"O, little Horace," whispered she, "mother's little Horace!"
"Darling mamma!" responded the boy, kissing her pale lips and smoothing the hair away from her cheeks with his small fingers, which meant to move gently, but did not know how. And then the young childish heart, with its little load of grief, was pressed close to the larger one, whose deep, deep sorrow only God could heal.
They are wrong who say that little children cannot receive lasting impressions. There are some hours of joy or agony which they never forget. This was such an hour for Horace. He could almost feel again on his forehead the warm good-by kiss of his father; he could almost hear again the words:—
"Always obey your mother, my son, and remember that God sees all you do."
Ah, he had not obeyed, he had not remembered!
And that dear father would never kiss him, never speak to him again! He had not thought before what a long word Never was.
O, it was dreadful to shut his eyes and fancy him lying so cold and still on that bloody battlefield! Would all this awful thing be true to-morrow morning, when he waked up?
"O, mamma," sobbed the desolate child, "I and Grace will take care of you! Just forgive me, ma, and I'll be the best kind of a boy. I will, I will!"
Grandma had already led Grace away into the green chamber, where Aunt Madge sat with the baby. The poor little girl would not be comforted.
"O, grandma," she cried, "if we could know who it was that shot pa, our mayor would hang him! I do wish I could die, grandma. I don't want to keep living and living in this great world without my father!"