Crittenden

"My children!"

Then, as was her custom always, she said simply:

"Be sure to bolt the front door, my son."

And, as he had done for years, Crittenden slipped the fastenings of the

big hall-door, paused a moment, and looked out. Around the corner of the

still house swept the sounds of merriment from the quarters. The moon

had risen on the snowy fields and white-cowled trees and draped hedges

and on the slender white shaft under the bent willow over his father's

and his uncle's grave--the brothers who had fought face to face and were

sleeping side by side in peace, each the blameless gentleman who had

reverenced his conscience as his king, and, without regret for his way

on earth, had set his foot, without fear, on the long way into the

hereafter. For one moment his mind swept back over the short, fierce

struggle of the summer.

As they had done, so he had tried to do; and as they had lived, so he,

with God's help, would live henceforth to the end. For a moment he

thought of the flag hanging motionless in the dim drawing-room behind

him--the flag of the great land that was stretching out its powerful

hand to the weak and oppressed of the earth. And then with a last look

to the willow and the shaft beneath, his lips moved noiselessly:

"They will sleep better to-night."

Judith was standing in the drawing-room on his hearth, looking into his

fire and dreaming. Ah, God, to think that it should come to pass at

last!

He entered so softly that she did not hear him. There was no sound but

the drowsy tick of the great clock in the hall and the low song of the

fire.

"Sweetheart!"

She looked up quickly, the dream gone from her face, and in its place

the light of love and perfect trust, and she stood still, her arms

hanging at her sides--waiting.

"Sweetheart!"

God was good that Christmas.