Horace's stout little heart wavered for a moment. He fancied moccasins very much. In his mind's eye he saw a pair shining with all the colors of the rainbow, and as Wampum had said of the melons, "very much he wanted them." How handsome they'd be with his Zouave suit! But the wavering did not last long. He remembered the blue book which his mother was to see next week; for then the month would be out. "It wouldn't be a 'D.,'" thought he, "for nobody told me _not_ to give the watermelons." "No," said Conscience; "'twould be a black S.; _that_ stands for stealing! What, a boy with a dead father, a dead soldier-father, _steal_! A boy called Horace Clifford! The boy whose father had said, 'Remember God sees all you do!'" "Wampum," said Horace, firmly, "you just stop that kind of talk! Moccasins are right pretty; but I wouldn't steal, no, not if you gave me a bushel of 'em." After this, Horace was disgusted with his little friend, not remembering that there are a great many excuses to be made for a half-civilized child. They had a serious quarrel, and Wampum's temper proved to be very bad. If the little savage had not struck him, I hope Horace would have dropped his society all the same; because, after Wampum proved to be a thief, it would have been sheer disobedience on Horace's part to play with him any longer. Of course the plan of basket-making was given up; but our little Horace did one thing which was noble in a boy of his age: perhaps he remembered what his father had said long ago in regard to the injured watch; but, at any rate, he went to Billy Green of his own accord, and offered him the beautiful present which he had received from the Indians. "It's not a horse-basket, Billy: I didn't get to make one," stammered he, in a choked voice; "but you said you'd call it square." "Whew!" cried Billy, very much astonished: "now look here, bub; that's a little too bad! The old thing you lugged off was about worn out, anyhow. Don't want any of your fancy baskets: so just carry it back, my fine little shaver." To say that Horace was very happy, would not half express the delight he felt as he ran home with the beautiful basket on his arm, his "ownest own," beyond the right of dispute. The Indians disappeared quite suddenly; and perhaps it was nothing surprising that, the very next morning after they left, grandpa Parlin should find his beautiful melon-patch stripped nearly bare, with nothing left on the vines but a few miserable green little melons. CHAPTER XII. A PLEASANT SURPRISE. "It's too bad," said Horace to his sister, "that I didn't get to make baskets; I'd have grown rich so soon. What would you try to do next?" "Pick berries," suggested Grace.