The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, January 10, 1904, Page 3

THE ' SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. the town had made ready to speed its going. Out of the shady woodland, and into the bright sunlight, the young soldiers came—to the music of stirring hern and drum—legs swinging rhythmically, chins well set in, eyes to the front— wheeling into the main street in perfect form—their guns a moving forest of glinting steel—colonel and staff su- perbly mounted—every heart beating proudly against every blue blouse, and sworn to give up its blood for the flag waving over them—the flag the fathers of many had so bitterly fought five and thirty years before. Down the street went the flash and glitter and steady tramp of the solid columns, through waving flags and handkerchiefs and mad cheers—cheers that rose before th , swelled away on either side and it of hearing behind them as rched—through faces bravely when the eves were full of faces tense with love, anxiety, faces sad with bitter memories of old war. On the end of the first was the boy Basil, file-leader of quad, swinging proudly, his hand- face serious and fixed, his eyes g to right nor left—seeing not his proud, white, tearless; nor den, with a lump of love in his or even Phyllis—her pride in v swept suddenly out of g heart, her eyes brimming, handkerchief at her mouth to back the sob that surged at her The station at last, and then ers and kisses and sobs, and tears ers again, and a waging of i flags and handkerchiefs—a imn of smoke puffing on and on to- rd the horizon—the vanishing per- ive of a rear platform filled with reckless. waving, velling soldiers. e, tragedy of the parting was How every detail of earth and sky as seared deep into the memory of the left behind that afternoon—as rove slowly homeward; for God help the women in days of war! The veace of heaven lay upon the earth. It sank from the low, moveless clouds in the windless sky to the sunlit t s in the windless woods, as still as the long shadows under them. It lay the still seas of bluegrass—dap- oodland, sunlit in open pas- g on low hills like a soft cloud of bluish gray, clinging closely to line of every peaceful slope. ness everywhere. Still cattle brows- ing in the distance; sheep asleep in the far shade of a cliff, shadowing the still streai even the song of birds distant, faint, restful. Peace everywhere, but little peace in the heart of the mother to whose lips was raised once more the -same cup that she had drained so long ago. Peace everywhere but for Phyllis climbing the stairs to her room E upon her bed in a very ove ery nd flinging herse! racking passion of tears. God help the women in the days of war! Pesce from the dome of heaven to the heart of earth, but a gnawing unrest for Judith, who walked very slowly down the graveled walk to the stiles, and sat oking over the quiet fields. Only in r eves was'the light not whelly of sadness, but a proud light of sacrifice and high resolve. Crittenden was com- ing that night. He was going for good he was coming to tell her good- y; and he must not go—to his death, maybe—without knowing what she had to tell him. It was not much—it was very little, in return for his life-long devotion—that she should at least tell him how she had wholly outgrown her girlish infatuation—she knew now that it was nothing else—for the one man who had stood in her life before him, and that now there was no other— lover or friend—for whom she had the genuine affection that she would always have for him. She would tell him frankly—she was a grown woman now —because she thought she owed that much to him—because, under the cir- cumstances, she thought it was her duty; and he would not misunderstand her, even if he really did not have quite the old feeling for her. Then, re- calling what he hadisaid on the drive, she laughed softly. It was preposter- ous. She understood all that. He had acted that little part so many times in by-gone years. And she had always pretended to take him seriously, for she would have given him mortal offense had she not; and she was pretending to take him seriously now. And, anyhow, what could he misunderstand? There was nothing to misunderstand. And so, during her drive home, she had thought all the way of him and of herself since both were children—of his love and his long faithfulness, and of her—her—what? Yes she had been something of a coquette—she had—she had: but men had bothered and wor- ried her, and, usually, she couldn’t help acting as she had. She was so sorry for them ail that she had really tried 1o like them all. She had succeeded but once—and even that was & mistake. But she