drill. Two or three of them nodded to him as they
passed by, others looked at him askance and hurried on. The resentment
that had been roused in his breast at Captain Perry's announcement
flamed up anew; but as he turned into the quieter streets on his
homeward route this feeling gave way to one of envy, and then to one
of self-pity and grief. Hard as his lot had been in comparison with
the luxury he might have had had he remained at Bannerhall, he had
never repined over it, nor had he been envious of those whose lines
had been cast in pleasanter places. But to-night, after looking at
these sturdy young fellows in military garb preparing to serve their
state and their country in the not improbable event of war, an intense
and passionate longing filled his breast to be, like them, ready to
fight, to kill or to be killed in defense of that flag which day by
day claimed his ever-increasing love and devotion. That he was not
permitted to do so was heart-rending. That it was by his own fault
that he was not permitted to do so was agony indeed. And yet it was
all so bitterly unjust. Had he not paid, a thousand times over, the
full penalty for his offense, trivial or terrible whichever it might
have been? Why should the accusing ghost of it come back after all
these years, to hound and harass him and make his whole life wretched?

It was in no cheerful or contented mood that he entered his home and
responded to the affectionate greeting of his mother.

"You're home early, dear," she said.

"Didn't they keep you for drill? How does it seem to be a soldier?"

"I didn't enlist, mother."

"Didn't enlist? Why not? I thought that was the big thing you were
going to do."

"They wouldn't take me."

"Why, Pen! what was the matter? I thought it was all as good as
settled."

"Well, you know that old trouble about the flag at Chestnut Hill?"

"I know. I've never forgotten it. But every one else has, surely."

"No, mother, they haven't. That's the reason they wouldn't take me."

"But, Pen, that was years and years ago. You were just a baby. You've
paid dearly enough for that. It's not fair! It's not human!"

She, too, was aroused to the point of indignant but unavailing
protest; for she too knew how the boy, long years ago, had expiated to
the limit of repentance and suffering the one sensational if venial
fault of his boyhood.

"I know, mother. That's all true. I know it's horribly unjust; but
what can you do? It's a thing