At half past five his Aunt Millicent returned. She looked in at him from the hall, greeted him pleasantly, said something about the miserable weather, and then went on about her household duties.

Dinner had been waiting for fifteen minutes before Colonel Butler reached home, and, in the mild excitement attendant upon his return, Pen's injuries escaped notice. But, at the dinner-table, under the brightness of the hanging lamps, he could no longer conceal his condition. Aunt Millicent was the first to discover it.

"Why, Pen!" she exclaimed, "what on earth has happened to you?"

And Pen answered, frankly enough:

"I've been in a snowball fight, Aunt Milly."

"Well, I should say so!" she replied. "Your face is a perfect sight. Father, just look at Pen's face."

Colonel Butler adjusted his eye-glasses deliberately, and looked as he was bidden to do.

"Some rather severe contusions," he remarked. "A bit painful, Penfield?"

"Not so very," replied Pen, "I washed 'em off and put on some Pond's extract, and some court-plaster, and I guess they'll be all right."

The colonel was still looking at Pen's wounds, and smiling as he looked.

"The nature of the injuries," he said, "indicates that the fighting must have been somewhat strenuous. But honorable scars, won on the field of battle, are something in which any man may take pardonable—"

"Father Richard Butler!" exclaimed Aunt Millicent. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself! Pen, let this be the last snowball fight you indulge in while you live in this house. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, Aunt Millicent. There won't be any more; not any more at all."

"I should hope not," she replied; "with such a looking face as you've got."

Colonel Butler was temporarily subdued. Only the merry twinkle in his eyes, and the smile that hovered about the corners of his mouth, still attested the satisfaction he was feeling in his grandson's military prowess. He could not, however, restrain his curiosity until the end of the meal, and, at the risk of evoking another rebuke from his daughter, he inquired of Pen:

"A—Penfield, may I ask in which direction the tide of battle finally turned?"

"I believe we licked 'em, grandfather," replied Pen. "We drove 'em into the school-house anyway."

"Not, I presume, before some severe preliminary fighting had taken place?"

"There you go again, father!" exclaimed Aunt Millicent. "It's nothing but 'fighting, fighting,' from morning to night. What kind of a man do you think Pen will grow up to be, with such training as this?"

"A very useful, brave and patriotic citizen, I hope, my dear."

"Fiddlesticks!" It was Aunt Millicent's favorite ejaculation. But the colonel did not refer to the battle again at the table. It was not until after he had retired to the library, and had taken up his favorite position, his back to the fire, his eyes resting on the silken banner in the hall, that he plied Pen with further questions. His daughter not being in the room he felt that he might safely resume the subject of the fight.

"I would like a full report of the battle, Penfield," he said. "It appears to me that it is likely to go down as a most important event in the history of the school."

Pen shook his head deprecatingly, but he did not at once reply. Impatient at the delay, which he ascribed to the modesty characteristic of the brave and successful soldier, the colonel began to make more definite inquiry.

"In what manner was the engagement opened, Penfield?"

And Pen replied:

"Well, you know we built a snow fort in the school-house lot; and they sneaked up the back road, and cut across lots where we couldn't see 'em, and jumped on us suddenly from the stone-wall."

"Strategy, my boy. Military strategy deserving of a good cause. And how did you meet the attack?"

"Why, we pulled ourselves together and went for 'em."

"Well? Well? What happened?"

The colonel was getting excited and impatient.

"Well, we fought 'em and drove 'em down to the front of the school-house, and then they opened the door and sneaked in, just as I told you, and locked us out."

"Ah! more strategy. The enemy had brains. But you should have laid siege and starved him out."

"We did lay siege, grandfather."

"And did you starve him out?"

"No, they came out."

"And you renewed the attack?"

"Some of us did."

"Well, go on! go on! What happened? Don't compel me to drag the story out of you piecemeal, this way."

"Why, they—they played us another mean trick."

"What was the nature of it?"

"Well—you know that flag you gave the school?"

"Yes."

"They carried that flag ahead of 'em, Aleck Sands had it wrapped around him, and then—our fellows were afraid to fight."

"Strategy again. Military genius, indeed! But it strikes me, Penfield, that the strategy was a bit unworthy."

"I thought it was a low-down trick."

"Well—a—let us say that it was not the act of a brave and generous foe. The flag—the flag, Penfield, should be used for purposes of inspiration rather than protection. However, the enemy, having placed himself under the auspices and protection of the flag which should, in any event, be unassailable, I presume he marched away in safety and security?"

"Why, no—not exactly."

"Penfield, I trust that no one had the hardihood to assault the bearer of his country's flag?"

"Grandfather, I couldn't help it. He made me mad."

"Don't tell me, sir, that you so far forgot yourself as to lead an attack on the colors?"

"No, I didn't. I pitched into him alone. I had to lick him, flag or no flag."

"Penfield, I'm astounded! I wouldn't have thought it of you. And what happened, sir?"

"Why, we clinched and went down."

"But, the flag? the flag?"

"That went down too."

Colonel Butler left his place at the fire-side and crossed over to the table where Pen sat, in order that he might look directly down on him.

"Am I to understand," he said, "that the colors of my country have been wantonly trailed in the mire of the street?"

Under the intensity of that look, and the trembling severity of that voice, Pen wilted and shrank into the depths of his cushioned chair. He could only gasp:

"I'm afraid so, grandfather."

After that, for a full minute, there was silence in the room. When the colonel again spoke his voice was low and tremulous. It was evident that his patriotic nature had been deeply stirred.

"In what manner," he asked, "was the flag rescued and restored to its proper place?"

And Pen answered truthfully:

"I don't know. I came away."

The boy was still sunk deep in his chair, his hands were desperately clutching the arms of it, and on his pale face the wounds and bruises stood out startlingly distinct.

In the colonel's breast grief and indignation were rapidly giving way to wrath.

"And so," he added, his voice rising with every word, "you added insult to injury; and having forced the nation's banner to the earth, you deliberately turned your back on it and came away?"

Pen did not answer. He could not.

"I say," repeated the colonel, "you deliberately turned your back on it, and came away?"

"Yes, sir."

Colonel Butler crossed back to the fire-place, and then he strode into the hall. He put on his hat and was struggling into his overcoat when his daughter came in from the dining-room and discovered him.

"Why, father!" she exclaimed, "where are you going?"

"I am going," he replied, "to perform a patriotic duty."

"Oh, don't go out again to-night," she pleaded. "You've had a hard trip to-day, and you're tired. Let Pen do your errand. Pen, come here!"

The boy came at her bidding. The colonel paused to consider.

"On second thought," he said, finally, "it may be better that I should not go in person. Penfield, you will go at once, wherever it may be necessary, and inquire as to the present condition and location of the American flag belonging to the Chestnut Hill school, and return and report to me."

"Yes, sir."

Pen put on his hat and coat, took his umbrella, and went out into the rain. Six blocks away he stopped at Elmer Cuddeback's door and rang the bell. Elmer himself came in answer to the ring.

"Come out on the porch a minute," said Pen. "I want to speak to you."

Elmer came out and closed the door behind him.

"Tell me," continued Pen, "what became of the flag this afternoon, after I left."

"Oh, we picked it up and carried it into the school-house. Why?"

"My grandfather wants to know."

"Well, you can tell him it isn't hurt much. It got tore a little bit in one corner; and it had some dirt on it. But we cleaned her up, and dried her out, and put her back in her place."

"Thank you for doing it."

"Oh, that's all right. But, say, Pen, I'm sorry for you."

"Why?"

"On account of what happened."

"Did I hurt Aleck much?"

A sudden fear of worse things had entered Pen's mind.

"No, not much. He limped home by himself."

"Then, what is it?"

Pen knew, well enough, what it was; but he could not do otherwise than ask.

"Why, it's because of what you did to the flag. Everybody's talking about it."

"Let 'em talk. I don't care."

But he did care, nevertheless. He went back home in a fever of apprehension and anxiety. Suppose his grandfather should learn the whole truth, as, sooner or later he surely would. What then? Pen decided that it would be better to tell him now.

At eight o'clock, when he returned home, he found Colonel Butler still seated in the library, busy with a book. He removed his cap and coat in the hall, and went in. The colonel looked up inquiringly.

"The flag," reported Pen, "was picked up by the boys, and carried back to the school-house. It was cleaned and dried, and put in its proper place."

"Thank you, sir; that is all."

The colonel turned his attention again to his book.

Pen stood, for a moment, irresolute, before proceeding with his confession. Then he began:

"Grandfather, I'm very sorry for what occurred, and especially—"

"I do not care to hear any more to-night. Further apologies may be deferred to a more appropriate time."

Again the colonel resumed his reading.

The next day was Sunday; but, on account of the unattractive appearance of his face, Pen was excused from attending either church or Sunday-school. Monday was Washington's birthday, and a holiday, and there was no school. So that Pen had two whole days in which to recover from his wounds. But he did not so easily recover from his depression. Nothing more had been said by Colonel Butler about the battle, and Pen, on his part, did not dare again to broach the subject. Yet every hour that went by was filled with apprehension, and punctuated with false alarms. It was evident that the colonel had not yet heard the full story, and it was just as evident that the portion of it that he had heard had disturbed him almost beyond precedent. He was taciturn in speech, and severe and formal in manner. To misuse and neglect the flag of his country was, indeed, no venial offense in his eyes.

