n the resentful glance she
darted at her guest, for she could read Fred's suffering.

"Hah! made of the right stuff, like his father, Mistress Forrester. Did
that hurt you, my boy?"

"Of course it did," said Fred, sharply.

"Then why didn't you cry out or flinch, eh?"

This was accompanied by a tighter grip, which seemed as if the
stranger's fingers were made of iron.

The grip was but momentary, and the boy stood like a rock.

"Well," said the stranger again, "why didn't you cry out?"

"Because I would not," replied the boy, frowning.

"Shake hands."

Fred tried to hold back, but the command was so imperious, and the firm,
sinewy hand before his face seemed to draw him, and he laid his own
within it, to feel the fingers close in a warm but gentle grasp, the
pressure being firm and kindly; and in place of the fierce look a
pleasant, winning expression came into the visitor's countenance, while
the left hand was now clapped upon the boy's shoulder, and closed in a
pressure as agreeable as the other was harsh.

"Glad to know you, my lad. That's frank and manly of you. The right
stuff in him, Mistress Forrester. He'll make a good man, colonel.
Well?"

"I didn't speak, sir," said Fred, in answer to the question and look.

"That's right, too. Don't be in too great a hurry to speak," said the
visitor; and somehow, to his own astonishment, Fred felt himself drawn
toward this imperious personage, who seemed to take command of every one
in the place. "Well, Forrester, you'll make a soldier of him."

"I--"

The hesitatingly spoken pronoun came from Mistress Forrester, who seemed
checked by the guest's quick look of reproof.

"I had not decided yet," said Colonel Forrester, gravely; and Fred
noticed that his father seemed to have suddenly grown rigid and stern in
manner and tone of voice. "What do you say, Fred? should you like to be
a soldier?"

"Yes, father; like you have been."

"No, no, Fred, my boy!" cried his mother.

"Madam," said their guest, "ladies do not always understand Latin, but a
certain Roman poet called Horace once said, `_Dulce et decorum est pro
patria mori_'. Let me modify it by saying, `to offer in time of need to
die for your country.' It does not follow that a man who fights for his
home and liberty dies. Good lad. Be a soldier."

"I will, sir," said Fred, firmly. "Father didn't die, mother."

"No, nor you shall not, my boy. There, now, we know one another, and I
hope