The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, January 3, 1904, Page 3

an. The sergeant turned: r came up and asked some trifling question, with a searching look, Graf- ton observed, at -Crittendén. Every onielooked at that man twice, thought rafton, and he looked again himself. It was his manner, his-bearing, the way his head was set on his shoulders, the plastic force of his striking face. But Crittenden saw only that the ser- geant answ d the soldier as though he were t to a supérior. He had been watc the men closely—they might be h comrades some day— nd had noticed, with in- g surprise, the character of the whom he.saw as common sol- young, quiet and above the average countryman in address and intelligence—and this man's face sur- prised him still more, as did his bear- ing. His face was dark, his eye was dark and penetrating and passionate; his mouth was reckless and weak, his build was graceful, and his voice was low and even—the voice of a gentle- man; he was the refined type of the Western gentleman desperado, as Crit- tenden had imagined it from fiction and_ hearsay. As the soldier turned away, the old sergeant saved him the question he was about to ask. “He used to be an officer.” “Who—how’s that?” asked Grafton, scenting *'a story.” The old sergeant checked himself at once, and added cautiously: “He was a lleutenant in this regi- ment and he resigned. He just got back to-day, and he has enlisted as a private rather than not getting to Cuba at all. But, of course, he'll get his commission back again. The ser- geant’s manner-fooled neither Grafton’ nor Crittenden; both respected the old gergeant’s unwillingness to gossip about & man who had been his supe- rior, and Grafton asked-no more ques- tions. There wzs no idleness in that camp. FEach man was busy within and with- out the conical-walled tents in which the troopers lie llke the spokes of a wheel. with heads out like a covey of tridges. Before one tent sat the tall soldier—Abe—and the boy. his camrade, whom Crittenden had seen the night before. “Where's” Reynolds?'’ asked Crit- tenden, smiling. “Guardhouse,” ®2id the sergeant, shaking his head. Not a scrap of waste matter was to n anywhere—not a piece of er—not the faintest odor was per- the camp was as clean as a utch kitchen “And this is a camp of cavalry, mind said Grafton. “Ten minutes af- r they have broken camp, you won't to tell that there had been a man or horse on the ground, except for the fact that it will' be packed down hard in places. And I bet you at in a month they won’'t have three in the hospital.” The old ser- ant nearly blushed with pleasure. An’ I've got the best captain, toe, * he said, as they turned away, and ton laughed. That's the way you'll find it all lirough the army. FEach colonel and ain is always the best to the and, by the way,” he went “do you happen to know about little United States regular “Not much.” “I thought Germany knows a good deal—England, France, Prussia, Russia—everybody knows but the American and the Spaniard. Just look at these men. They're young, strong, intelligent—bully, good Ameri- cans. It's an ny of plcked men— ked for heart, body and brain. Al- st each man is an athlete. It is the finest body of men on God Al- migh earth.to-day, and everybody on earth but the American and the Spaniard knows it. And how this na- tion has treated them. Think of that miserable Congress”—Grafton ved his hands in impotent rage and ceased —Rivers was calling them from the top of the htll So all morning Crittenden watched the regimental unit at work. He took a saber lesson from the old sergeant. He visited camps of infantry and ar- tillery and, late that afternoon, he sat on a ljttle wooded hill, where stood four draped, ghost-llke statues— watching these units paint pictures on a bigger canvas below him) of the army at work as a whole. Every green Interspace below was thickly dotted with ‘tents and rising spirals of faint smoke; every little plain was filled with soldfers, at drill. Behind him wheeled cannon and cais- son and men and horses, splashed with prophetic drops of red, wheeling at a gallop, halting, unlimbering, loading, and firing Imaginary shells at imaginary Spaniards—Ilimbering and off with a flash of metal, wheelspoke and crimson trappings at a gallop again; in the plain below were regi- ments of infantry, deploying in skirm- ish line, advancing by rushes; beyond them sharpsheoters were at target practice, and little bands of recruits and awkward squads were every- where. In front, rose cloud after cloud of dust, and, under