Pen had not been out all day Monday, save to go on one or two unimportant errands for his aunt. Why he had not cared to go out was not quite clear, even to himself. Ordinarily he would have sought his schoolfellows, and would have exhibited his wounds, these silent and substantial witnesses of his personal prowess, with "pardonable pride." Nor did his schoolfellows come to seek him. That was strange too. Why had they not dropped in, as was their custom, to talk over the battle? It was almost dark of the second day, and not a single boy had been to see him or inquire for him. It was more than strange; it was ominous.

After the evening meal Colonel Butler went out; a somewhat unusual occurrence, as, in his later years, he had become increasingly fond of his books and papers, his wood-fire and his easy chair. But, on this particular evening, there was to be a meeting of a certain patriotic society of which he was an enthusiastic member, and he felt that he must attend it. After he had gone Pen tried to study, but he could not keep his thought on his work. Then he took up a stirring piece of fiction and began to read: but the most exciting scenes depicted in it floated hazily across his mind. His Aunt Millicent tried to engage him in conversation, but he either could not or did not wish to talk. At nine o'clock he said good-night to his aunt, and retired to his room. At half past nine Colonel Butler returned home. His daughter went into the hall and greeted him and helped him off with his coat, but he scarcely spoke to her. When he came in under the brighter lights of the library, she saw that his face was haggard, his jaws set, and his eyes strangely bright.

"What is it, father?" she said. "Something has happened."

He did not reply to her question, but he asked:

"Has Penfield retired?"

"He went to his room a good half hour ago, father."

"I desire to see him."

"He may have gone to bed."

"I desire to see him under any circumstances. You will please communicate my wish to him."

"But, father—"

"Did you hear me, daughter?"

"Father! What terrible thing has happened?"

"A thing so terrible that I desire confirmation of it from Penfield's lips before I shall fully believe it. You will please call him."

She could not disobey that command. She went tremblingly up the stairs and returned in a minute or two to say:

"Pen had not yet gone to bed, father. He will be down as soon as he puts on his coat and shoes."

"Very well."

Colonel Butler seated himself in his accustomed chair and awaited the advent of his grandson.

When Pen entered the library a few minutes later, his Aunt Millicent was still in the room.

"Millicent," said the colonel, "will you be good enough to retire for a time? I wish to speak to Penfield alone."

She rose and started toward the hall, but turned back again.

"Father," she said, "if Pen is to be reprimanded for anything he has done, I wish to know about it."

"This is a matter," replied the colonel, severely, "that can be adjusted only between Penfield and me."

She saw that he was determined, and left the room.

When the rustle attendant upon her ascent of the staircase had died completely out, the colonel turned toward Pen. He spoke quietly enough, but with an emotion that was plainly suppressed.

"Penfield, you may stand where you are and answer certain questions that I shall ask you."

"Yes, grandfather."

"While in attendance this evening, upon a meeting of gentlemen gathered for a patriotic purpose, I was told that you, Penfield Butler, had, on Saturday last, on the school-house grounds, trodden deliberately on the American flag lying in the slush of the street. Is the story true, sir?"

"Well, grandfather, it was this way. I was—"

"I desire, sir, a categorical reply. Did you, or did you not, stand upon the American flag?"

"Yes, sir; I believe I did."

"I am also credibly informed that you spoke disdainfully of this particular American flag as a mere piece of bunting? Did you use those words?"

"I don't know what I said, grandfather."

"Is it possible that you could have spoken thus disrespectfully of your country's flag?"

"It is possible; yes, sir."

"I am further informed that, on the same occasion, in language of which I have no credible report, you expressed your contempt for your country herself. Is my information correct?"

"I may have done so."

Pen felt himself growing weak and unsteady under this fire of questions, and he moved forward a little and grasped the back of a chair for support. The colonel, paying no heed to the boy's pitiable condition, went on with his examination.

"Now, then, sir," he said, "if you have any explanation to offer you may give it."

"Well, grandfather, I was very angry at the use they'd put the flag to, and I—well, I didn't just know what I was doing."

Pen's voice had died away almost to a whisper.

"And that," said the colonel, "is your only excuse?"

"Yes, sir. Except that I didn't mean it; not any of it."

"Of course you didn't mean it. If you had meant it, it would have been a crime instead of a gross offense. But the fact remains that, in the heat of passion, without forethought, without regard to your patriotic ancestry, you have wantonly defamed your country and heaped insults on her flag."

Pen tried to speak, but he could not. He clung to the back of his chair and stood mute while the colonel went on:

"My paternal grandfather, sir, fought valiantly in the army of General Putnam in the Revolutionary war, and my maternal grandfather was an aide to General Washington. My father helped to storm the heights of Chapultepec in 1847 under that invincible commander, General Worth. I, myself, shared the vicissitudes of the Army of the Potomac, through three years of the civil war. And now it has come to this, that my grandson has trodden under his feet the flag for which his gallant ancestors fought, and has defamed the country for which they shed their blood."

The colonel's voice had risen as he went on, until now, vibrant with emotion, it echoed through the room. He rose from his chair and began pacing up and down the library floor.

Still Pen stood mute. Even if he had had the voice to speak there was nothing more that he could say. It seemed to him that it was hours that his grandfather paced the floor, and it was a relief to have him stop and speak again, no matter what he should say.

"I have decided," said the colonel, "that you shall apologize for your offense. It is the least reparation that can be made. Your apology will be in public, at your school, and will be directed to your teacher, to your country, to your flag, and to Master Sands who was bearing the colors at the time of the assault."

Before his teacher, his country and his flag, Pen would have been willing to humble himself into the dust. But, to apologize to Aleck Sands!

Colonel Butler did not wait for a reply, but sat down at his desk and arranged his materials for writing.

"I shall communicate my purpose to Miss Grey," he said, "in a letter which you will take to her to-morrow."

Then, for the first time in many minutes, Pen found his voice.

"Grandfather, I shall be glad to apologize to Miss Grey, and to my country, and to the flag, but is it necessary for me to apologize to Aleck Sands?"

Colonel Butler swung around in his swivel-chair, and faced the boy almost savagely:

"Do you presume, sir," he exclaimed, "to dictate the conditions of your pardon? I have fixed the terms. They shall be complied with to the letter—to the letter, sir. And if you refuse to abide by them you will be required to withdraw to the home of your maternal grandfather, where, I have no doubt, your conduct will be disregarded if not approved. But I will not harbor, under the roof of Bannerhall, a person who has been guilty of such disloyalty as yours, and who declines to apologize for his offense."

Having delivered himself of this ultimatum, the colonel again turned to his writing-desk and proceeded to prepare his letter to Miss Grey. Apparently it did not occur to him that his demand, thus definitely made, might still be refused.

After what seemed to Pen to be an interminable time, his grandfather ceased writing, laid aside his pen, and turned toward him holding a written sheet from which he read:

"Bannerhall, Chestnut Hill, Pa. February 22.

"My dear Miss Grey:

"It is with the deepest regret that I have to advise you that my grandson, Penfield Butler, on Saturday last, by his own confession, dishonored the colors belonging to your school, and made certain derogatory remarks concerning his country and his flag, for which offenses he desires now to make reparation. Will you therefore kindly permit him, at the first possible opportunity, to apologize for his reprehensible conduct, publicly, to his teacher, to his country and to his flag, and especially to Master Alexander Sands, the bearer of the flag, who, though not without fault in the matter, was, nevertheless, at the time, under the protection of the colors.

"Master Butler will report to me the fulfillment of this request. With personal regards and apologies, I remain,

"Your obedient servant, "Richard Butler."

He folded the letter, placed it in an envelope, and handed it to Pen.

"You will deliver this to Miss Grey," he said, "on your arrival at school to-morrow morning. That is all to-night. You may retire."

Pen took the letter, thanked his grandfather, bade him good-night, turned and went out into the hall, and up-stairs to his room.



CHAPTER VI

It is little wonder that Pen passed a sleepless night, after the interview with his grandfather. He realized now, perhaps better than any one else, the seriousness of his offense. Knowing, so well as he did, Colonel Butler's reverence for all things patriotic, he did not wonder that he should be so deeply indignant. Pen, himself, felt that the least he could do, under the circumstances, was to publicly apologize for his conduct, bitter and humiliating as it would be to make such an apology. And he was willing to apologize to any one, to anything—save Alexander Sands. To this point of reparation he could not bring himself. This was the problem with which he struggled through the night hours. It was not a question, he told himself, over and over again, of whether he should leave Bannerhall, with its ease and luxury and choice traditions, and go to live on the little farm at Cobb's Corners. It was a question of whether he was willing to yield his self-respect and manhood to the point of humbling himself before Alexander Sands. It was not until he heard the clock in the hall strike three that he reached his decision.