remembered one thing; through it all—far back as it all was—she had never trified with Crittenden. Before him she had dropped foils and mask and steod frankly face to face always. There was something in him that had always forced that. And he had loyed her through it all, and he had suffered —how much, it had really never oc- curred to her until she thought of a sudden that he must have been hurt as had she—hurt more; for what had been only infatuation with her had been gen- uine passion in him; and the months of her unhappiness scarcely matched the years of his. There was none other in her life now but him, and, somehow, would be. If there were only any way that she could make amends. Never had she thought with such ten- derness of him. How strong and brave he was; how high-minded and faithful. And he was good, in spite of all that foolish talk about himself. And all her life he had loved her, and he had suffered. She could see that he was still unhappy. 1If, then, there was no other, and if, when he came back from the war—why not? ‘Why not. She fe!t a sudden warmth in her cheeks, her lips varted, and as she turned from the sunset her eyes had all its deep tender light. » Dusk was falling, and already Rain- crow and Crittenden were jogging along toward her at that hour—the last trip for either for many a day—the last for either in life, maybe—for Rain- crow. too, like his master, was going to war—while Bob, at home, forbidden by his young captain to follow him " to Chickamauga, trailed after Crittenden about the place with the appealing look of a dog—enraged now and then by the taunts of the sharp-tongued Molly, who had the little confidence in the courage of her fellows that mark her race. Judith was waiting for him on the porch, and Crittenden saw her from afar. ) W She was dressed for the evening in ptire white—delicate, filmy—showing her round, white throat and round, white wrists. Her eyes were soft and welcoming and full of light; her man- ner was playful to the point of co- quetry; and in sharp contrast, now and then, her face was intense with thought. A faint, pink light was still diffused from the afterglow, and she took him down into her mother's garden, which was old-fashioned and had grass walks running down through it—bordered with pjnk beds and hedges of rose bushes,) And they passed under a shad- owed grape arbor and past a dead lo- cust tree, which a vine had made into a green tower of waving tendrils, and from which came the fragrant breath of wild grape, and back again to the gate, where Judith reached down for an old-fashioned pink and pinned it'in his buttonhole, talking with low, friendly affection, meanwhile, and turning backward the leaves of the past rap- idly. Did he remember this—and that—and that? Memories—memories—memories. Was there anything she had let go un- forgotten? And then, as they ap- proached the porch in answer to a sum- mons to supper, brought out by a little negro girl, she said: “You haven’t told me what regiment you are going with.” *I don’t know."” Judith’s eyes brightened. “I'm so glad you have a commission.” .T have no commission.” Judith looked puzzled. “Why, your mother—"" “Yes, but I gave it to Basil.” And he explained in detail. He had asked Gen- eral Carter to give the commission to Basil, and the general had said he would gladiy. And that morning the colonel of the Legion had promised to recommend Basil for the exchange. This was one reason why he had come back to the bluegrass. Judith's face was growing more-thoughtful while he spoke, and a proud light was rising in her eves. “And are you going as—"" “As a private.” “With the Rough Riders?” “As a regular—a plaln, common sol- dier, with plain, common soldiers. Iam trying to.be an American now—not a Southerner. I've been drilling at Tam- pa and Chickamauga with the regu- lars.” “You are much interested?"” “More than in anything for years.” She had seen this and she had re- sented it, foolishly, she knew, and with- out reason—but, still, she resented it. “Think of it,” Crittenden went on. “It is the first time in my life, almost, I have known what it was to wish to do something—to have a purpose—that was not inspired by you.” It was an unconscious and rather ungracious declaration of independence—it was un- necessary—and Judith was surprised, chilled—hurt. “When do you go?” Crittenden pulled a telegram from his pocket. “To-morrow morning. I got this just as I was leaving town.” “To-morrow “It means life or death to me—this telegram. And if it doesn’t mean life, 1 don't care for the other. I shall come out with a commission or—not at all. If dead, I shall be a hero—if alive,” he smiled. “I don't know what