them, surged cloud after cloud of troopers at mounted drill, all making ready for the soldier's work—to kill with mercy and die without complaint. What a picture—what a picture! And what a rich earnest of the sleeping might of the pation behind it all. Just under him was going an “escort of the stan- dard,” which he could plainly see. Across the long drill ground the regi- ment—it was Rivers' regiment—stood, a solid mass of sllent, It statues, end it was a brave sight that came now—that flash of sabers along the long length of the drill field, like one Jeaping horizontal flame. It was a regimental acknowledgment of the honor of —~esentation to the standard, and Crittenden raised his hat gravely in recognition of the same honor, Jittle dreaming that he was soon to follow that standard up a certain Cu- ban hill. ‘What a picture! There the nation was concentrating U so. ? A sol-- THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. = N\ 3 its power. Behind him that nation was patching up its one great quarrel, and now a gray phantom stalked out of the past to the music of drum and fife, and Crittenden turned sharply to see a little body of men, in queer uni- forms, marching through a camp of regulars toward him. They were old boys, and they went rather slowly, but they stepped jauntily and, in their natty old-fashioned caps and old gray jackets pointed -into a V-shape be- hind. they looked jaunty in spite of their years. Not a soldier but paused to look at these men in gray, who marched thus proudly through such a stronghold of blue, and were not ashamed. Not a man joked or laughed or smiled, for all knew that they were old Confederates in butter- nut, and once fighting men indeed. All knew that these men had fought battles that made scouts and Indian skirmishes and city riots and, per- haps, any battles in store for them with Spain but play by contrast for the tin soldier, upon whom the regular smiles with such mild contempt; that this thin column had seen twice the full muster of the seven thousand strong encamped there melt away up- on that very battle fleld in a single day. And so the little remnant of gray marched through an atmosphere of profound respect, and on through a mist of memories to the rocky little point where the Federal Virginian Thomas—"The Rock of Chickamau- ga”—stood against seventeen fierce assaults of hill-swarming demons in butternut, whose desperate valor has hardly a parallel on earth, unless it then and there found its counterpart in the desperate courage of the broth- ers in name and race whose lives they sought that day. They were bound to a patriotic love feast with their old enemies in blue—these men In gray— to hold it on the hill around the four bronze statues that Crittenden's State was putting up for her sons who fought on one or the other side on that one battle field, uyd Crittenden felt a clutch at his heart and his eyes filled when the tattered old flag of the stars and bars trembled toward him. Un- der its folds rode the spirit of gallant fraternity—a little, 0’7 man with a grizzled beard and with stars on his shoulders, his hands folded on the pommel of his saddle, his eyes lifted dreamily upward—they called him the “bee hunter,” from that habit of his in the old war—his father’s old com- rade, little Jerry Carter. That was the man Crittenden had come South to see. Behind came a carriage, din which sat a woman in widow’'s weeds and a tall girl in gray. He did not need to look again to see that it was Judith, and, motionless, he stood where he was throughout the cere- mony, until he saw the girl lift her hand and the veil fall away from the bronze symbols of the soldier that was in her fathers and in his—stood reso- Jutely stili, until the gray figure dis- appeared and the veterans, blue and gray intermingled, marched away. The little general was the last to leave, and he rode slowly, as ft over- come with memories. Crittenden took off his hat and, while he hesi- tated, hardly knowing whether to make himself known or not, the little man caught sight of him and stopped short. “Why—why, bless my you Tom Crittenden's son?" “Yes, sir,” said Crittenden. “I knew it. Bless me, I was think- ing of him just that moment—natu- rally enough—and you startled me. Thought it was Tom himself.” He grasped the Kentuckian's hand warm- 1y. “Yes,” he said, studying his face. “You look just as he did when we courted and camped and fought to- gether.” The tone of his voice gnhoved Crittenden deeply. “And you are going to the war—good—good! Your father would be with me right now