from the old Sergeant, could he feel that he was regarded in a different light from the humblest soldier in the ranks—­which is just what he would have asked.  The Colonel had cast an envious eye on Raincrow at Tampa, and, straightway, he had taken the liberty of getting the Sergeant to take the horse to the Colonel’s tent with the request that he use him throughout the campaign.  The horse came back with the Colonel’s thanks; but, when the order came that the cavalry was to go unmounted, the Colonel sent word that he would take the horse now, as the soldier could not use him.  So Raincrow was aboard the ship, and the old Colonel, coming down to look at the horse one day, found Crittenden feeding him, and thanked him and asked him how he was getting along; and, while there was a smile about his humorous mouth, there was a kindly look in his blue eyes that pleased Crittenden mightily.  As for the old Sergeant, he could never forget that the soldier was a Crittenden—­one of his revered Crittendens.  And, while he was particularly stern with him in the presence of his comrades, for fear that he might be betrayed into showing partiality—­he was always drifting around to give him a word of advice and to shake his head over the step that Crittenden had taken.

That step had made him good in body and soul.  It made him lean and tanned; it sharpened and strengthened his profile; it cleared his eye and settled his lips even more firmly.  Tobacco and liquor were scarce, and from disuse he got a new sensation of mental clearness and physical cleanliness that was comforting and invigorating, and helped bring back the freshness of his boyhood.

For the first time in many years, his days were full of work and, asleep, awake, or at work, his hours were clock-like and steadied him into machine-like regularity.  It was work of his hands, to be sure, and not even high work of that kind, but still it was work.  And the measure of the self-respect that this fact alone brought him was worth it all.  Already, his mind was taking character from his body.  He was distinctly less morbid and he found himself thinking during those long days of the sail of what he should do after the war was over.  His desire to get killed was gone, and it was slowly being forced on him that he had been priggish, pompous, self-absorbed, hair-splitting, lazy, good-for-nothing, when there was no need for him to be other than what he meant to be when he got back.  And as for Judith, he felt the bitterness of gall for himself when he thought of her, and he never allowed himself to think of her except to absolve her, as he knew she would not absolve herself, and to curse himself heartily and bitterly.  He understood now.  It was just her thought of his faithfulness, her feeling of responsibility for him—­the thought that she had not been as kind to him as she might have been (and she had always been kinder than he deserved)—­all this had loosed her tears and her self-control, and had