For a few moments after she had gone Horace stood near the door, still gazing into the street, when, suddenly, he heard a faint sound of martial music: a brass band was turning the corner. Soon they were in sight, men in handsome uniform, drawing music from various instruments, picking, blowing, or beating it out, as the case might be. It was glorious, Horace thought. He could not keep still. He ran out, and threw up his cap before he knew it almost, shouting with delight,-- "Ho, Mr. Lazelle! ain't that jolly? Ho, Mr. Lazelle! where _are_ you, anyhow?" Probably, if the boy had stopped to think, he might have remembered that Mr. Lazelle was in the parlor; but no, Horace was sure he must have crossed the street to look at the band. "I'm going, too," said he to himself. "Of course, where Mr. Lazelle goes, I can go, for he has the care of me!" With that he dashed headlong into the crowd, looking here, there, and everywhere for Mr. Lazelle. But, O, that music! Did a little boy's boots ever stand still when a drum was playing, "March, march away"? No doubt his father was keeping step to just such sounds, on his path to martial glory! The fife and bugle whistled with magical voices, and seemed to say,-- "Follow, follow, follow on!" And Horace followed; sometimes thinking he was in search of Mr. Lazelle, sometimes forgetting it altogether. He knew he was doing very wrong, but it seemed as if the music almost drowned the voice of his conscience. In this way they turned street after street, till, suddenly, the band and the crowd entered a large public building. Then the music died out, and with it the fire of eagerness in the little boy's soul. Where _was_ Mr. Lazelle? If he could see him now, he would forgive the boxed ears. How could he ever find his way back to the hotel? It had not as yet entered his head to ask any one. He darted off at great speed, but, as it happened, in precisely the wrong direction. The houses grew smaller and farther apart, and presently he came to a high, sandy cliff overlooking the lake. Now the shades of night began to fall, and his stout heart almost failed him. The longing grew so strong to see mother, and Grace, and baby, that the tears would start, in spite of himself. At last, just as he was wondering which way to turn next, somebody touched his shoulder, and a rough voice said,-- "Hullo, my little man! What you doin' in this ward? Come; don't you pull away from me: I'm a city officer. Got lost, hey?" Horace shook with fright. O dear, was it a crime, then, to get lost? He remembered all the stories he had ever heard of lock-ups, and state-prisons, and handcuffs. "O, I didn't mean any harm, sir," cried he, trying to steady his voice: "I reckon I ain't lost, sir; or, if I am, I ain't lost _much_!" "So, so," laughed the policeman, good-naturedly; "and what was your name, my little man, before you got lost, and didn't get lost _much_?"