if he were alive. Come to see me right away. I may go to Tampa any day.” And, as he rode away, he stopped again. “Of course you have a commission in the Legion.” “No, sir. I didn't ask for ome. I was afraid the Legion might not get to Cuba.” The general smiled. “Well, come to see me,” he smiled again. *“We'll see—we’'ll see!” and he rode on with his hands still folded on the pommel of his saddle and his eyes stfll lifted, dreamily, ypward. It was guard mount and sunset when Crittenden, with a leaping heart, reached Rivers' camp. The band was just marching out with a corps of trumpeters, when a crash of martfal music came across the hollow from the camp on the next low hill, fol- lowed by cheers, which ran along the road and were swollen into a mighty shouting when taken up by the camp at the foot of the hill. Through the smoke and faint haze of the early evening, moved a column of infantry into sight, headed by a band. * “Tramp, tramp, tramp, The boys are marching!” Along the brow of the hill, and but faintly seen through the smoky haze, came the pendulum-like swing of rank after rank of sturdy legs, with guldons fluttering along the columns and big, ghostly army wagons rum- bling behind. Up started the band at the foot of the hill with a rousing march, and up started every band along the line, and through madly cheering soldiers swung the regiment on its way to Tampa—magic word, hope of every chafing soldier left be- hind—Tampa, the point of embarka- tion for the little island where waited death or glory. Rivers was deeply dejected. “Don’t you join any regiment yet,” he sald to Crittenden; “you may get hung up here all summer till the war is over. If you want to get into the fun for sure—wait. Go to Tampa and wait. You might come here, or go there, and drill and watch for your chance.” Which was the conclusion Crittenden had already reached for hinself. The sun sank rapidly now. soul, arn’t Dusk 7 Z QN fell swiftly, and the pines began their nightly dirge for the many dead who died under them five and thirty years ago. They had a new and ominous chant now to Crittenden—a chant of premonition for the strong men about him who were soon to follow them. Campfires began to glow out of the darkness far and near over the old battle fleld. Around a little fire on the top of the hill, and in front of the colonel’s tent, sat the colonel, with kind Irish face, Irish eye, and Irish wit of tongu Near him the old Indian fighter, Chaf- fee, with strong brow, deep eyes, long jaw, firm mouth, strong chin—the long, lean face of a thirteenth century monk:- who was quick to doff cowl for helmet. While they told war stories Crittenden sat in silence with the majors three, and Willings, the sur- geon (whom he knew better in Cuba), and listened. Every now and then a horse would loom from the darkness and a visiting officer would swing into light, and everybody would say: “How!"” There {s no humor in that monosyl- lable of good cheer throughout the United States army, and with Indian- like solemnity they said it, tin cup in hand. g “How!"” Once it was Lawton, tall, bronzed, commadnding, taciturn—but. fluent when he did speak—or Kent, or Sum- ner, or little Jerry Carter himself. And once, a soldier stepped into the circle of firelight, his heels clicking sharply together; and Crittenden thought an uneasy movement ran around the group, and that the younger men looked furtively up as though to take their cue from the colonel. It was the soldier who had been an officer once. The colonel showed not a hint of con- sclousness, nor did the impassive sol- dier to anybody but Crittenden with him it may have been imagin: tion that made him think that. once, when the soldier let his eye flash quite around the group, he flushed slightly when he met Crittenden's gaze. Rivers shrugged his shoulders when Crittenden asked about him later. “Black sheep—well educated, brave, well born most likely, came up from the ranks—won a commission as ser- geant fighting Indians, but always in trouble—gambling, fighting, and so forth. Somebody in Washington got him a lieutenancy, and while the com- mission was on its way to him out ‘West he got into a bar room brawl. He resigned then, and left the army. He was gentleman enough to do that. Now he’s back. The type is common in the army, and they often come back. I expect he has decency enough to want to get killed. If he has, maybe he’ll come out a captain yet.” . By and by came “tattoo,”.and final- ly far'away a trumpget sounded “taps;” then another and aflother and another still. At last, when all