And his decision was, to comply, in full, with his grandfather's demand—and remain at Bannerhall.

At the breakfast table the next morning Colonel Butler was still reticent and taciturn. He had passed an uncomfortable night and was in no mood for conversation. He did not refer, in any way, to the matters which had been discussed the evening before; and when Pen, with the letter in his pocket, started for school, the situation was entirely unchanged. But, somehow, in the freshness of the morning, under the cheerful rays of an unclouded sun, the task that had been set for Pen did not seem to him to be quite so difficult and repulsive as it had seemed the night before. He even deigned to whistle as he went down the path to the street. But he noticed, as he passed along through the business section of the town, that people whom he knew looked at him curiously, and that those who spoke to him did so with scant courtesy. Across the street, from the corner of his eye, he saw one man call another man's attention to him, and both men turned their heads, for a moment, to watch him. A little farther along he caught sight of Elmer Cuddeback, his bosom companion, a half block ahead, and he called out to him:

"Hey! Elmer, wait a minute!"

But Elmer did not wait. He looked back to see who had called to him, and then he replied:

"I can't! I got to catch up with Jimmie Morrissey."

And he started off on a run. This was the cut direct. There was no mistaking it. It sent a new fear to Pen's heart. It served to explain why his schoolfellows had not been to see him and sympathize with him. He had not before fully considered what effect his conduct of the previous Saturday might have upon those who had been his best friends. But Elmer's action was suspiciously expressive. It was more than that, it was ominous and forbidding. Pen trudged on alone. A group of a half dozen boys who had heretofore recognized him as their leader, turned a corner into Main street, and went down on the other side. He did not call to them, nor did they pay any attention to him, except that, once or twice, some of them looked back, apparently to see whether he was approaching them. But his ears burned. He knew they were discussing his fault.

In the school-house yard another group of boys was gathered. They were so earnestly engaged in conversation that they did not notice Pen's approach until he was nearly on them. Then one of them gave a low whistle and instantly the talking ceased.

"Hello, fellows!" Pen made his voice and manner as natural and easy as determined effort could make them.

Two or three of them answered "Hello!" in an indifferent way; otherwise none of them spoke to him.

If the battle of Chestnut Hill had ended when the enemy had been driven into the school-house, and if the conquering troops had then gone home proclaiming their victory, these same boys who were now treating him with such cold indifference, would have been flinging their arms about his shoulders this morning, and proclaiming him to the world as a hero; and Pen knew it. With flushed face and sinking heart he turned away and entered the school-house.

Aleck Sands was already there, sitting back in a corner, surrounded by sympathizing friends. He still bore marks of the fray.

As Pen came in some one in the group said:

"Here he comes now."

Another one added:

"Hasn't he got the nerve though, to show himself after what he done to the flag?"

And a third one, not to be outdone, declared:

"Aw! He's a reg'lar Benedic' Arnold."

Pen heard it all, as they had intended he should. He stopped in the aisle and faced them. The grief and despair that he had felt outside when his own comrades had ignored him, gave place now to a sudden blazing up of the old wrath. He did not raise his voice; but every word he spoke was alive with anger.

"You cowardly puppies! You talk about the flag! The only flag you're fit to live under is the black flag, with skull and cross-bones on it."

Then he turned on his heel and marched up the aisle to where Miss Grey was seated at her desk. He took Colonel Butler's letter from his pocket and handed it to her.

"My grandfather," he said, "wishes me to give you this letter."

She looked up at him with a grieved and troubled face.

"Oh, Pen!" she exclaimed, despairingly, "what have you done, and why did you do it?"

She was fond of the boy. He was her brightest and most gentlemanly pupil. On only one or two other occasions, during the years of her authority, had she found it necessary to reprimand him for giving way to sudden fits of passion leading to infraction of her rules. So that it was with deep and real sorrow that she deplored his recent conduct and his present position.

"I don't know," he answered her. "I guess my temper got the best of me, that's all."

"But, Pen, I don't know what to do. I'm simply at my wit's end."

"I'm sorry to have given you so much trouble, Miss Grey," he replied. "But when it comes to punishing me, I think the letter will help you out."

The bell had stopped ringing. The boys and girls had crowded in and were already seated, awaiting the opening of school. Pen turned away from his teacher and started down the aisle toward his seat, facing his fellow-pupils as he went.

And then something happened; something unusual and terrible; something so terrible that Pen's face went pale, he paused a moment and looked ahead of him as though in doubt whether his ears had deceived him, and then he dropped weakly into his seat. They had hissed him. From a far corner of the room came the first sibilant sound, followed at once by a chorus of hisses that struck straight to the boy's heart, and echoed through his mind for years.

Miss Grey sprang to her feet. For the first time in all the years she had taught them her pupils saw her fired with anger. She brought her gavel down on the table with a bang.

"This is disgraceful!" she exclaimed. "We are in a school-room, not in a goose-pond, nor in a den of snakes. I want every one who has hissed to remain here when school closes at noon."

But it was not until after the opening exercises had been concluded, and the younger children had gone out to the room of the assistant teacher, that she found an opportunity to read Colonel Butler's letter. It did help her out, as Pen had said it would. She resolved to act immediately upon the request contained in it, before calling any classes. She rose in her place.

"I have an unpleasant duty to perform," she said. "I hoped, when I gave you boys permission to have the snowball fight, that it would result in permanent peace among you. It has, apparently, served only to embitter you more deeply against each other. The school colors have been removed from the building without authority. With those guilty of this offense I shall deal hereafter. The flag has been abused and thrown into the slush of the street. As to this I shall not now decide whose was the greater fault. But one, at least, of those concerned in such treatment of our colors has realized the seriousness of his misconduct, and desires to apologize for it, to his teacher, to his country, to his flag, and to the one who was carrying it at the time of the assault. Penfield, you may come to the platform."

But Pen did not stir. He sat there as though made of stone, that awful hiss still sounding in his ears. Miss Grey's voice came to him as from some great distance. He did not seem to realize what she was saying to him. She saw his white face, and the vacant look in his eyes, and she pitied him; but she had her duty to perform.

"Penfield," she repeated, "will you please come to the platform? We are waiting for your apology."

This time Pen heard her and roused himself. He rose slowly to his feet; but he did not move from his place. He spoke from where he stood.

"Miss Grey," he said, "after what has occurred here this morning, I have decided—not—to—apologize."

He bent over, picked up his books from the desk in front of him, stepped out into the aisle, walked deliberately down between rows of astounded schoolmates to the vestibule, put on his cap and coat, and went out into the street.

No one called him back. He would not have gone if any one had. He turned his face toward home. Whether or not people looked at him curiously as he passed, he neither knew nor cared. He had been hissed in public by his schoolfellows. No condemnation could be more severe than this, or lead to deeper humiliation. Strong men have quailed under this repulsive and terrible form of public disapproval. It is little wonder that a mere schoolboy should be crushed by it. That he could never go back to Miss Grey's school was perfectly plain to him. That, having refused to apologize, he could not remain at Bannerhall, was equally certain. One path only remained open to him, and that was the snow-filled, country road leading to his grandfather Walker's humble abode at Cobb's Corners.

When he reached home he found that his grandfather and his Aunt Millicent had gone down the river road for a sleigh-ride. He did not wait to consider anything, for there was really nothing to consider. He went up to his room, packed his suit-case with some clothing and a few personal belongings, and came down stairs and left his baggage in the hall while he went into the library and wrote a letter to his grandfather. When it was finished he read it over to himself, aloud:

"Dear Grandfather:

"After what happened at school this morning it was impossible for me to apologize, and keep any of my self-respect. So I am going to Cobb's Corners to live with my mother and Grandpa Walker, as you wished. Good-by!

"Your affectionate grandson, "Penfield Butler."

"P. S. Please give my love to Aunt Millicent."

He enclosed the letter in an envelope, addressed it, and left it lying on the library table. Then he put on his cap and coat, took his suit-case, and went out into the sunlight of the winter morning. At the entrance gate he turned and looked back at Bannerhall, the wide lawn, the noble trees, the big brick house with its hospitable porch, the window of his own room, facing the street. Something rose in his throat and choked him a little, but his eyes were dry as he turned away. He knew the road to Cobb's Corners very well indeed. He had made frequent visits to his mother there in the summer time. For, notwithstanding his forbidding attitude, Colonel Butler recognized the instinct that drew mother and child together, and never sought to deny it proper expression. But it was hard traveling on the road to-day, especially with a burden to carry, and Pen was glad when Henry Cobb, a neighbor of Grandpa Walker, came along with horse and sleigh and invited him to ride.

It was just after noon when he reached his grandfather's house, and the members of the family were at dinner. They looked up in astonishment when he entered.

"Why, Pen!" exclaimed his mother, "whatever brings you here to-day?"

"I've come to stay with you awhile, mother," he replied, "if grandpa 'll take me in."

"Of course grandpa 'll take you in."

And then, as mothers will, especially surprised mothers, she fell on his neck and kissed him, and smiled through her tears.

