"What's the sense of cutting your hair so short?" "So as to see better how to skin us for 'too much shirt collar,'" replied Mr. Kindred. "Girls," said the mother, "you must really let him go to bed. I do not think he half knows what he is about." "Don't I, though!" cried Magnus, springing up. "Just one hour and a half ago tattoo beat, and I wasn't there to hear it." And once more the cap did duty in the air, as Magnus gave a tolerably quiet version of the class yell. "Go, child," his mother repeated, smiling at him. "Yes, I must," said Magnus. "Cherry said I should be pale to-morrow. It is worth while going to sleep, with no reveille gun ahead." XXVII OFF LIMITS Forgotten the sounds of drum and fife, Forgotten the winter days so drear; But all was keen with the glad new life That throbs in the veins in the furlough year. --_Howitzer of 1891._ It was just like the cross grain of human nature that without a sound but the singing of birds to rouse him, our young soldier should wake up at precisely reveille gun time. In fact he did it for three days, to his great disgust; and then, as he said of himself, learned to know how happy he was. Of course, this first morning at home, with everything before him except drills and regulations, going to sleep again was impossible. So with the sublime unconsciousness of other people's slumbers which marks young men of his age, Magnus lay still and began to whistle. And with that other line of forgetfulness which shows the inferiority of the feminine mind, there was not a woman in the house but would have given her best sleep to hear him. They were not asleep, however, but up and stirring; and it was perhaps some closing door or opening window, or the long unheard voice of the coffee mill, which reminded Cadet Kindred that in these regions there was no preparatory drum; and that such a noise as he had been making would quite rule out the thought of any private suggestions at his door. Wherefore, he had better get up. But what fun--to dress as he liked, in what he liked, and be as long as he liked about it. With these thoughts came another to hasten his motions: would Cherry come to breakfast? And if she did, then just when would she come? And here Magnus paused before a piquant illustration of the young lady herself, drawn from memory--or, as the _real_ novelists put it, "which had been photographed on his heart in one brief moment." And thus it seemed: A tall, delicately formed girl, with dark hair, which did not crinkle and curl like his own, but parted in shining waves and rings; a complexion colourless in general, but where the rosy tints came and went like a pink cloud, in swift pulsations. The eyes--no, Mr. Kindred thought he had not a fair look at her eyes last night, and that was one thing to do to-day. Also her hand was a soft and fresh thing to touch. And at this point Magnus opened his door and passed out.