were through, “taps” rose once more out of the darkness to the*left. This last trumpeter had waltéd— he knew his theme and knew his power. - The rest had simply given the commal)d‘v “Lights out!” 5 Lights out of the soldiers’ camp, they said. Lights out of the soldier's life, said this one, sadly; and out of Crittenden’s Jife just now something that once was dearer than life itself. “Love, good night.” Such the trumpet meant to one poet, and such it meant to many an- other than Crittenden, doubtless, when he stretched himself on his cot— thinking of Judith there that after- noon, and seeing her hand lift to pull away- the vc': from the statues again. So it had always been with him. One touch of her hand and the veil that hid his better self parted, and that self stepped forth victorious. It had been thickening, fold on fold, a long whileé now; and now, he thought sternly, the rending must be doney and should be done with his own hands. And then he would go back to thinking of her as he saw her last in the bluegrass. And he wondered what that last look and smile of hers could mean. Later, he moved in his sleep—dreaming of that brave column marching for Tampa—with his mind’s eye on the flag at the head of the regi- ment, and a thrill about his heart that waked him. And he remembered that it was the first time he had ever had any sensation about the flag of his own land. But it had come to him— awake and asleep—and it was genu- ine. VL It was mid May now, and the leaves were full and their points were droop- ing toward the earth. The woods were musical with the cries of black- birds as Crittenden drove toward the pike gate, and the meadow was sweet with the love calls of larks. The sun was fast nearing the zenith, and air and earth were lusty with life. Al- ready the lane, lined with locust trees, brambles, wild rose bushes and young elders, was fragrant with the promise of unborn flowers, and the turnpike, when he neared town, was soft with the dust of many a hoof and wheel that had passed over it to- ward the haze of smoke which rose over the first recruiting camp in the State for the Spanish war. There was a big crowd in the lovely woodland over which hung the haze, and the music of horn and drum came forth to Crittenden’s ears even that far away, and Raincrow raised head and tall and quickened his pace proudly. For a week he had drilled at Chick- amauga. He had done the work of a plain soldler, and he liked it—Iliked his temporary comrades, who were frankly men to men with him, in spite of his friendship with their su- periors on top of the hill. To the big soldier, Abe Long, the wag of the regiment, he had been drawn with genuine affection. He liked Abe's bunkie, the boy Sanders, who was from Maine, while Abe was a West- erner—the lineal descendant in frame, cast of mind, and character of the " A Tora 7% (INE .‘.// AR ZR N N “ = 0 S S\ 5,20 )) TS =<</) ) border backwoodsman of the Revolu- tion. Reynolds was a bully, and Crit- tenden all but had trouble with him; for he bullled the boy Sanders when Abe was not around, and bullied the ‘“rookies.” Abe seemed to have little use for him, but as he had saved the big soldier's life once in an Indian fight, Abe stuck to him, in conse- quence, loyally. But Blackford, the man who had been an officer oncg, had interested him most; perhaps, be- cause Blackford showed peculiar friendliness for him at once. From ‘Washington,-@rittenden had heard not a word; nor from General Carter, who had left Chickamaugd before he could see him_ again. If, within two days more no word came Crittenden had made up his mind to go to Tampa, where the little general was, and where Rivers' regiment had been or- dered, and drill again and, as Rivers advised, await his chapce. The camp was like some great pic- nic or political barbecue, with the smoking trenches, the burgoo, and the central feast of beef and mutton left out. Everywhere country folks were gathering up fragments of lunch”s on the thick grass, or strolling past the tents of the soldiers, or stopping before the colonel's pavilion to look upon the martial young gentlemen who composed his staff, their beauti- ful horses, and the colonel’s beautiful guests from the river city—the big town of the State. Everywhere were young soldiers in twos and threes keeping step, to be sure, but-with eyes anywhere bhut to the front; lying on the ground, chewing blades of Dbluegrass, watching pretty girls pass, and lounging lazily; groups to one side, but by no means out of sight, throwing dice or playing “craps”—the game dear to the