"What would happen to the other flag--the big one--if you left it flying?" she said. "In a gale? Go to ribands, probably--the real one." "Yes, the real one. But that is just what the bullets do to it!" said Cherry, her eyes glowing and deepening. "And everybody only loves such a flag the better." "And you love me the less." The girl started slightly, with the sudden transfer of the subject to herself, but she made no answer. "Speak!" Magnus said, getting hold of her hand and giving it a little shake. "Cherry, you've _got_ to speak. Do you?" "No," she answered slowly; "you know that could not be. We have been friends too long. I was a little disappointed, that is all." I suppose there are few wholesomer views a man can get of himself than through the eyes of the right sort of woman; but the wholesome is not always the sweet. Cadet Kindred said to himself just then that it was extremely bitter. He had been disappointed in himself, of course, more than once, but that was another matter. One gives little softening touches to one's own private lectures; excusing and explaining. Now, this true heart, which he well believed would never flinch in the direst extremity, had counted the minutes when the colours were down, measured the storm flag, and been "disappointed." If she had said sharper things, he could have borne it better. Was this weak girl going to sail away from him on every tack? This morning she had read pages where he knew not a word; this afternoon she was ready for the forefront of that life battle where he had at least _thought_ of dodging behind a tree. He sat looking down, slowly swinging her hand back and forth, thinking of the days and times when he had trained with the wrong crowd, giving countenance to what at heart he disapproved. Nothing so dreadfully bad, perhaps, but very small work for him, a servant of the Great King; not loyal, not dauntless. True, he had afterwards called himself to order; had "braced up" spiritually, and even for a time won the title of "saint"; but "steadfast, immovable," he had not been. And in that swift way in which thoughts work, there flashed upon him the story of one of the battles of the Wilderness, when, as the young colour-bearer was shot down, another caught the banner from his hand--and another from his, until for a few minutes the colours just fell and rose, fell and rose--but never allowed to touch the ground; not once. "Magnus----" "What?" he said. "Will you please to look up and speak?" The tone was deprecating, the dark eyes wistful and grave. "There does not anything please me just now, except holding your hand. No, you cannot get it away. You see, Cherry, this is how it is: there's a strong tide there, setting the way you shouldn't go." "Everywhere," put in Cherry.