I'll be, but think of me as a hero, dead or alive, with my past and my present. I can feel a change already, & sort of grow- ing pain, at the very thought.”” * “When do you go to Cuba?” “Within four days.” “Four days! And you can talk as you do, when you are going to war to live the life of a common soldier—to die of fever, to be killed, maybe,” her lip shook and she stopped, but she went on thickly, “and to be thrown into an un- known grave or lie unburied in a jun- gle.” She spoke with such sudden pas- sion that Crittenden was startled. “Listen.” Judge Page appeared in the doorway, welcoming Crittenden with old-time grace and courtesy. Through supper, Judith was silent and thoughtful and, when she did talk, it was with a per- ceptible effort. There was a light in her eves that he would haye under- stood once—that would have put his heart on fire. And once he met a look that he was wholly at a loss to under- stand. ~After supper, she disappeared while the two men smoked orf the porch. The mon was rising when she cafhe out again. The breath of honey- suckles was heavy on the air, and from garden and fields floated innumerable odors of flowers and clover blossoms and moist grasses. Crittenden lived often through that scene afterward— she was beginning to feel there mever” Judith on the highest step of the porch, the light from the hallway on her dress and her tightly folded hands; her .face back in shadow, from which her eyes glowed with a fire in them that he had never seen before. Judge Page rose soon to go indoors. He did not believe there was going to be much of a war, and his manner was almost cheery when he bade the young man good-by. o “Good luck to you,” he said. “If the chance comeg, you will give a good ac- count of yourselfs I never knew a man of your name who didn’t.” “Thank you, sir.” There was a long silence. “Basil will hardly have time to get his commission and get to Tampa.” “No. But he can come after us.” She turned suddenly upon Mim. “Yes—something has happened to you. I didn't know what you meant that day we drove home, but I do now. I feel it but I don’t understand.” Crittenden flushed, but made no an- swer, . “You cculd not have spoken to me in the old days as you do now. Your in- stinct would have held'you back. And something has happened to me.” Then she began talking to him as frankly and simply as a child to a child. It was foolish and selfish, but it had hurt her when he told her that he no longer had his old feeling for her. It was self- ish and cruvel 1t seemed, and was—but she had felt hurt. Perhaps that was vanity, which was not to her credit— but that, too, she could not help. It had hurt ker every time he had said anything from which she could infer that her influence over him was less than it once was—although, as a rule, she did not like to have influence over people. Maybe he wounded her as his friend in this way, and, perhaps, there was a- little vanity in this, too— but a curious change was taken place tenden watched her white shape move slowly and quietly up the walk and grow dim’; heard her light. even step on the gravel, up the steps, across the porch and through the doorway. Not once did she look arcund. He was in his room now and at his window, his face hard as stone when his heart was parching for tears. It was true, then. He was the brute he feared he was. He had killed his life, and he had killed his love—beyond even her power to recall. His soul, too, must be dead, and it were just as well that his body die. And, still bitter, still shamed and hopeless, he stretched out his arms to the south with a fierce longing for the quick fate—no matter what—that was waiting for him there. By and by bulletins began to come in to the mother at Canewood from her boy at Tampa. There was little psy- cholegy in Basil's bulletin: “I got here all right. My commission hasn’t come, and I've joined the Rough Riders, for fear it won't get here in time. The colonel was very kind to me —called me mister. “T've got a lieutenant’s uniform of khaki, but I'm keeping it out of sight. I may have no use for it. I've got two left spurs, and I'm writing in the Wal- dorf-Astoria. I like these Northern fel- pose they won't throw you overboard. What's your name?” “Bob, suh—Bob Crittenden.” “Crittenden,”” repeated Grafton, smil- ing. “Oh, yes, I know him; I should say so! So he's a captain?” “Yes, suh,” said Bob, not quite sure whether he was lying or not. Grafton spoke to an officer, and was allowed to take Bob for his own ser- vant, though the officer said he did not remember any captain of that name in the —th. To the newspaper man, . Bob was a godsend: ‘scarce on board and “jollying” Bob was