"I shouldn't care if she'd whip me right hard," thought Horace; "but she'll talk to me about God and the Bible, and O, she'll look so white!" "Peter, you go on ahead," said he aloud. "What for?" "O, I want to rest a minute with Pincher." It was some moments before Peter would go, and then he went grumbling. As soon as he was out of sight, Horace threw himself on his knees and prayed in low tones,-- "O God, I do want to be a good boy; and if I ever get out of this woods I'll begin! Keep the bears off, please do, O God, and let us find the way out, and forgive me. Amen." Horace had never uttered a more sincere prayer in his life. Like many older people, he waited till he was in sore need before he called upon God; but when he had once opened his heart to him, it was wonderful how much lighter it felt. He rose to his feet and struggled on, saying to Pincher, "Poor fellow, poor fellow, don't cry: we'll soon be home." "Hollo there, cap'n!" shouted Peter: "we're comin' to a clearin'." "Just as I expected," thought Horace: "why didn't I pray to God before?" [Illustration: IN THE WOODS.--Page 111.] CHAPTER VIII. CAPTAIN CLIFFORD. When Horace entered the yard, holding the poor dog in his arms, he felt wretched indeed. At that moment all the sulkiness and self-will were crushed out of his little heart. It seemed to him that never, never had there lived upon the earth another boy so wicked as himself. He forgot the excuses he had been making up about going into the woods because his grandmother wanted him to: he scorned to add falsehood to disobedience, and was more than willing to take his full share of blame. "If ma would whip me like everything," thought the boy, "I know I'd feel better." It was a long, winding path from the gate. The grounds looked very beautiful in the golden light of the afternoon sun. The pink clover-patch nodded with a thousand heads, and sprinkled the air with sweetness. Everything was very quiet: no one was on the piazza, no one at the windows. The blinds were all shut, and you could fancy that the house had closed its many eyes and dropped asleep. There was an awe about such perfect silence. "Where could Grace be, and those two dancing girls, Susy and Prudy?" He stole along to the back door, and lifted the latch. His grandmother stopped with a bowl of gruel in her hand, and said, "O, Horace!" that was all; but she could say no more for tears. She set down the bowl, and went up to him, trying to speak; but the words trembled on her lips unspoken. "O, grandma!" said Horace, setting little Pincher down on a chair, and clutching the skirt of her dress, "I've been right bad: I'm sorry--I tell you I am." His grandmother had never heard him speak in such humble tones before. "O, Horace!" she sobbed again, this time clasping him close to her heart, and kissing him with a yearning fondness she had hardly ever shown since he was a little toddling baby. "My darling, darling boy!"