be thinking of something else, or she would
pity Pincher a great deal more.

The cold dinner which she set out on the table was very tempting, and he
ate heartily; but after every mouthful he kept asking, "What could be
the matter? Was baby worse? Had anybody took sick?"

But his grandmother stood by the stove stirring gruel, and would answer
him nothing but, "I'll let you know very soon."

She wanted the little boy to be rested and refreshed by food before she
told him a very painful thing. Then she took him up stairs with her into
her own chamber, which was quite shady with grape-vines, and so still
that you could only hear the buzzing of two or three flies.

She had brought a bowl of hot gruel on a little waiter. She placed the
waiter on the top of her washing-stand, and seated herself on the bed,
drawing Horace down beside her.

"My dear little grandson," said she, stroking his bright hair, "God has
been very good to you always, always. He loves you better than you can
even think."

"Yes, grandma," answered Horace, bewildered.

"He is your dear Father in heaven," she added, slowly. "He wants you to
love him with all your heart, for now--you have no other father!"

Horace sprang up from the bed, his eyes wild with fear and surprise, yet
having no idea what she meant.

"Why, my father's captain in the army! He's down South!"

"But have you never thought, dear, that he might be shot?"

"No, I never," cried Horace, running to the window and back again in
great excitement. "Mr. Evans said they'd put him in colonel. He was
coming home in six months. He couldn't be shot!"

"My dear little boy!"

"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,"