“Mother!”

There was no answer.  Judith had buried her face in her hands.  A sob reached his ears and he turned quickly.

“Judith,” he said; “Judith,” he repeated, with a quick breath.  “Why, my God, you!  Why—­you—­you’ve come to see me! you, after all—­you!”

He raised himself slowly, and as he bent over her, he saw his father’s sword, caught tightly in her white hands—­the old sword that was between him and Basil to win and wear—­and he knew the meaning of it all, and he had to steady himself to keep back his own tears.

“Judith!”

His voice choked; he could get no further, and he folded his arms about her head and buried his face in her hair.

XV

The gray walls of Indian summer tumbled at the horizon and let the glory of many fires shine out among the leaves.  Once or twice the breath of winter smote the earth white at dawn.  Christmas was coming, and God was good that Christmas.

Peace came to Crittenden during the long, dream-like days—­and happiness; and high resolve had deepened.

Day by day, Judith opened to him some new phase of loveliness, and he wondered how he could have ever thought that he knew her; that he loved her, as he loved her now.  He had given her the locket and had told her the story of that night at the hospital.  She had shown no surprise, and but very little emotion; moreover, she was silent.  And Crittenden, too, was silent, and, as always, asked no questions.  It was her secret; she did not wish him to know, and his trust was unfaltering.  Besides, he had his secrets as well.  He meant to tell her all some day, and she meant to tell him; but the hours were so full of sweet companionship that both forbore to throw the semblance of a shadow on the sunny days they spent together.

It was at the stiles one night that Judith handed Crittenden back the locket that had come from the stiffened hand of the Rough Rider, Blackford, along with a letter, stained, soiled, unstamped, addressed to herself, marked on the envelope “Soldier’s letter,” and countersigned by his Captain.

“I heard him say at Chickamauga that he was from Kentucky,” ran the letter, “and that his name was Crittenden.  I saw your name on a piece of paper that blew out of his tent one day.  I guessed what was between you two, and I asked him to be my ‘bunkie;’ but as you never told him my name, I never told him who I was.  I went with the Rough Riders, but we have been camped near each other.  To-morrow comes the big fight.  Our regiments will doubtless advance together.  I shall watch out for him as long as I am alive.  I shall be shot.  It is no premonition—­no fear, no belief.  I know it.  I still have the locket you gave me.  If I could, I would give it to him; but he would know who I am, and it seems your wish that he should not know.  I should like to see you once more, but I should not like you to see me.  I am too much changed; I can see it in my own face.  Good-night.  Good-by.”