When Pen reached home on that afternoon after the battle of Chestnut Hill, he found that his Aunt Millicent was out, and that his grandfather had not yet returned from Lowbridge, the county seat, fourteen miles away. He had therefore an opportunity, unseen and unquestioned, to change his wet clothing for dry, and to bathe and anoint and otherwise care for his cuts and bruises. When it was all done he went down to the library and lighted the gas, and found a book and tried to read. But the words he read were meaningless. Try as he would he could not keep his mind on the printed page. Nor was it so much the snowball fight that occupied his thoughts. He was not now exulting at any victory he had obtained over his foes. He was not even dwelling on the strategy and trickery displayed by Aleck Sands and his followers in seeking protection under the folds of the flag; strategy and trickery which had led so swiftly and sharply to his own undoing. It was his conduct in that last, fierce moment of the fight that was blazoned constantly before his eyes with ever increasing strength of accusation. To think that he, Penfield Butler, grandson of the owner of Bannerhall, had permitted himself, in a moment of passion, no matter what the provocation, to grind his country’s flag into the slush under his heels; the very flag given by his grandfather to the school of which he was himself a member. How should he ever square himself with Colonel Richard Butler? How should he ever make it right with Miss Grey? How should he ever satisfy his own accusing conscience? Excuses for his conduct were plenty enough indeed; his excitement, his provocation, his freedom from malice; he marshalled them in orderly array; but, under the cold logic of events, one by one they crumbled and fell away. More and more heavily, more and more depressingly the enormity of his offense weighed upon him as he considered it, and what the outcome of it all would be he did not even dare to conjecture.

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.