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.