"Yes, pa," replied Horace, clinging to his father's knee. "Boys go to wait on the generals and things! I can wait on you. I can comb your hair, and bring your slippers. If I could be a waiter, I'd go a flyin'." "Poor child," laughed Mr. Clifford, stroking Horace's head, "you're such a very little boy, only eight years old!" "I'm going on nine. I'll be nine next New Year's Gift-day," stammered Horace, the bright flush dying out of his cheeks. "O, pa, I don't want you to go, if I can't go too!" Mr. Clifford's lips trembled. He took the little boy on his knee, and told him how the country was in danger, and needed all its brave men. "I should feel a great deal easier about leaving my dear little family," said he, "if Horace never disobeyed his mother; if he did not so often fall into mischief; if he was always sure to _remember_." The boy's neck was twisted around till his father could only see the back of his head. "Look here, pa," said he, at last, throwing out the words one at a time, as if every one weighed a whole pound; "I'll give ma that money; I'll do it to-day." "That's right, my boy! that's honest! You have given me pleasure. Remember, when you injure the property of another, you should always make amends for it as well as you can. If you do not, you're unjust and dishonest." I will not repeat all that Mr. Clifford said to his little son. Horace thought then he should never forget his father's good advice, nor his own promises. We shall see whether he did or not. He was a restless, often a very naughty boy; but when you looked at his broad forehead and truthful eyes, you felt that, back of all his faults, there was nobleness in his boyish soul. His father often said, "He will either make something or nothing;" and his mother answered, "Yes, there never will be any half-way place for Horace." [Illustration: MR. CLIFFORD AND HIS SON. _Page 27._] Now that Mr. Clifford had really enlisted, everybody looked sad. Grace was often in tears, and said,-- "We can't any of us live, if pa goes to the war." But when Horace could not help crying, he always said it was because he "had the earache," and perhaps he thought it was. Mrs. Clifford tried to be cheerful, for she was a patriotic woman; but she could not trust her voice to talk a great deal, or sing much to the baby. As for Barbara Kinckle, she scrubbed the floors, and scoured the tins, harder than ever, looking all the while as if every one of her friends was dead and buried. The family were to break up housekeeping, and Barbara was very sorry. Now she would have to go to her home, a little way back in the country, and work in the fields, as many German girls do every summer. "O, my heart is sore," said she, "every time I thinks of it. They will in the cars go off, and whenever again I'll see the kliny (little) childers I knows not."