a welcome diversion. He learned many things of Crictenden and the Critten- dens, and what great people they had always been and still were; but at a certain point Bob was evasive or dumb—and the correspondent respected the servant’s delicacy about family af- fairs and went no further along that line—he had no curicsity, and was questioning idly and for fun, but treated Bob kindly and, in return, the fat of the ship, through Bob’s keen eye and quick hand, was his, therafter, from day to day. Grafton was not storing up much ma- terial for use; but he would have been much surprised if he could have looked straight across to the deck of the ship running parallel to his and have seen the dignified young statesman whom he had heard speak at the recruiting in their relations. Once he was always j,u.q. they are gentlemen and plucky— ¢8mp in Kentucky; who made him trying to please her, and in these days she would have made him suffer if he had spoken to her then as he had late- ly—but he would not have spoken that way then. And now she wondered why she was not angry instead of being hurt. And she wondered why she did not like him less. Somehow, it seemed quite fair that she should be the one to suffer now, and she was glad to take her share—she had caused him and others so much pain. ‘“He”"—not eéven now did she mention his name—"‘wrote to me again, not long ago, asking to see me again. It was impossible. And it was the thought of you that made me kncw how impos- sible it was—you.” The girl laughed, almost hardly, but she was thinking of herself when she did—not of him. The time and circumstance that-* make woman the thing apart in a man’s life must come sooner or later to 2!l women, and women must-yield; she knew that, but she had never thought they could come to her—but they had come, and she, too, must give way. “It is all very strange,” she said, as though she were talking to herself, and she rose and walked into the warm, fragrant night, and down the path to the stiles, Crittenden silently following. The night was breathless and the moon-lit woods had the still beauty of a dream; and Judith went on speaking of herself as she had never done—of the man whose name she! had never men- tioned, afi whose name Crittenden had never asked. Until that night he had not known even whether.the man were, still alive or dead. She had thought that was love—until lately she shad never questioned but t| when that was gone from her heart, all was gone that would ever be possible for her to know. That was why she had told Crittenden to conquer his love for her. And row she was beginning to doubt and to wonder—ever since she came back and heard him at the old audito- rium—and why and whence the change now? That puzzled her. One thing was curious—through it all, as far back as she could remember, her feeling for him had never changed, except lately. Perhaps it was an unconscious response in her to the nobler change that in spite of his new hardness her instinct told her was at work in him. She was leaning on the fence now, her elbow on the top plank, her hand under her chin, and her face uplifted— the moon lighting her hair, her face and eyes, and her voice the voice of one slowly threading the mazes of a half- forgotten dream. Crittenden's own face grew ,tenze as he watched her. There was a tone in her voice that he “had hungered for all his life; that he had never heard but in his imaginings and in his dreams; that he had heard sounding in the ears of another and sounding at the same time the death- knell of the one hope that until now had made effort worth while. All evening she had played about his spirit 2s a wistful, changeful light will play over the fields when the moon is bright and clouds run swiftly. She turned on him like a flame now. “Until lately,” she was saying, and she was not saying at all what she meant to say; but here lately a change was taking place; something had come into her feelings for him that was new and strange—she could not understand —perhaps it had always been there; perhaps she was merely becoming cou- scious of it. And when she thought, as she had been thinking ail day, of his long years of devotion—how badly she had requited them—it seemed that the least she could do was to tell him that he was now first in her life of all men— that much she could say; and perhaps he had always been, she did not know; perhaps, now that the half-gods were +gone, it was at last the coming of the— the—. She was deeply agitated now; her voice was trembling; she faltered, and she turned suddenly, sharply, and with a little catch in her breath, her lips and eves opening slowly—her first consciousness, perhaps, a