"Well, I dunno," said Grandpa Walker, facetiously, balancing a good-sized morsel of food carefully on the blade of his knife, "that depen's on wuther ye're willin' to take pot-luck with us or not."

"I'm willing to take anything with you," replied Pen, "if you'll give me a home till I can shift for myself."

He went around the table and kissed his grandmother who had, for years, been partially paralyzed, shook hands with his Uncle Joseph and Aunt Miranda, and greeted their little brood of offspring cheerfully.

"What's happened to ye, anyhow?" asked Grandpa Walker when the greetings were over and a place had been prepared for Pen at the table. "Dick Butler kick ye out; did he?"

"Not exactly," was the reply. "But he told me I couldn't stay there unless I did a certain thing, and I didn't do it—I couldn't do it—and so I came away."

"Jes' so. That's Dick Butler to a T. Ef ye don't give him his own way in everything he aint no furder use for ye. Well, eat your dinner now, an' tell us about it later."

So Pen ate his dinner. He was hungry, and, for the time being at least, the echo of that awful hiss was not ringing in his ears. But they would not let him finish eating until he had told them, in detail, the cause of his coming. He made the story as brief as possible, neither seeking to excuse himself nor to lay the blame on others.

"Well," was Grandpa Walker's comment when the recital was finished, "I dunno but what ye done all right enough. They ain't one o' them blame little scalawags down to Chestnut Valley, but what deserves a good thrashin' on gen'al principles. They yell names at me every time I go down to mill, an' then cut an' run like blazes 'fore I can git at 'em with a hoss-whip. I'm glad somebody's hed the grace to wallop 'em. And es for Dick Butler; he's too allfired pompous an' domineerin' for anybody to live with, anyhow. Lets on he was a great soldier! Humph! I've known him—"

"Hush, father!"

It was Pen's mother who spoke. The old man turned toward her abruptly.

"You ain't got no call," he said, "to stick up for Dick Butler."

"I know," she replied. "But he's Pen's grandfather, and it isn't nice to abuse him in Pen's presence."

"Well, mebbe that's so."

He rose from the table, got his pipe from the mantel, filled it and lighted it, and went over and deposited his somewhat ponderous body in a cushioned chair by the window. Pen's mother and aunt pushed the wheel-chair in which Grandma Walker sat, to one side of the room, and began to clear the dishes from the table.

"Well," said the old man, between his puffs of smoke, "now ye're here, what ye goin' to do here?"

"Anything you have for me to do, grandpa," replied Pen.

"I don't see's I can send ye to school."

"I'd rather not go to school. I'd rather work—do chores, anything."

"All right! I guess we can keep ye from rustin'. They's plenty to do, and I ain't so soople as I was at sixty."

He looked the embodiment of physical comfort, with his round, fresh face, and the fringe of gray whiskers under his chin, as he sat at ease in his big chair by the window, puffing lazily at his pipe.

So Pen stayed. There was no doubt but that he earned his keep. He did chores. He chopped wood. He brought water from the well. He fed the horse and the cows, the chickens and the pigs. He drove Old Charlie in the performance of any work requiring the assistance of a horse. He was busy from morning to night. He slept in a cold room, he was up before daylight, he was out in all kinds of weather, he did all kinds of tasks. There were sore muscles and aching bones, indeed, before he had hardened himself to his work; for physical labor was new to him; but he never shirked nor complained. Moreover he was treated kindly, he had plenty to eat, and he shared in whatever diversions the family could afford. Then, too, he had his mother to comfort him, to cheer him, to sympathize with him, and to be, ever more and more, his confidante and companion.

And Grandpa Walker, relieved of nearly all laborious activities about the place, much to his enjoyment, spent his time reading, smoking and dozing through the days of late winter and early spring, and discussing politics and big business in the country store at the cross-roads of an evening.

One afternoon, about the middle of March, as the old man was rousing himself from his after-dinner nap, two men drove up to the Walker homestead, tied their horse at the gate, came up the path to the house and knocked at the door. He, himself, answered the knock.

"Yes," he said in response to their inquiry, "I'm Enos Walker, and I'm to hum."

The spokesman of the two was a tall young man with a very black moustache and a merry twinkle in his eyes.

"We're glad to see you, Mr. Walker," he declared. "My name is Hubert Morrissey, and the gentleman who is with me is Mr. Frank Campbell. We're on a hunting expedition."

"Perty late in the season fer huntin', ain't it? The law's on most everything now."

"I don't think the law's on what we're hunting for."

"What ye huntin' fer?"

"Spruce trees."

"Eh?"

"Spruce trees. Or, rather, one spruce tree."

"Well, ye wouldn't have to shoot so allfired straight to hit one in these parts. I've got a swamp full of 'em down here."

"So we understand. But we want a choice one."

"I've got some that can't be beat this side the White mountains."

"We've learned that also. We took the liberty of looking over your spruce grove on our way up here."

"Well; they didn't nobody hender ye, did they?"

"No. We found what we were looking for, all right."

"Jes' so. Come in an' set down."

Grandpa Walker moved ponderously from the doorway in which he had been standing, to his comfortable chair by the window, seated himself, picked up his pipe from the window-sill, filled it, lighted it and began puffing. The two men entered the room, closing the door behind them, and found chairs for themselves and occupied them. Then the conversation was renewed.

"We'll be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Walker," said Hubert Morrissey, "and tell you what we want and why we want it. It is proposed to erect a first-class liberty-pole in the school-yard at Chestnut Hill. A handsome American flag has already been given to the school. The next thing in order of course is the pole. Mr. Campbell and I have been authorized to find a spruce tree that will fill the bill, buy it, and have it cut and trimmed and hauled to town while the snow is still on. It has to be dressed, seasoned, painted, and ready to plant by the time the frost goes out, and there isn't a day to lose. There, Mr. Walker, that is our errand."

"Jes' so. Found the tree did ye? down in my swamp?"

"We certainly did."

"Nice tree, is it? What ye was lookin' fer?"

"It's a beauty! Just what we want. I know it isn't just the thing to crack up the goods you're trying to buy from the other fellow, but we want to be perfectly fair with you, Mr. Walker. We want to pay you what the tree is worth. Suppose we go down the hill and look it over, and then you can doubtless give us your price on it."

"'Tain't ne'sary to go down an' look it over. I know the tree ye've got your eye on."

"How do you know?"

"Oh, sort o' guessed it. It's the one by the corner o' the rail fence on the fu'ther side o' the brook as ye go in from the road."

"That's a good guess. It's the very tree. Now then, what about the price?"

The old man pulled on his pipe for a moment with rather more than his usual vigor, then removed it from his mouth and faced his visitors.

"Want to buy that tree, do ye?" he asked.

"Sure we want to buy it."

"Cash down, jedgment note, or what?"

The man with the black moustache smiled broadly, showing an even row of white teeth.

"Cash down," he replied. "Gold, silver or greenbacks as you prefer. Every dollar in your hands before an axe touches the tree."

Grandpa Walker inserted the stem of his pipe between his teeth, and again lapsed into a contemplative mood. After a moment he broke the silence by asking:

"Got the flag, hev ye?"

"Yes; we have the flag."

"Might I be so bold as to ask what the flag cost?"

"It was given to the school."

"Air ye tellin' who give it?"

"Why, there's no secret about it. Colonel Butler gave the flag."

"Dick Butler?"

"Colonel Richard Butler; yes."

It was gradually filtering into the mind of Mr. Hubert Morrissey that for some reason the owner of the tree was harboring a resentment against the giver of the flag. Then he suddenly recalled the fact that Mr. Walker was the father of Colonel Butler's daughter-in-law, and that the relation between the two men had been somewhat strained. But Grandpa Walker was now ready with another question:

"Is Colonel Richard Butler a givin' the pole too?"

"Why, yes, I believe he furnishes the pole also."

"It was him 't sent ye out here a lookin' fer one; was it?"

"He asked us to hunt one up for him, certainly."

"Told ye, when ye found one 't was right, to git it? Not to haggle about the price, but git it an' pay fer it? Told ye that, didn't he?"

"Well, if it wasn't just that it was first cousin to it."

"Jes' so. Well, you go back to Chestnut Hill, an' you go to Colonel Richard Butler, an' you tell Colonel Richard Butler that ef he wants to buy a spruce tree from Enos Walker of Cobb's Corners, to come here an' bargain fer it himself. He'll find me to hum most any day. How's the sleighin'?"

"Pretty fair. But, Mr. Walker—"

"No buts, ner ifs, ner ands. Ye heard what I said, an' I stan' by it till the crack o' jedgment."

The old man rose, knocked the ashes out of his pipe and put the pipe in his vest pocket, stretched himself, and reached for his cap. It was plain that he considered the interview at an end. The persuasive Mr. Morrissey tried to get a wedge in somewhere to reopen it, but he tried in vain. Enos Walker was adamant. So, disappointed and discomfited, the emissaries of Colonel Richard Butler bade "good-day," to the oracle of Cobb's Corners, and drove back to Chestnut Hill.



