"H'm, I don't know about that," said Magnus. "Tell her she can't have but half of it, fair and square."
"Oh, well, you know how I talk," said Mrs. Kindred. "She could not really, dear, nor anybody else. But she is the dearest girl, Magnus, and so wise. We have to get her to explain all the queer things in your letters."
"Do I write queer things?"
"Very; or they sound so to us. And I get quite worried sometimes. And then Cherry will say in that pretty way of hers, 'You know it is Magnus, Mrs. Kindred, so he could not mean that.'"
If two sparks flew from Cadet Kindred's eyes at these words, only the green moss at his feet was witness thereto. But, then, a very grave look came over his face. His mother watched him anxiously.
"You do not think I really meant that, dear?" she said. "No one on earth could fill my boy's place with me, Magnus."
"No, no; I understand," he said, without looking up. "But she deserves it so. Cherry is a great deal better than I am, mother."
The mother smiled contentedly. Very small improvement did her boy need for her. But she would not say that; just as well for him not to know how high he stood on the general merit roll. And it was a fine new West Point development, if Magnus was inclined to underrate his own perfections. Which, by the way, was not at all what that young man was doing. But Cherry's simple, unquestioning faith in him suddenly touched up his memory of certain things which (in spite of being "Magnus") he had done, and the recollection was not pleasant. Not very bad things, Oh, no! but by no means up to Cherry's standard.
"It's not worth while for her to come on before furlough," he said, thinking aloud.