Crittenden | Page 5

pang, Crittenden thought of the suffering she had
known from one war. Basil's way was clear, and he could never ask the
boy to give up to him because he was the elder. Was it fair to his brave
mother for him to go, too--was it right?
"Yes mother," he said, soberly.

III
The Legion came next morning and pitched camp in a woodland of oak
and sugar trees, where was to be voiced a patriotic welcome by a great
editor, a great orator, and young Crittenden.
Before noon, company streets were laid out and lined with tents and,
when the first buggies and rockaways began to roll in from the country,
every boy-soldier was brushed and burnished to defy the stare of
inspection and to quite dazzle the eye of masculine envy or feminine
admiration.
In the centre of the woodland was a big auditorium, where the speaking
was to take place. After the orators were done, there was to be a
regimental review in the bluegrass pasture in front of historic Ashland.
It was at the Colonel's tent, where Crittenden went to pay his respects,
that he found Judith Page, and he stopped for a moment under an oak,
taking in the gay party of women and officers who sat and stood about
the entrance. In the centre of the group stood a lieutenant in the blue of
a regular and with the crossed sabres of the cavalryman on his
neck-band and the number of his regiment. The girl was talking to the
gallant old Colonel with her back to Crittenden, but he would have
known her had he seen but an arm, a shoulder, the poise of her head, a
single gesture--although he had not seen her for years. The figure was
the same--a little fuller, perhaps, but graceful, round, and slender, as
was the throat. The hair was a trifle darker, he thought, but brown still,
and as rich with gold as autumn sunlight. The profile was in outline
now--it was more cleanly cut than ever. The face was a little older, but
still remarkably girlish in spite of its maturer strength; and as she
turned to answer his look, he kept on unconsciously reaffirming to his
memory the broad brow and deep clear eyes, even while his hand was
reaching for the brim of his hat. She showed only gracious surprise at
seeing him and, to his wonder, he was as calm and cool as though he
were welcoming back home any good friend who had been away a long
time. He could now see that the lieutenant belonged to the Tenth
United States Cavalry; he knew that the Tenth was a colored regiment;
he understood a certain stiffness that he felt rather than saw in the

courtesy that was so carefully shown him by the Southern volunteers
who were about him; and he turned away to avoid meeting him. For the
same reason, he fancied, Judith turned, too. The mere idea of negro
soldiers was not only repugnant to him, but he did not believe in negro
regiments. These would be the men who could and would organize and
drill the blacks in the South; who, in other words, would make possible,
hasten, and prolong the race war that sometimes struck him as
inevitable. As he turned, he saw a tall, fine-looking negro, fifty yards
away, in the uniform of a sergeant of cavalry and surrounded by a
crowd of gaping darkies whom he was haranguing earnestly.
Lieutenant and sergeant were evidently on an enlisting tour.
Just then, a radiant little creature looked up into Crittenden's face,
calling him by name and holding out both hands--Phyllis, Basil's little
sweetheart. With her was a tall, keen-featured fellow, whom she
introduced as a war correspondent and a Northerner.
"A sort of war correspondent," corrected Grafton, with a swift look of
interest at Crittenden, but turning his eyes at once back to Phyllis. She
was a new and diverting type to the Northern man and her name was
fitting and pleased him. A company passed just then, and a smothered
exclamation from Phyllis turned attention to it. On the end of the line,
with his chin in, his shoulders squared and his eyes straight forward,
was Crittenden's warrior-brother, Basil. Only his face coloured to show
that he knew where he was and who was looking at him, but not so
much as a glance of his eye did he send toward the tent. Judith turned
to Crittenden quickly:
"Your little brother is going to the war?" The question was thoughtless
and significant, for it betrayed to him what was going on in her mind,
and she knew it and coloured, as he paled a little.
"My little brother is going to the war," he repeated, looking at her.
Judith