"But O, grandma, is he killed? Say quick!"
His grandmother took out of her pocket a Boston Journal, and having put on her spectacles, pointed with a trembling finger to the list of "killed." One of the first names was "Captain Henry S. Clifford."
"O, Horace!" said Grace, opening the door softly, "I just thought I heard you. Ma wants you to come to her."
Without speaking, Horace gave his hand to his sister, and went with her while their grandmother followed, carrying the bowl of gruel.
At the door of Mrs. Clifford's room they met Aunt Louise coming out. The sight of Horace and Grace walking tearfully, hand in hand, was very touching to her.
"You dear little fatherless children," she whispered, throwing her arms around them both, and dropping tears and kisses on their faces.
"O, I can't, I can't bear it," cried Grace; "my own dear papa, that I love best of anyone in the world!"
Horace ran to his mother, and throwing himself on the bed beside her, buried his face in the pillows.
"O, ma! I reckon 'tisn't true. It's another Captain Clifford."
His mother lay so very white and still that Horace drew away when he had touched her; there was something awful in the coldness of her face. Her beautiful brown eyes shone bright and tearless; but there were dark hollows under them, deep enough to hold many tears, if the time should ever come when she might shed them.