wonder at his strange silence—and dazed by her own feeling and flushing painfully, she looked at him for the first time sinces she began to talk, and she saw him staring fixedly at her with a half-agon- ized look, as though he were speechless- ly trying to stop her, his face white, bitter, shamed, helpless. Not a word more dropped from her lips—not a sound. She was moved; it seemed that she was about to fall, and Crittenden started toward her, but she drew her- self erect, and as she turned—lifting her head proudly—the moonlight showed that her throat was drawn—nothing more. Motionless and speechless, Crit- I can see that. Very few of them swear. I wish I knew where brother is. The colonel calls everybody mister— even the Indians. £ “Word comes to-night that we are to be off to the front. Please send me a plece of cotton to clean my gun. And please be easy about me—do be easy. And if you insist on giving me a title, don’t call me private—call me trooper. “Yes, we are going; the thing is seri- ous. We are all packed up now; have rolled up camping outfit and are ready to start. “Baggage on the transport now, and we sail this afternoon. Am sorry to leave you, and I have a tear in my eye now that I can’t keep back. It isn’t a summer picnic, and I don't feel like shouting when I think of home; but I'm always lucky, and I'll come out all right. I'm afraid I shan't see brother at all. I tried to look cheerful for my plcture (inclosed). Good-by. “Some delay; actually on board and steam up. “Waiting—waiting—waiting. It's bad enough to go to Cuba in bcats like these, but to lie around for days is try- ing. No one goes ashore, and I can hear nothing of brother. I wonder why the general didn't give him that com- mission instead of me. There is a curi- ous sort of fellow here, who says he knows brother. His name is Black- ford, and he is very kind to me. He used to be a regular, and he says he thinks brother took his place in the —th and is a regular now himself—a private; T don’t understand. There is mighty little rough riding about this. Y'P. 8. My bunkie is from Boston— Sumner. His father commanded a 0 regiment in a fight once against my father: think of it! “Hurrah! we're off.” It was a tropical holiday—that safl down to Cuba—a strange, huge pleas- ure trip of steamships, sailing in a lordly column of three; at night, sailing always, it seemed, in a harbor of bril- liant lights under multitudinous stars and over thickly sown beds of tiny phosphorescent stars that were blown about like flowers in a wind-storm by the frothing wake of the ships; by day, through a brilllant sunlit sea, a cool breeze—so cool that only at noon was the heat tropical—and over smooth water, blue as sapphire. Music night and morning, on each ship, and music coming across the little waves at any hour from the ships about. Porpoises frisking at the bows and chasing each other in a circle around the bow and stern as though the transports sat mo- tionless; schools of flying fish with filmy rainbow wings rising from one wave and shimmering through the sunlight to the foamy crest of another—some- times hundreds of yards away. Beau- tiful clear sunsets of rose, gold-green and crimson, with one big, pure, radiant star ever like a censer over them; every night the stars more deeply and thickly sown and growing ever softer and more brilliant as the boats neared the trop- ics; every day dawn rich with beauty and richer for the .dewy memories of the dawns that were left behind. Now and then a little torpedo-boat would cut like a knife-blade through the water on messenger service;,or a gunboat would drop lightly down: from the hill of the sea, along the top of which it patrolled so vigilantly: and ever on the horizon hung a battleship that looked like a great gray floating cathedral. But nobedy was looking for a fight—nobody thought the Spaniards would fight—and so these were only symbols of war; and even they seemed merely playing the game. It was Graften sald. Far ahead went the flagship with the huge commander- in-chief and his staff, the gorgeous at- taches, and the artists and correspond- ents, with valets, orderlies, stenogra- phers and secretaries. Somewhere far to the rear, one ship was filled wit newspaper men from stem to stern. But wily Grafton was with Lav!on and Chaffee, the only correspondent aboard their transport. On the seccnd day, as he sat on the poop-deck, a negro boy came up to kim, grinning uneasily: “I seed you back in ole Kentuck, suh.” “You did? Well, I don't remember seeing you. What do you want?” “Captain says he gwine to throw me overboard.” “What for?” “I ain’t got no business here, suh.” “Then what are you here for?" “Lookin’ -fer ole cap'n, suh.” “Ole cap'n who?"” said Grafton, mim- icking. “‘Cap’n Crittenden, suh.” "Well, if you are his servant, I sup- N QR 7 { S Nl == think of Henry Clay; whom he had secn whisking a beautiful girl from the camp In the smartest turn-out he had seen Scuth—had seen him now as Pri- vate Crittenden. with his fast friend, Abe Long, and passing in his cohpany because of his bearing under a sobri- quet donated by his late enemy, Rey- nolds, as “Old Hamlet of Kentucky.” And Crittenden would have been sur- prised had he known that the active darky whom he saw carrying coffee and shoes to a certain stateroom was none other than Bob waliting on Graf- ton, and that the Rough Rider whom he saw scribbling on a pad in the rig- ging of the Yucatan was none other than Basil writing one of his bulletins home. It was hard for him to believe that he really was going to war, even now, when the long sail was near an end and the ships were running fearlessly along the big, grim coast mountains of Cuba, with bands playing and colors to the breeze; hard to realize that he was not to land in peace and safety and, in peace and safety, go back as he came; that a little farther down those gashed mountains, showing ever clearer through the mist, were men with whom the quiet officers and men around him would soon be in a death grapple. The thought stirred him, and he looked around at the big. strong fellows—in- telligent, orderly, obedient, good na- tured and patient; patient, restless and sick as they were from the dread- ful hencoop life they had led for so many days—patient beyond words. He had risen early that morning. The rose light over the eastern water was whitening, and all faces gray in the coming dawn and their attitudes sug- gesting ghastly premonitions—premo- nitions that would come' true fast enough for some of the poor fellows— perhaps for him. Stepping between between and over the prostrate bodles, he made his way forward and leaned over the prow, with his hat in his hand and his hair blowing back from his forehead. Already his face had suffered a change. For more than three weeks he had been merely a plain man among plain men. At once when he became Private Crittenden, No. 63, Company C, —th United States Regular Cavalry, at Tampa, he was shorn of his former es- tate as completely as though in the process he had been wholly merged in- to some.other man. The officers, at whose table he had once sat, answered his salute precisely as they answered any soldier's. He had seen Rivers but seldom—but once only on the old foot- ing, and that was on the night he went on board, when Rivers came to tell him good-by and to bitterly bemoan the luck that, as was his fear from the be- ginr' .g, had put him among the ill- starred ones chosen to stay behind at Tampa and take care of the horses; as hostlers, he said, with deep disgust, adding hungrily: “I wish I were in your place.” ‘With the men, Crittenden was popu- lar, for he did his work thoroughly, asked no favors, shirked no duties. There were several officers’ sons among them working for commissions, and, naturally, he drifted to them, and he found them all good fellows. Of Black- ford, he was rather wary, after Rivers’ short history of him, but as he was friendly, unselfish, had a high sense of personal honor, and ‘a peculiar rever- ence for women, Crittenden asked no further questions, and was sorry, when he came back to Tampa, to find him gone with the Rough Riders. With Reynolds, he was particularly popular, and he never knew that the story of the Tampa fight had gone to all the line officers of the regiment. and that nearly every one of them knew him by sight and knew his history. Only once from an officer, however, and steadily always 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 lib- erty of getting the sergeant to take the horse to the colonel’s tent with the re- quest that he use him throughout the campaign. The hcrse came back with the colonel’s thanks; but, when the or- der came that the cavalry was to go unmounted, the colcnel sent word that he would take the horse now, as the soldier cou!d not use him. So Rain- crow was aboard the ship, and the old cclonel, coming down to look at the horse one day. found Crittenden feed- ing him, and thanked him and asked him how he was getting along: and, while there was a smile about his hu- QS N7 \ for humor was * morous mouth, there was a kindly look in his blue eye that pleased Crit- tenden mightily. As for the old ser- geant, 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 par- tiality—he was always drifting around to give him a word of advice and to shake his head over the step that Crit- tenden