But Pincher couldn't eat the chicken, and couldn't be cured. His eyes grew larger and sadder, but there was the same patient look in them always. He fixed them on Horace to the last, with a dying gaze which made the boy's heart swell with bitter sorrow. "He wanted to speak, he wanted to ask me a question," said Horace, with sobs he did not try to control. O, it was sad to close those beautiful eyes forever, those beseeching eyes, which could almost speak. Mrs. Clifford came and knelt on the stone hearth beside the basket, and wept freely for the first time since her husband's death. "Dear little Pincher," said she, "you have died a cruel death; but your dear little master closed your eyes. It was very hard, poor doggie, but not so hard as the battle-field. You shall have a quiet grave, good Pincher; but where have they buried our brave soldier?" [Illustration: CAPTAIN HORACE AND HIS DOG. Page 138.] CHAPTER X. TRYING TO GET RICH. With his own hands, and the help of Grasshopper, who did little but hold the nails and look on, Horace made a box for Pincher, while Abner dug his grave under a tree in the grove. It was evening when they all followed Pincher to his last resting-place. "He was a sugar-plum of a dog," said Prudy, "and I can't help crying." "I don't want to help it," said Grace; "we ought to cry." "What makes me feel the worst," said sober little Susy, "he won't go to heaven." "Not forever'n ever amen?" gasped Prudy, in a low voice: "wouldn't he if he had a nice casket, and a plate on it neither?" The sky and earth were very lovely that evening, and it seemed as if everybody ought to be heart-glad. I doubt if Horace had ever thought before what a beautiful world he lived in, and how glorious a thing it is to be alive! He could run about and do what he pleased with himself; but alas, poor Pincher! The sun was setting, and the river looked uncommonly full of little sparkles. The soft sky, and the twinkling water, seemed to be smiling at each other, while a great way off you could see the dim blue mountains rising up like clouds. Such a lovely world! Ah! poor Pincher. It looked very much as if Horace were really turning over a new leaf. He was still quite trying sometimes, leaving the milk-room door open when puss was watching for the cream-pot, or slamming the kitchen door with a bang when everybody needed fresh air. He still kept his chamber in a state of confusion,--"muss," Grace called it,--pulling the drawers out of the bureau, and scattering the contents over the floor; dropping his clothes anywhere it happened, and carrying quantities of gravel up stairs in his shoes.