CHAPTER VII

On the morning after the interview with Enos Walker, Mr. Morrissey and Mr. Campbell went up to Bannerhall to report to Colonel Richard Butler. But they went hesitatingly. Indeed, it had been a question in their minds whether it would not be wiser to say nothing to Colonel Butler concerning their experience at Cobb's Corners, and simply to go elsewhere and hunt up another tree. But Mr. Walker's tree was such a model of perfection for their purpose, the possibility of finding another one that would even approach it in suitability was so extremely remote, that the two gentlemen, after serious discussion of the question, being well aware of Colonel Butler's idiosyncrasies, decided, finally, to put the whole case up to him, and to accept cheerfully whatever he might have in store for them. There was one chance in a hundred that the colonel, instead of scornfully resenting Enos Walker's proposal, might take the matter philosophically and accept the old man's terms. They thought it better to take that chance.

They found Colonel Butler in his office adjoining the library. He was in an ordinarily cheerful mood, although the deep shadows under his eyes, noticeable only within the last few weeks, indicated that he had been suffering either in mind or in body, perhaps in both.

"Well, gentlemen," he said when his visitors were seated; "what about the arboreal errand? Did you find a tree?"

Mr. Hubert Morrissey, as he had been the day before, was again, to-day, the spokesman for his committee of two.

"We found a tree," he replied.

"One in all respects satisfactory I hope?" the colonel inquired.

"Eminently satisfactory," was the answer. "In fact a perfect beauty. I doubt if it has its equal in this section of the state. Wouldn't you say so, Mr. Campbell?"

"I fully agree with you," replied Mr. Campbell. "It's without a peer."

"How will it measure?" inquired the colonel.

"I should say," responded Mr. Morrissey, "that it will dress up to about twelve inches at the base, and will stand about fifty feet to the ball on the summit. Shouldn't you say so, Mr. Campbell?"

"Just about," was the reply. "Not an inch under those figures, in my judgment."

"Good!" exclaimed the colonel. "Permit me to congratulate you, gentlemen. You have performed a distinct public service. You deserve the thanks of the entire community."

"But, colonel," said Mr. Morrissey with some hesitation, "we were not quite able to close a satisfactory bargain with the owner of the tree."

"That is unfortunate, gentlemen. You should not have permitted a few dollars to stand in the way of securing your prize. I thought I gave you a perfectly free hand to do as you thought best."

"So you did, colonel. But the hitch was not so much over a matter of price as over a matter of principle."

"Over a matter of principle? I don't understand you, sir. How could any citizen of this free country object, as a matter of principle, to having his tree converted into a staff from the summit of which the emblem of liberty might be flung to the breeze? Especially when he was free to name his own price for the tree."

"But he wouldn't name any price."

"Did he refuse to sell?"

"Not exactly; but he wouldn't bargain except on a condition that we were unable to meet."

"What condition? Who is the man? Where does he live?"

Colonel Butler was growing plainly impatient over the obstructive tactics in which the owner of the tree had indulged.

"He lives," replied Mr. Morrissey, "at Cobb's Corners. His name is Enos Walker. His condition is that you go to him in person to bargain for the tree. There's the situation, colonel. Now you have it all."

The veteran of the Civil War straightened up in his chair, threw back his shoulders, and gazed at his visitors in silence. Surprise, anger, contempt; these were the emotions the shadows of which successively overspread his face.

"Gentlemen," he said, at last, "are you aware what a preposterous proposition you have brought to me?"

"It is not our proposition, colonel."

"I know it is not, sir. You are simply the bearers of it. Permit me to ask you, however, if it is your recommendation that I yield to the demand of this crude highwayman of Cobb's Corners?"

"Why, Mr. Campbell and I have talked the matter over, and, in view of the fact that this appears to be the only available tree within easy reach, and is so splendidly adapted to our purposes, we have thought that possibly you might suggest some method whereby—"

"Gentlemen—" Colonel Butler had risen from his chair and was pacing angrily up and down the room. His face was flushed and his fingers were working nervously. "Gentlemen—" he interrupted—"my fortune is at your disposal. Purchase the tree where you will; on the hills of Maine, in the swamps of Georgia, on the plains of California. But do not suggest to me, gentlemen; do not dare to suggest to me that I yield to the outrageous demand of this person who has made you the bearers of his impertinent ultimatum."

Mr. Morrissey rose in his turn, followed by Mr. Campbell.

"Very well, colonel," said the spokesman. "We will try to procure the tree elsewhere. We thought it no more than right to report to you first what we had done. That is the situation is it not, Mr. Campbell?"

"That is the situation, exactly," assented Mr. Campbell.

The colonel had reached the window in his round of the room, and had stopped there.

"That was quite the thing to do, gentlemen," he replied. "A—quite—the thing—to do."

He stood gazing intently out through the window at the banks of snow settling and wasting under the bright March sunshine. Not that his eyes had been attracted to anything in particular on his lawn, but that a thought had entered his mind which demanded, for the moment, his undivided attention.

His two visitors stood waiting, somewhat awkwardly, for him to turn again toward them, but he did not do so. At last Mr. Morrissey plucked up courage to break in on his host's reverie.

"I—I think we understand you now, colonel," he said. "We'll go elsewhere and do the best we can."

Colonel Butler faced away from the window and came back into the room.

"Pardon me, gentlemen," he said. "My mind was temporarily occupied by a thought that has come to me in this matter. Upon further consideration it occurs to me that it may be expedient for me to yield on this occasion to Mr. Walker's request, and visit him in person. In the meantime you may suspend operations. I will advise you later of the outcome of my plans."

"You are undoubtedly wise, colonel," replied Mr. Morrissey, "to make a further effort to secure this particular tree. Wouldn't you say so, Mr. Campbell?"

"Undoubtedly!" replied Mr. Campbell with some warmth.

So the matter was left in that way. Colonel Butler was to inform his agents what, if anything, he had been able to accomplish by means of a personal interview with Mr. Walker, always assuming that he should finally and definitely decide to seek such an interview. And Mr. Hubert Morrissey and Mr. Frank Campbell bowed themselves out of Colonel Butler's presence.

While the cause of this sudden change of attitude on Colonel Butler's part remained a mystery to his two visitors, it was, in reality, not far to seek. For, as he looked out at his window that March morning, he saw, not the bare trees on the lawn, not the brown hedge or the beaten roadway; he saw, out somewhere among the snow-covered fields, laboring as a farmer's boy, enduring the privations of a humble home, and the limitations of a narrow environment, the lad who for a dozen years had been his solace and his pride, the light and the life of Bannerhall. How sadly he missed the boy, no one, save perhaps his faithful daughter, had any conception. And she knew it, not because of any word of complaint that had escaped his lips, but because every look and mood and motion told her the story. He would not send for his grandson; he would not ask him to come back; he would not force him to come. It was a piece of childish folly on the boy's part no doubt, this going away; due to his impetuous nature and his immature years; but, he had made his bed, now let him lie in it till he should come to a realization of what he had done, and, like the prodigal son of old, should come back of his own accord, and ask to be forgiven. Yet the days went by, and the weeks grew long, and no prodigal returned. There was no abatement of determination on the grandfather's part, but the idea grew slowly in his mind that if by some chance, far removed from even the suspicion of design, they should encounter each other, he and the boy, face to face, in the village street, on the open road, in field or farm-house, something might be said or done that would lead to the longed-for reconciliation. It was the practical application of this thought that led to his change of attitude that morning in the presence of his visitors. He would have a legitimate errand to the home of Enos Walker. The incidental opportunities that might lie in the path of such an errand properly fulfilled, were not to be lightly ignored nor peremptorily dismissed. At any rate the matter was worth careful consideration. He considered it, and made his decision.

That afternoon, after his daughter Millicent had gone down into the village in entire ignorance of any purpose that he might have had to leave the house, he ordered his horse and cutter for a drive. Later he changed the order, and directed that his team and two-seated sleigh be brought to the door. It had occurred to him that there was a bare possibility that he might have a passenger on his return trip. Then he arrayed himself in knee-high rubber boots, a heavy overcoat, and a fur cap. At three o'clock he entered his sleigh and directed his driver to proceed with all reasonable haste to Cobb's Corners.

Out in the country where the winds of winter had piled the snow into long heaps, the beaten track was getting soft, and it was necessary to exercise some care in order to prevent the horses from slumping through the drifts to the road-bed. And on the westerly slope of Baldwin's Hill the ground in the middle of the road was bare for at least forty rods. But, from that point on, whether his progress was fast or slow, Colonel Butler scrutinized the way ahead of him, and the farm-houses that he passed, with painstaking care. He was not looking for any spruce tree here, no matter how straight and tall. But if haply some farmer's boy should be out on an errand for the master of the farm, it would be inexcusable to pass him negligently by; that was all. And yet his vigilance met with no reward. He had not caught the remotest glimpse of such a boy when his sleigh drew up at Enos Walker's gate.

The unusual jingling of bells brought Sarah Butler and her sister to the window of the sitting-room to see who it was that was bringing such a flood of tinkling music up the road.

"For the land sakes!" exclaimed the sister; "it's Richard Butler, and he's stopping here. I bet a cookie he's come after Pen."

