was, he dared not ask her, for he knew she would say, "No."
He found Peter Grant lounging near the school-house, scribbling his name on the clean white paint under one of the windows.