darky’s heart. On the outskirts were guards to gently challenge the visitors, but not very stern sentinels were they. As Critten- den drove in he saw one pacing a shady beat with a girl on his arm. And, later, as he stood by his bugsgy, looking around w@h an amused sense of the playful contrast it all was to what he had seen at Chickamauga, he saw another sentinel brought to a sud- den halt by a surprised exclamation from a girl, who was being shown through the camp by a strutting lieu- tenant. The sentinel was Basil and Phyllis was the girl. “Why, isn't that Basil?” she asked, in an amazed tone—amazed because Basil did not speak to her, but grinned silently, “Why, it is Basil; why—why,” and she turned helplessly from private to officer and back again. “‘Can’t you speak to me, Basil?” Basil grinned again sheepishly. “Yes,” he said, answering her, but looking straight at his superior, I can if the lieutenant will let me.” Phyllis was indignant. “Let you!" she said, witheringly; and she turned on the hapless tyrant at her side. D, “Now, don’t you go putting on affg, Just because you happen to have been in the Legion a little longer than some people. “Of eourse, I'm going to speak to my friends. I don't care where they are or what they happen to be at the time, or who happens to think himself over them.” And she walked up to the helpies3 sentinel with her hand outstretched, while the equally helpless lieutenant got very red indeed, and Basil shifted his gun to a very unmilitary position and held out Kis hand. “Let me see your gun, Basil,” she, added, and the boy obediently handed it over to her, while the little lieuien- ant turned redder still. “You go to the guardhouse for that, Crittenden,” he said, quietiv. “Don’t you know you oughtn’t to give up your gun to anybody except ylur commanding officer?”’ : “Does he, indeed?” sa’'d the girl, just as quietly. “Well, I'll see the col- onel.” And Basil saluted soberly, knowing there was no guardhouse for him that night. “Anyhow,” she added, “I'm the commanding officer” here.” And then the gallant lieutenant uted too. “You are, indeed,” Me said; and Phyllis turned to give Basll a parting smile, Crittendenr followed them to the colonel's tent, which had a raised floor and the good cheer of cigar boxes, and of something under his cot that looked like a champagne basket; and he smiled to think of Chaffee’'s Spartan-like outfit at Chickamauga. Every. now agd then a soldier would come up with a complaint, and the colonel would attend to him person- ally. - It was plain that the old ex-Confed- erate was the father of the regimenr: and was beloved as such; and Critten- den was agaln struck with the con- trast it all was to what he had just seen, knowing well, however, that the chief difference was in the spirit in which regular and volunteer ap- proached the matter in hand. With one, it was a business pure and sim- ple, to which he was trained. With the other, it was a lark at first, but business it soon would be, and a dash- ing business at that. There was the same crowd before the tent—Judith, who greeted him with gracious frank- ness, but with a humorous light in her eye that set him wondering; and Phyllis and Phyllis’ mother, Mrs. Stanton, who no sooner saw Critten- den than she furtively looked at Judith with a solicitude that was ma- ternal and significant. There can be no better hotbed of sentiment than the mood of man and woman when the man is going to war; and if Mrs. Stanton had not shaken that nugget of wisdom from her mem- orles of the old war, she would have known it anyhow, for she was blessed with a perennial sympathy for the heart troubles f the young, and she was as quick to apply a remedy to the children of other people as she was to her own, whom, by the way, she cured, one by one, ag they grew old enough to love and suffer, and learn through suffering what it was to be O NESNE, ) \\\\\\- S e.% W2 groups ° happy. And now other mothers won- dered how it was all done! In truth, her method—if she had a conscious method—was as mysterious and as sure as is the way of nature; and one could no more catch her nursing a budding passion here and there than one could catch nature making the bluegrass grow. Everybody saw the result; nobody saw just how it was done. Judith wanted to go home, and Mrs. Stanton, who had brought her to camp, wanted to go to town. Phyllis, too, wanted to go home, and her wicked little brother, Walter, who had brought her, climbed into Basil's brake before her eyes, and, making a face at her, disappeared in a cloud of dust. Of course, neither of the brothers nor the two girls knew what was go- ing on, but, a few minutes later, there was Basil pléading with Mrs. Stanton to let him take Phyllis home, and there was Crittenden politely asking the privilege of taking Judith into his buggy. The girl looked embarrassed, but when Mrs. Stanton made a gra- cious feint of giving up her trip to town, Judith even more graciously de- clined to allow her, and, with a smile to Crittenden, as though he were a conscious partner in her effort to save Mrs. Stanton trouble, gave him her hand and was helped info the smart trap, with its top pressed flat, Its nar- row seat and.