But Pen's mother did not respond. Her heart was beating too fast, she could not speak.

"You've got to go to the door, Sarah," continued the sister; "I'm not dressed."

Colonel Butler was already on his way up the path, and, a moment later, his knock was heard at the door. It was opened by Sarah Butler who stood there facing him with outward calmness. Evidently the colonel had not anticipated seeing her, and, for the moment, he was apparently disconcerted. But he recovered himself at once and inquired courteously if Mr. Walker was at home. It was the third time in his life that he had spoken to his daughter-in-law. The first time was when she returned from her bridal trip, and the interview on that occasion had been brief and decisive. The second time was when her husband was lying dead in the modest home to which he had taken her. Now he had spoken to her again, and this time there was no bitterness in his tone nor iciness in his manner.

"Yes," she replied; "father is somewhere about. If you will please come in and be seated I will try to find him."

He followed her into the sitting-room, and took the chair that she placed for him.

"I beg that you will not put yourself to too much trouble," he said, "in trying to find him; although I desire to see him on a somewhat important errand."

"It will not be the slightest trouble," she assured him.

But, as she turned to go, he added as though a new thought had come to him:

"Perhaps you have some young person about the premises whom you could send out in search of Mr. Walker, and thus save yourself the effort of finding him."

"No," she replied. "There is no young person here. I will go myself. It will take but a minute or two."

It was a feeble attempt on his part, and it had been quickly foiled. So there was nothing for him to do but to sit quietly in the chair that had been placed for him, and await the coming of Enos Walker.

Yet he could not help but wonder as he sat there, what had become of Pen. She had said that there was no young person there. Was the boy's absence only temporary, or had he left the home of his maternal grandfather and gone to some place still more remote and inaccessible? He was consumed with a desire to know; but he would not have made the inquiry, save as a matter of life and death.

It was fully five minutes later that the guest in the sitting-room heard some one stamping the snow off his boots in the kitchen adjoining, then the door of the room was opened, and Enos Walker stood on the threshold. His trousers were tucked into the tops of his boots, his heavy reefer jacket was tightly buttoned, and his cloth cap was still on his head.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Butler," he said. "I'm pleased to see ye. I didn't know as ye'd think it wuth while to come."

"It is always worth while," replied the colonel, "to meet a business proposition frankly and fairly. I am here, at your suggestion, to discuss with you the matter of the purchase of a certain tree."

Grandpa Walker advanced into the room, closing the door behind him, went over to the window, laid aside his cap, and dropped into his accustomed chair.

"Jes' so," he said. "Set down, an' we'll talk it over." When the colonel was seated he continued: "They tell me ye want to buy a spruce tree. Is that right?"

"That is correct."

"Want it fer a flag-pole, eh?"

"Yes. It is proposed to erect a staff on the school grounds at Chestnut Hill."

"Jes' so. In that case ye want a perty good one. Tall, straight, slender, small-limbed; proper in every way."

"Exactly."

"Well, I've got it."

"So I have heard. I have come to bargain for it."

"All right! Want to look at it fust, I s'pose."

"I have come prepared to inspect it."

"That's business. I'll go down to the swamp with ye an' we'll look her over."

Grandpa Walker rose from his chair and replaced his cap on his head.

"Is the tree located at some distance from the house?" inquired the colonel.

"Oh, mebbe a quarter of a mile; mebbe not so fer."

"A—have you some young person about, whom you could send with me to inspect it, and thus save yourself the trouble of tramping through the snow?"

Grandpa Walker looked at his visitor curiously before replying.

"No," he said, after a moment, "I ain't. I've got a young feller stoppin' with me; but he started up to Henry Cobb's about two o'clock. How fer beyond Henry's he's got by this time I can't say. I ain't so soople as I was once, that's a fact. But when it comes to trampin' through the woods, snow er no snow, I reckon I can hold up my end with anybody that wears boots. Ef ye're ready, come along!"

A look of disappointment came into the colonel's face. He did not move. After a moment he said:

"On second thought, I believe I will not take the time nor the trouble to inspect the tree."

"Don't want it, eh?"

"Yes, I want it. I'll take it on your recommendation and that of my agents, Messrs. Morrissey and Campbell. If you'll name your price I'll pay you for it."

Grandpa Walker went back and sat down in his cushioned chair by the window. He laid his cap aside, picked up his pipe from the window-sill, lighted it, and began to smoke.

"Well," he said, at last, "that's a prime tree. That tree's wuth money."

"Undoubtedly, sir; undoubtedly; but how much money?"

The old man puffed for a moment in silence. Then he asked:

"Want it fer a liberty-pole, do ye?"

"I want it for a liberty-pole."

"To put the school flag on?"

"To put the school flag on."

There was another moment of silence.

"They say," remarked the old man, inquiringly, "that you gave the flag?"

"I gave the flag."

"Then, by cracky! I'll give the pole."

Enos Walker rose vigorously to his feet in order properly to emphasize his offer. Colonel Butler did not respond. This sudden turn of affairs had almost taken away his breath. Then a grim smile stole slowly into his face. The humor of the situation began to appeal to him.

"Permit me to commend you," he said, "for your liberality and patriotism."

"I didn't fight in no Civil War," added the old man, emphatically; "but I ain't goin' to hev it said by nobody that Enos Walker ever profited a penny on a pole fer his country's flag."

The old soldier's smile broadened.

"Good!" he exclaimed. "That's very good. We'll stand together as joint donors of the emblem of freedom."

"And I ain't ashamed of it nuther," cried the new partner, "an' here's my hand on it."

The two men shook hands, and this time Colonel Richard Butler laughed outright.

"This is fine," he said. "I'll send men to-morrow to cut the tree down, trim it, and haul it to town. There's no time to lose. The roads are getting soft. Why, half of Baldwin's Hill is already bare."

He started toward the door, but his host called him back.

"Don't be in a hurry," said Grandpa Walker. "Set down a while, can't ye? Have a piece o' pie or suthin. Or a glass o' cider."

"Thank you! Nothing at all. I'm in some haste. It's getting late. And—I desire to make a brief call on Henry Cobb before returning home."

The old man made no further effort to detain his visitor; but he gave him a cordial invitation to come again, shook hands with him at the door, and watched him half way down to the gate. When he turned and re-entered his house he found his two daughters already in the sitting-room.

"Did he come for Pen?" asked Sarah Butler, breathlessly.

"Ef he did," replied her father, "he didn't say so. He wanted my spruce tree, and I give it to him. And I want to tell ye one thing fu'ther. I've got a sort o' sneakin' notion that Colonel Richard Butler of Chestnut Hill ain't more'n about one-quarter's bad as he's be'n painted."

Henry Cobb's residence was scarcely a half mile beyond the home of Enos Walker. It was the most imposing farm-house in that neighborhood, splendidly situated on high ground, with a rare outlook to the south and east. Mr. Cobb himself was just emerging from the open door of a great barn that fronted the road as Colonel Butler drove up. He came out to the sleigh and greeted the occupant of it cordially. The two men were old friends.

"It's a magnificent view you have here," said the colonel; "magnificent!"

"Yes," was the reply, "we rather enjoy it. I've lived in this neighborhood all my life, and the longer I live here the better I like it."

"That's the proper spirit, sir, the proper spirit."

For a moment both men looked off across the snow-mantled valleys and the wooded slopes, to the summit of the hill-range far to the east, touched with the soft light of the sinking sun.

"You're quite a stranger in these parts," said Henry Cobb, breaking the silence.

"Yes," was the reply. "I don't often get up here. I came up to-day to make an arrangement with your neighbor, Mr. Walker, for the purchase of a very fine spruce tree on his property."

"So? Did you succeed in closing a bargain with him?"

"Yes. He has consented to let it go."

"You don't say so! I would hardly have believed it. Now, I don't want to be curious nor anything; but would you mind telling me what you had to pay for it?"

"Nothing. He gave it to us."

"He—what?"

"He gave it to us to be used as a flag-staff on the grounds of the public school at Chestnut Hill."

"You don't mean that he gave you that wonderful spruce that stands down in the corner of his swamp; the one Morrissey and Campbell were up looking at yesterday?"

"I believe that is the one."

"Why, colonel, that spruce was the apple of his eye. If I've heard him brag that tree up once, I've heard him brag it up fifty times. He never gave away anything in his life before. What's come over the old man, anyway?"

"Well, when he learned that I had donated the flag, he declared that he would donate the staff. I suppose he didn't want to be outdone in the matter of patriotism."

"Good for him!" exclaimed Henry Cobb. "He'll be a credit to his country yet;" and he laughed merrily. Then, sobering down, he added: "But, say; look here! can't you let me in on this thing too? I don't want to be outdone by either of you. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll cut the tree, and trim it, and haul it to town to-morrow, free gratis for nothing. What do you say?"

Then the colonel laughed in his turn, and he reached out his one hand and shook hands warmly with Henry Cobb.

"Splendid!" he cried. "This efflorescence of patriotism in the rural districts is enough to delight an old soldier's heart!"

"All right! I'll have the pole there by four o'clock to-morrow afternoon, and you can depend on it."

