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.