Mr. Clifford and his wife looked at each other across the table, and smiled.
"O, papa," said Grace, "I shouldn't want to be a soldier if I couldn't have anything nice to eat. Can't they get pies and canned peaches and things? Will they go without buckwheat cakes and sirup in the winter?"
"Ah! my little daughter, men who love their country are willing to make greater sacrifices than merely nice food."
Horace put on one of his lofty looks, for he somehow felt that his father was praising him.
"Pa," said Grace, "please tell me what's a sacrifice, anyhow?"
"A sacrifice, my daughter, is the giving up of a dear or pleasant thing for the sake of duty: that is very nearly what it means. For instance, if your mamma consents to let me go to the war, because she thinks I ought to go, she will make what is called a sacrifice."
"Do not let us speak of it now, Henry," said Mrs. Clifford, looking quite pale.
"O, my dear papa," cried Grace, bursting into tears, "we couldn't live if you went to the war!"
Horace looked at the acorn on the lid of the coffee-urn, but said nothing. It cost his little heart a pang even to think of parting from his beloved father; but then wouldn't it be a glorious thing to hear him called General Clifford? And if he should really go away, wasn't it likely that the oldest boy, Horace, would take his place at the head of the table?
Yes, they should miss papa terribly; but he would only stay away till he "got a general;" and for that little while it would be pleasant for Horace to sit in the arm-chair and help the others to the butter, the toast, and the meat.