"I will. And I thank you, sir; not only on my own account, but also in the name of the public of Chestnut Hill, and on behalf of our beloved country. Now I must go. I have decided, in returning, to drive across by Darbytown, strike the creek road, and go down home by that route in order to avoid drifts and bare places. Oh, by the way, there's a little matter I neglected to speak to Mr. Walker about. It's of no great moment, but I understand his grandson came up here this afternoon, and, if he is still here, I will take the opportunity to send back word by him."

He made the inquiry with as great an air of indifference as he could assume, but his breath came quick as he waited for an answer.

"Why," replied Henry Cobb, "Pen was here along about three o'clock. He was looking for a two-year old heifer that strayed away yesterday. He went over toward Darbytown. You might run across him if you're going that way. But I'll send your message down to Enos Walker if you wish."

"Thank you! It doesn't matter. I may possibly see the young man along the road. Good night!"

"Good night, colonel!"

The impatient horses were given rein once more, and dashed away to the music of the two score bells that hung from their shining harness.

But, although Colonel Richard Butler scanned every inch of the way from Henry Cobb's to Darbytown, with anxious and longing eyes, he did not once catch sight of any farmer's boy searching for a two-year old heifer that had strayed from its home.

At dusk he stepped wearily from his sleigh and mounted the steps that led to the porch of Bannerhall. His daughter met him at the door.

"For goodness' sake, father!" she exclaimed; "where on earth have you been?"

"I have been to Cobb's Corners," was the quiet reply.

"Did you get Pen?" she asked, excitedly.

"I did not."

"Wouldn't Mr. Walker let him come?"

"I made no request of any one for my grandson's return. I went to obtain a spruce tree from Mr. Walker, out of which to make a flag-staff for the school grounds. I obtained it."

"That's a wonder."

"It is not a wonder, Millicent. Permit me to say, as one speaking from experience, that when accused of selfishness, Enos Walker has been grossly maligned. I have found him to be a public-spirited citizen, and a much better man, in all respects, than he has been painted."

His daughter made no further inquiries, for she saw that he was not in a mood to be questioned. But, from that day forth, the shadow of sorrow and of longing grew deeper on his care-furrowed face.



CHAPTER VIII

It was well along in April, that year, before the last of the winter's snow disappeared, and the robins and blue-birds darted in and out among the naked trees. But, as the sun grew high, and the days long, and the spring languor filled the air, Pen felt an ever-increasing dissatisfaction with his position in his grandfather Walker's household, and an ever-increasing desire to relinquish it. Not that he was afraid or ashamed to work; he had sufficiently demonstrated that he was not. Not that he ever expected to return to Bannerhall, for he had no such thought. To beg to be taken back was unthinkable; that he should be invited back was most improbable. He had not seen his grandfather Butler since he came away, nor had he heard from him, except for the vivid and oft-repeated recital by Grandpa Walker of the spruce tree episode, and save through his Aunt Millicent who made occasional visits to the family at Cobb's Corners. That he deplored Pen's departure there could be no doubt, but that he would either invite or compel him to return was beyond belief. So Pen's tasks had come to be very irksome to him, and his mode of life very dissatisfying. If he worked he wanted to work for himself, at a task in which he could take interest and pride. At Cobb's Corners he could see no future for himself worthy of the name. Many times he discussed the situation with his mother, and, painful as it would be to her to lose him, she agreed with him that he must go. He waited only the opportunity.

One day, late in April, Robert Starbird dropped in while the members of the Walker family were at dinner. He was a wool-buyer for the Starbird Woolen Company of Lowbridge, and a nephew of its president. Having completed a bargain with Grandpa Walker for his scanty spring clipping of fleece, he turned to Pen.

"Haven't I seen you at Colonel Butler's, down at Chestnut Hill?" he inquired.

"Yes," replied Pen, "I'm his grandson. I used to live there."

"I thought so. Staying here now, are you?"

"Until I can get regular work; yes, sir."

"Want a job, do you?"

"I'd like one, very much."

"Well, we'll need a bobbin-boy at the mills pretty soon. I suppose—"

And then Grandpa Walker interrupted.

"I guess," he said, "'t we can keep the young man busy here for a while yet."

Robert Starbird looked curiously for a moment, from man to boy, and then, saying that he must go on up to Henry Cobb's to make a deal with him for his fleece, he went out to his buggy, got in and drove away.

Pen went back to his work in the field with a sinking heart. It had not before occurred to him that Grandpa Walker would object to his leaving him whenever he should find satisfactory and profitable employment elsewhere. But it was now evident that, if he went, he must go against his grandfather's will. His first opportunity had already been blocked. What opposition he would meet with in the future he could only conjecture.

With Old Charlie hitched to a stone-boat, he was drawing stones from a neighbor's field to the roadside, where men were engaged in laying up a stone wall. He had not been long at work since the dinner hour, when, chancing to look up, he saw Robert Starbird driving down the hill from Henry Cobb's on his way back to Chestnut Hill. A sudden impulse seized him. He threw the reins across Old Charlie's back, left him standing willingly in his tracks, and started on a run across the lot to head off Robert Starbird at the roadside. The man saw him coming and stopped his horse.

Panting a little, both from exertion and excitement, Pen leaped the fence and came up to the side of the buggy.

"Mr. Starbird," he said, "if that job is still open, I—I think I'll take it—if you'll give it to me."

The man, looking at him closely, saw determination stamped on his countenance.

"Why, that's all right," he said. "You could have the job; but what about your grandfather Walker? He doesn't seem to want you to leave."

"I know. But my mother's willing. And I'll make it up to Grandpa Walker some way. I can't stay here, Mr. Starbird; and—I'm not going to. They're good enough to me here. I've no complaint to make. But—I want a real job and a fair chance."

He paused, out of breath. The intensity of his desire, and the fixedness of his purpose were so sharply manifest that the man in the wagon did not, for the moment, reply. He placed his whip slowly in its socket, and seemed lost in thought. At last he said:

"Henry Cobb has been telling me about you. He gives you a very good name."

He paused a moment and then added:

"I'll tell you what I'll do. If you'll give the old gentleman fair notice—and not sneak away from him like a vagabond—I won't harbor any runaways—why, I'll see that you get the job."

Pen drew a long breath, and his face lighted up with pleasure.

"Thank you, Mr. Starbird!" he exclaimed. "Thank you very much. When may I come?"

"Well, let's see. To-day's Wednesday. Suppose you report for duty next Monday."

"All right! I'll be there. I'll leave here Monday morning. I'll speak to Grandpa Walker to-night."

"Very well. See you Monday. Good-by!"

"Good-by!"

Robert Starbird chirruped to his horse, started on, and was soon lost to sight around a bend in the road.

And Pen strode back across the field, prouder and happier than he had ever been before in all his life.

But he still had Grandpa Walker to settle with.

At supper time, on the evening after his talk with Robert Starbird, Pen had no opportunity to inform his grandfather of the success of his application for employment. For, almost as soon as he left the table, Grandpa Walker got his hat and started down to the store to discuss politics and statecraft with his loquacious neighbors. But Pen felt that his grandfather should know, that night, of the arrangement he had made for employment, and so, after his evening chores were done, he went down to the gate at the roadside to wait for the old man to come home.

The air was as balmy as though it had been an evening in June. Somewhere in the trees by the fence a pair of wakeful birds was chirping. From the swamp below the hill came the hoarse croaking of bull-frogs. Above the summit of the wooded slope that lay toward Chestnut Hill the full moon was climbing, and, aslant the road, the maples cast long shadows toward the west.

To Pen, as he stood there waiting, came his mother. A wrap was around her shoulders, and a light scarf partly covered her head. She had finished her evening work and had come out to find him.

"Are you waiting for grandpa?" she asked; though she knew without asking, that he was.

"Yes," was the reply. "I want to see him about leaving. I had a talk with Mr. Starbird this afternoon, in the road, and he's given me the job he spoke about. I wasn't going to tell you until after I'd seen grandpa, and the trouble was all over."

"You dear boy! And if grandpa objects to your going?"

"Well, I—I think I'll go anyway. Look here, mother," he continued, hastily; "I don't want to be mean nor anything like that; and grandpa's been kind to me; but, mother—I can't stay here. Don't you see I can't stay here?"

He held his arms out to her appealingly, and she took them and put them about her neck.

"I know, dear," she said; "I know. And grandfather must let you go. I shall die of loneliness, but—you must have a chance."

"Thank you, mother! And as soon as I can earn enough you shall come to live with me."

"I shall come anyway before very long, dearie. I worked for other people before I was married. I can do it again."

She laughed a little, but on her cheeks tears glistened in the moonlight.

Then, suddenly, they were aware that Grandpa Walker was approaching them. He was coming up the road, talking to himself as was his custom when alone, especially if his mind was ill at ease. And his mind was not wholly at ease to-night. The readiness with which Pen had, that day, accepted a suggestion of employment elsewhere, had given him something of a turn. He could not contemplate, with serenity, the prospect of resuming the burdens of which his grandson had, for the last two months, relieved him. To become again a "hewer of wood and drawer of water" for his family was a prospect not wholly to his liking. He became suddenly aware that two people were standing at his gate in the moonlight. He stopped in the middle of the road, to look at them inquiringly.