- a high headed, high reined, half thoroughbred restive be- tween the slender shafts; and a mo- ment later, smiled a good by to the placid lady, who, with a sigh that was half an envious memory, half the throb of a big heart, turned to her own carriage, assuring herself that it really was imperative for her to drive to town, if for no other reason than to see that her mischievous boy got out of town with the younger Crittenden’s brake. Judith and Crittenden were out of the push of cart, carriage, wagon and street car now, and out of the smoke and dust of the town, and Crittenden pulled his herse down to a slow trot. The air was clear and fragrant and restful. So far, the two had spoken scarcely a dozen words. Crittenden was embarressed—he hardly knew why—and Judith saw it, and there ‘was a suppressed smile at the corners of her mouth which Crittenden did not see. “It's too bad.” Crittenden turned suddenly. “It's a great pleasure.” “For which you have Mrs. Stanton to thank. You weuld have got it for yourself five—dear me; is it possi- ‘Seven years ago,” corrected Crit- tenden, grimly. *“I was more self-in- dulgent seven years ago than I am new."” “And the temptation was greater then.” . The smile at her mouth twitched her lips faintly, and still Crittenden did not see; he was too serious, and he kept silent. The clock-like stroke of the horse’s high lifted feet came sharply out on the hard road. The cushioned springs under them creaked softly now and then, and the hum of the slender, glittering spokes was noiseless and drowsy. “You haven’t changed much,” said Judith, “except fdr the betters” “You haven’t changed at all. couldn’t—for better or worse.” Judith smiled dreamily and her eyes were looking backward—very far backward. Suddenly they were shot with mischief. “Why, you really don’t seem to—" she hesitated—"to like me any more.” “I really don't—" Crittenden, too, hesitated— “don’t like you any more —not as [ did.” “You wrote me that.” “Yes.” The girl gave a low laugh. How often he had played this harmless lit- tle part. But there was a cool self- possession about him that she had never seen before. She had come home, prepared to be nice to him, and she was finding it easy. “And you never answered,” said Crittenden. : *“No; and I don’t know why.” The birds were coming from shade and thicket—for midday had been warm—into the fields and along the hedges, and were fluttering from one fence rail to another ahead of them and piping from the bushes by the wayside and the top of young weeds. “You wrote that you were—'getting over it’«in the usual way?” Crittenden glanced covertly at Ju- dith’s face. A mood In her like this always made him uneasy. You “Not in the usual way; I don't think it's unusual. 1 hope not.” “‘How then?"” “Oh, pride, absence — deterioration and other things.” *“Why, then?"” Judith's head was leaning back- ward, her eyes were closed, but her face seemed perfectly serious. “You told me to get over it.” “Did 17" Crittenden did not deign to answer this, and’ Judith was silent a long while. Then her eyes opened; but they were looking backward again, and she might have been talking to herself. “I'm wondering,” she said, “wheth- er any woman ever really meant that when she said it to a man whom she ** Crittenden turned quickly— whom she liked,” added Judith, as though she had not seen his move- ment. “She may think it her duty to say it; she may say it because it is her duty; but in her heart, I suppose, she wants him to keep on loving her just the same—if she likes him—" Judith paused— “‘even more than a very lit- tle. That's very selfish, but I'm afraid it's true. And Judith sighed helplessly. . “I think you made it little enough that time,” laughed Crittenden. “Are you still afraid of giving me too much hope?” -am afraid of nothing—now.” “Thank you. You were ever too n@g.h concerned about me.” the fires of my consclence smoldering - sometimes, but they