The horse behind was creeping up now, and his open nostrils were visible past the light hair blowing about Judith’s neck.  Crittenden spoke one quiet word to his own horse, and Judith saw the leaders of his wrist begin to stand out as Raincrow settled into the long reach that had sent his sire a winner under many a string.

“Well, I know what he meant—­that boy never will.  And that is as a man should be.  The hope of the race isn’t in this buggy—­it has gone on before with Phyllis and Basil.”

Once the buggy wheels ran within an inch of a rather steep bank, and straight ahead was a short line of broken limestone so common on bluegrass turnpikes, but Judith had the Southern girl’s trust and courage, and seemed to notice the reckless drive as little as did Crittenden, who made the wheels straddle the stones, when the variation of an inch or two would have lamed his horse and overturned them.

“Yes, they are as frank as birds in their love-making, and they will marry with as little question as birds do when they nest.  They will have a house full of children—­I have heard her mother say that was her ambition and the ambition she had for her children; and they will live a sane, wholesome, useful, happy life.”

The buggy behind had made a little spurt, and the horses were almost neck and neck.  Wharton looked ugly, and the black-eyed girl with fluffy black hair was looking behind Judith’s head at Crittenden and was smiling.  Not once had Judith turned her head, even to see who they were.  Crittenden hardly knew whether she was conscious of the race, but they were approaching her gate now and he found out.

“Shall I turn in?” he asked.

“Go on,” said Judith.

There was a long, low hill before them, and up that Crittenden let Raincrow have his full speed for the first time.  The panting nostrils of the other horse fell behind—­out of sight—­out of hearing.

“And if he doesn’t get back from the war, she will mourn for him sincerely for a year or two and then——­”

“Marry someone else.”

“Why not?”

That was what she had so often told him to do, and now he spoke as though it were quite possible—­even for him; and she was both glad and a little resentful.

At the top of the hill they turned.  The enemy was trotting leisurely up the slope, having given up the race earlier than they knew.  Judith’s face was flushed.

“I don’t think you are so very old,” she said.

[Illustration:  “Go on!” said Judith.]

Crittenden laughed, and took off his hat very politely when they met the buggy, but Wharton looked surly.  The girl with the black hair looked sharply at Judith, and then again at Crittenden, and smiled.  She must have cared little for her companion, Judith thought, or something for Crittenden, and yet she knew that most women smiled at Crittenden, even when they did not know him very well.  Still she asked:  “And the other things—­you meant other women?”