had taken. That step had done him good in body and soul. It had made him lean and pompmmere—"13 tanned; it sharpened and sirengthened - his profile; it cleared his eye and set- tled his lips even mcre firmly. Tobac- .co and liquor were scarce, and from disuse he got a new sensation of men- tal clearness and physical cleanliness that was comforting and invigorating, and helped bring back the freshness of his boyvhood. For the first time in many years, his days were ftull of work and, asléep, awake, or at work, his hours were clocklike and steadied him into ma- chine-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 de- sire to get killed was gone, and it was slowly being forced on him that he had been priggfSh, pompous, self-cbsorbed, 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 him- self 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 un- derstood now. It was just her thought of his faithfulness, her feeling of re- sponsibility for him£the thought that she had not been as kind to him as she might have been (and she had al- ways been kinder than he deserved)— all this had loosed her tears and her self-control and had thrown her into a mood of reckless self-sacrifice.' And when she looked up into his face that night of the parting ne felt her look- ing into his soul and seeing his shame that he had lost his love because he had lost himself, and she was quite right to turn from him, as she did, without another word. Already, how- ever, he was healthy encugh to believe that he was pot quite so hopeless as she must think him—not as hopeless as he had thought himself. Life now. with even a soldler's work, was far from being as worthless as life with a gentleman's Idleness had been. He was honest enou gh to take no credit for the clean change in his life—no other life was passible; but he was Marning the practical value and mental comfort of straight living as he had never learned them before. And he was not so prone to meta- physics and morbid self-examination as he once was, and he shook off a mood of that kind when it came—im- patiently—as he shook it off now. He was a soldler now, and his province was action and no more thought than his superiors allowed him. And, stand- ing thus, at sunrise, on the plunging bow of the ship, with his eager, sensi- tive face splitting the swift wind—he might have stood to any thoughtful American who knew his character and his history as & national hope and a national danger. The nation, meas- ured by its swift leap into maturity, its striking power to keep going at the same swift pace, was about his age. South, North énd West it had lived, or was living his life. It had his faults and his virtues; like him, it was high- spirited, high-minded, alert, active, manly, generous, and with it, as with him, the bad, was circumstantial, trivial, inciplent; the good was bred In the Saxon bone and lasting as rock. There was little perceptible change in the American officer and soldier, now that the work was about actually to begin. A little more soberness was ap- parent. Every one was still silple, na- tural, matter-of-fact. But that night, doubtless, each man dreamed his dream. The West Point stripling saw in his empty shoulder-straps a single bar, as the man above him saw two tiny bars where he had been proud of one. The captain led a battalion, the major charged at the head of a thou- sand strong; the colonel plucked a star and the brigadler heard the tramp of hosts behind him. And who knows how many bold spirits leaped at once that night from acorns to stars; and if there were not more than one who saw himself the war-god of the an- xlous nation behind—saw, maybe, even the doors of the White House swing open at the conquering sound of his coming feet. And, through the dreams of all waved aimlessly the mighty wand of the blind master—fate—giving death to a passion for glory here; disappoint- ment bitter as death to a noble ambi- tion there; and there giving unsought fame where was indifference to death; and, then, to lend substance to the phantom of just deserts, giving a mor- tal here and there the exact fulfillment of his dream. Two toasts were drunk that night— one by the men who were to lead the Rough Riders of the West. “May the war last tilll each man meets death, wears a wound, or wins himself better spurs.” And, in the hold of the same ship, an- other in whisky from a tin cup be- tween two comrades: “Bunkie,” said Blackford, 4o a dare- devil like himself, “welcome to the Spanish bullet that knocks for entrance here”—tapping his heart. Basil struck the cup from his hand, and Blackford swore, lJaughed and put his arm around the boy. (Continued Next Sunday.)