were always ablaze whenever you came near. I liked you better than the rest—better than all—" Crittenden’s heart gave a faint throb and he finished the sentence for her. “But one.” “But one.” And that one had been unworthy, and Judith has sent him adrift. She had always been frank with Critten- den. That much he knew and no more—not even the man’s name; but how he had wondered who and where and what manner of man he was! And how he had longed to see him! They were passing over a little bridge in a hollow where a cool cur- rent of air struck them and the fresh- e}ed odor jof moistening green things id the creek bed—the first breath of the night that was still below cloudy horizon. “Deterforation,” said Judith, almost sharply. “What did you mean by that?” Crittenden hesitated, and he added: “Go on; we are no longer children.” “Oh, it was nothing, or everything, Just as you look at it. I made a dis- covery sqon after you went away. I found that when I fell short of the standard you” — Crittenden spoke slowly—*"had set for me, I gat at least ° mental relief. I couldn’t think of you until—until I had recovered myself again.” “So you—" i used the discovery.” 4 “That was weak.” f “It was deliberate.” ' “Then it was criminal.” “Both, if you wish; but credit me with at least the strength to- confess and the grace to be ashamed. Bft I'm beginning all over again now—by my- self.” ‘He was flipping at one shaft with the cracker of his whip and not look- ing at her, and Judith kept silent; but she was watching his face. “It's tinre,” he went on, with slow humor. “So far, I've missed being what I should have been; doing what I should have done—by a hair's breadth. I did pretty well in college, but thereafter, things begin to count! Law? I never got over the humiliation of my first ridiculous failure. Busi- ness? I made a fortune in six weeks, lost it in a month, and was Tucky to get out without having to mortgage a farm. Politics? - Wharton -won by a dozen votes. I just missed being what my brother is now—I missed winning you—everything! Think of it! I am five feet eleven and three-quarters, when I should have been full six feet. I am the first Crittenden to fall under the line in a century. I have been told”"—he smiled—"that T have missed being handsome. There again I be- lieve I overthrow lamily tradition. My youth is going—to no purpose, so far —and it looks as though I were going to miss life hereafter as well as here, since, along with everything else, I have just about mic-ed faith.” He was quite sincere and unsparing, but had Judith been ten years older, she would have laughed outright. As it was, she grew sober and sympa- thetic and, like a woman, began to wonder, for the millionth time, per- haps, how far she had been to blame. “The comfort I have is that I have been, and still am, honest with my- self. I haven't done what I ought not and then tried to persuade myseif that it was right. I always knew it was wrong, and I did it anyhow. And the hope I have is that, like the man in Browning’s poem, I believe I always try to get up again, no matter how often I stumble. I shan't give up hope until T am willing to le stfl. And I guess, after all—" he lifted his head suddenly—"I haven't missed being a man."” “And a gentleman,” gently. “According to the .old standard— ro.” Crittenden paused. The sound of buggy wheels and a fast-trotting horse rose behind them. Raincrow lifted his head and quick- ened his pace, but Crittenden pulled him in as Basil and Phyllis swept by. The two youngsters were in high spirits, and the boy shook his whip back and the girl her handkerchief— both crying something which neither Judith nor Crittenden could under- stand. Far behind was the sound of another horse’s hoofs, and Crittenden, glancing back, saw his political enemy —Wharton—a girl by his side, and coming at full speed. At once he in- stinctively gave half the road, and Raincrow, knowing what that meant, shot out his feet and Crittenden tight- ened the reins, nct to check, but to steady him. The head of the horse behind he could just see, but he went on talking quletly. “I love that boy,” pointing with his whip ahead. *“Do you remember that passage 1 once read you in Stevenson about his little brother’?"” Judith nodded. The horse behind was creeping up now, and his 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.” g 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 blue- grass 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. the added Judith (Continued Next Sunday.) N\ O NS =\ NZ S 2PN =, ZAG oS - ( A5 \i\‘;\