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 smiled and went on bravely: 

“And you?”

Crittenden, too, smiled.

“I may consider it my duty to stay at home.”

The girl looked rather surprised—­instead of showing the subdued sarcasm that he was looking for—­and, in truth, she was.  His evasive and careless answer showed an indifference to her wish and opinion in the matter that would once have been very unusual.  Straightway there was a tug at her heart-strings that also was unusual.

The people were gathering into the open-air auditorium now and, from all over the camp, the crowd began to move that way.  All knew the word of the orator’s mouth and the word of the editor—­they had heard the one and seen the other on his printed page many times; and it was for this reason, perhaps, that Crittenden’s fresh fire thrilled and swayed the crowd as it did.

When he rose, he saw his mother almost under him and, not far behind her, Judith with her father, Judge Page.  The lieutenant of regulars was standing on the edge of the crowd, and to his right was Grafton, also standing, with his hat under his arm—­idly curious.  But it was to his mother that he spoke and, steadfastly, he saw her strong, gentle face even when he was looking far over her head, and he knew that she knew that he was arguing the point then and there between them.