"It's I, father!" his daughter called out to him. "Pen and I. We've been waiting for you."

"Eh? Waitin' for me?" he asked.

"Yes, Pen has something he wants to say to you."

The old man crossed over to the roadside fence and leaned on it. The announcement was ominous. He looked sharply at Pen.

"Well," he said. "I'm listenin'."

"Grandpa," began Pen, "I want you to be willing that I should take that job that Mr. Starbird spoke about to-day."

"So, that's it, is it? Ye've got the rovin' bee a buzzin' in your head, have ye? Don't ye know 't 'a rollin' stone gethers no moss'?"

"Well, grandpa, I'm not contented here. Not but what you're good enough to me, and all that, but I'm unhappy here. And I saw Mr. Starbird again this afternoon, and he said I could have that job."

"Think a job in a mill's better'n a job on a farm?"

"I think it is for me, grandpa."

"Work too hard for ye here?"

"Why, I'm not complaining about the work being hard. It's just because farm work does not suit me."

"Don't suit most folks 'at ain't inclined to dig into it."

Then Pen's mother spoke up.

"Now, father," she said, "you know Pen's done a man's work since he's been here, and he's never whimpered about it. And it isn't quite fair for you to insinuate that he's been lazy."

"I ain't insinuatin' nothin'," replied the old man, doggedly. "I ain't findin' no fault with what he's done sence he's been here; I'm just gittin' at what he thinks he's goin' to do." He turned again to Pen. "Made up yer mind to go, hev ye?"

"Yes, grandpa."

"When?"

"Next Monday morning."

"Wuther I'm willin' or no?"

"I want you to be willing."

"I say, wuther I'm willin' or no?"

In the moonlight the old man's face bore a look of severity that augured ill for any happy completion to Pen's plan. A direct question had been asked, and it called for a direct answer. And with the answer would come the clash of wills. Pen felt it coming, and, although he was apprehensive to the verge of alarm, he braced himself to meet it calmly. His answer was frank, and direct.

"Yes, grandpa."

"Well, I'm willin'."

"Why, grandpa!"

"Father! you old dear!" from Pen's mother.

"I say I'm willin'," repeated the old man. "I hed hoped 't Pen'd stay here to hum an' help me out with the farm work. I ain't so soople as I use to be. An' Mirandy's man's got a stiddy job a-teamin'. An' the boy seemed to take to the work natural, and I thought he liked it, and I rested easy and took my comfort till Robert Starbird put that notion in his head to-day. Sence then I ain't had no hope."

"I'm sorry to leave you, grandpa, and it's awfully good of you to let me go, and you know I wouldn't go if I thought I could possibly stay and be contented."

"I understand. It's the same with most young fellers. They see suthin' better away from hum. And I ain't willin' to stand in the way o' no young feller that thinks he can better himself some'eres else. When I was fifteen I wanted to go down to Chestnut Hill and work in Sampson's planin' factory; but my father wouldn't let me. Consekence is I never got spunk enough agin to leave the farm. So I ain't goin' to stand in nobody else's way, you can go Monday mornin' or any other mornin', and I'll just say God bless ye, an' good luck to ye, an' start in agin on the chores."

Then Pen's mother, like a girl still in her sympathies and impulses, flung her arms around her father's neck, and hugged him till he was positively obliged to use force to release himself. And they all walked up the path together in the moonlight, and entered the house and told Grandma Walker and Aunt Miranda of Pen's contemplated departure, to which Grandpa Walker, with martyrlike countenance, added the story of his own unhappy prospect.

When Monday morning came Pen was up long before his usual hour for rising. He did all the chores, picked up a dozen odds and ends, and left everything ship-shape for his grandfather who was now to succeed him in doing the morning work. Then he changed his clothes, packed his suit-case and came down to breakfast. Grandpa Walker had offered to take him into town with Old Charlie, but Pen had learned, the night before, that Henry Cobb was going down to Chestnut Hill in the morning, and when Mr. Cobb heard that Pen also was going, he gave him an invitation to ride with him. He and the boy had become fast friends during Pen's sojourn at Cobb's Corners, and both of them anticipated, with pleasure, the ride into town.

After breakfast Grandpa Walker lighted his pipe and put on his hat but he did not go to the store, as had been his custom; he stayed to say good-by to Pen, and to bid him Godspeed, as he had said he would, and to tell him that when he lacked for work, or wanted a home, there was a latch-string at Cobb's Corners that was always hanging out for him. He did more than that. He shoved into Pen's hands enough money to pay for a few weeks' board at Lowbridge, and told him that if he needed more, to write and ask for it.

"It's comin' to ye," he said, when Pen protested. "Ye ain't had nothin' sence ye been here, and I kind o' calculate ye've earned it."

Pen's mother went with him to the gate to wait for Henry Cobb to come along; and when they saw Mr. Cobb driving down the hill toward them, she kissed Pen good-by, adjured him to be watchful of his health, and to write frequently to her, and then went back up the path toward the house she could not see for the tears that filled her eyes.

Henry Cobb drove a smart horse, and a buggy that was spick and span, and it was a pleasure to ride with him. He pulled up at the gate with a flourish, and told Pen to put his suit-case under the seat, and to jump in.

It was not until after they had left the Corners some distance behind them that the object of Pen's journey was mentioned. Then Henry Cobb asked:

"How does the old gentleman like your leaving?"

"I don't think he likes it very well," was the reply. "But he's been lovely about it. He gave me some money and his blessing."

"You don't say so!"

Henry Cobb stared at the boy in astonishment. It was not an unheard of thing for Grandpa Walker to give his blessing; but that he should give money besides, was, to say the least, unusual.

"Yes," replied Pen, "he couldn't have treated me better if I'd lived with him always."

Mr. Cobb cast a contemplative eye on the landscape, and, for a full minute, he was silent. Then he turned again to Pen.

"I don't want to be curious or anything," he said; "but would you mind telling me how much money the old gentleman gave you?"

"Not at all," was the prompt reply. "He gave me eighteen dollars."

"Good for him!" exclaimed the man. "He's got more good stuff in him than I gave him credit for. I was afraid he might have given you only a dollar or two, and I was going to lend you a little to help you out. I will yet if you need it. I will any time you need it."

Henry Cobb was not prodigal with his money, but he was kind-hearted, and he had seen enough of Pen to feel that he was taking no risk.

"You're very kind," replied the boy, "but grandpa's money will last me a good while, and I shall get wages enough to keep me comfortably, and I shall not need any more."

After a while Mr. Cobb's thoughts turned again to Grandpa Walker.

"He'll miss you terribly," he said to Pen. "He hasn't had so easy a time in all his life before as he's had this spring, with you to do all the farm chores and help around the house. It'll be like pulling teeth for him to get into harness again."

Henry Cobb gave a little chuckle. He knew how fond Grandpa Walker was of comfortable ease.

"Well," replied Pen, "I'm sorry to go, and leave him with all the work to do; but you know how it is, Mr. Cobb."

"Yes, I know; I know. And you're going with splendid people. I've known the Starbirds all my life. None better in the country."

They had reached the summit of the elevation overlooking the valley that holds Chestnut Hill. Spring lay all about them in a riot of fresh green. The world, to boyish eyes, had never before looked so fair, nor had the present ever before been filled with brighter promises for the future. But the morning ride, delightful as it had been, was drawing to an end.

Coming from Cobb's Corners into Chestnut Hill you go down the Main street past Bannerhall. Pen looked as he went by, but he saw no one there. The lawn was rich with a carpet of fresh, young grass, the crocus beds and the tulip plot were ablaze with color, and the swelling buds that crowned the maples with a haze and halo of elusive pink foretold the luxury of summer foliage. But no human being was in sight. The street looked strange to Pen as they drove along; as strange as though he had been away two years instead of two months. They stopped in front of the post-office, and he remained in the wagon and minded the horse while Henry Cobb went into a hardware store near by. People passed back and forth, and some of them looked at him and said "good-morning," in a distant way, as though it were an effort for them to speak to him. He knew the cause of their indifference and he did not resent it, though it cut him deeply. Last winter it would have been different. But last winter he was the grandson of Colonel Richard Butler, and lived with that old patriot amid the memories and luxuries of Bannerhall. To-day he was the grandson of Enos Walker, of Cobb's Corners, leaving the farm to seek a petty job in a mill, discredited in the eyes of the community because of his disloyalty to his country's flag. He was musing on these things when some one called to him from the sidewalk. It was Aunt Millicent.

"Pen Butler!" she cried, "get right down here and kiss me."

Pen did her bidding.

"What in the world are you doing here?" she continued.

"I'm on my way to Lowbridge," he said. "I have a job up there in the Starbird woolen mills, as bobbin-boy."

"Well, for goodness sake! Who would have thought it? Pen Butler going to work as a bobbin-boy! And Lowbridge is fourteen miles away, and we shall never see you again."